I don’t race, I ride. Yet I’m training. Many will question the word training. As if an amateur cannot train. Especially one who does not race. You are not an Olympian, you are not a pro, you are not a racer, you are not training.
Yet I am training. Despite being self-coached my amateur training is more advanced than most professionals of days gone by. I have rigid plans and structures. I have training zones and a ‘fueling strategy’ aka a balanced diet. I monitor progress and apply basic sport science, some of it half-baked, some of it not. The trouble being you never really know which is which. I take myself far too seriously and I wear a headband for christ sake, I must be training.
For what I’m training for, I cannot say. There’s no medals to point to. There’s the small number of hill climb races I enter. Or the bravado of leading out the peloton or the fear of being dropped on a club ride. There’s local hills and personal bests. Yet I’m not really training for any of these.
Yeah, I’m niche. Not really something to boast about yet we humans like to feel as if we’re forging our own paths, that we are remarkable in some small way, atypical, one of a few. We follow not crowds, only our own will, for yes I’m smart, in control, not one of them, all those others who look and behave just like me, nay, observe me closely, I’m different, I’m special goddamnit.
Cyclists are no different. As a collective, we’re often accused of being self-entitled or ego-led, self-important, self-aggrandising, and as such hate figures to some. Yet the truth is we’re not special, we’re no different to others based on our choice of transport.
We do have our quirks, obsessions that help define us, routines which bond us. Damn, we are special after all.
Hello old friend. It’s been a while. What? Yes, it’s that time of year again. I know, I know. Brrr.
Her? The mistress? That was a mere summer fling, showing off in front of others, a lightweight frolic beneath the sun.
Nothing compares to you, ever dependable winter bike, bike number 1 once and forever. You’re the one who gets me through the hard times, little reward for your endeavours but hour upon hour of steady rolling through frozen landscapes, more mud than road.
I used to be a contender. I could have taken that KOM. I was quicker goddammit and now look at me. Pathetic.
Slow with a tailwind, the merest incline induces a series of huffing and puffing and effing and blinding. Strava automatically marks my rides as private as a sign of a respect to my former self. Inner chimp has become inner chump. Yep, I’m most definitely outta shape.
Empty legs, head and heart. The unthinkable has happened. I’ve fallen out of love with cycling. Say what now? Surely not? The urge long lost, denial initially fuelled more riding. Perhaps I’ll just blast through it, I thought, kidding nobody. This lasted for two months before THAT ride.
What is it that compels us to seek a life less ordinary. Or in this case, a cycle ride less ordinary? We humans span the range of adventure. Perhaps you find comfort in routine and the familiar? Or does a lack of change discomfort, nay disturb?
The truly adventurous do not want change. They need it. Be it a life changing move to another country, or a more prosaic and seemingly mundane adventure of trying a new toothpaste. Yes, the adventurers are your early adopters, these are the people who bought 3D TVs. Bless them.
Give an adventurer a bike, sit back and watch as they fill your Strava feed with crazy rides of stupid distances to far-flung places in silly times. Or perhaps they’ll climb Alpe d’Huez on an old school Chopper bike, or ride around the world on a heavy cycle hire bike. Ultra-Nutters.
Or so I always thought until I embarked on a bit of ultra-nutting myself.
Tan lines fading. Motivation too. Mornings cooler, darker. Days shortening. Summer fades so quickly into autumn, an annual event that somehow manages to surprise and disappoint us. Ahead, only darkness. Nine months into the year and the dear cyclist begins to think of hibernation.
The paradox of fitness peaking, body stronger than ever yet oh so tired, weary, continually on the limit. Limbs lighter, mind perhaps wiser, most importantly you’re a quicker rider. Yet probably still not satisfied. You can always be quicker.
The dreaded cycling interval. Is this even cycling? As the end of the year nears I begin to tire of the weekly interval session. Physically, but mostly mentally. One, sometimes two, a week since January, the intensity increasing month by month.
Now it’s eyeballs out interval time, the moment of the year when intervals are best described as ‘oh my god I can taste my dinner again’ intervals. Ugh. I’d hate to see myself during an interval. What a horror show. I doubt I’d recognise the tormented soul punishing himself for no apparent reason.
The many contorted faces of Donald Trump spring to mind.
Warning: this blog post contains images of a graphic nature which some readers may find offensive. A hard interval session may actually be preferable to viewing the images within.
A tunnel.Cold and dark, scary yet soothing, entry to another world. A rewarding moment of quiet and calm, the cool relief much welcome after climbing a mountain for mile upon mile, toasted beneath the mid-summer sun.
Darkness. The world turns black. A quick mental check to see if you’ve passed out, the effort finally taking its toll. Still moving, your eyes fail to adjust. Gravel crunches beneath your tyres at the road’s fringes, the small white dot at the end of the tunnel your only focus.