The Painful Art of Cycling

         I woke up to the sound of an alarm clock. It was set to go off at 6:00 am, six hours earlier than I preferred. The usual lethargy surrounding getting up was not present today, however. Today was special, unique, and exciting. I woke up, got dressed, ate breakfast, and stepped outside. The sun's warm glow was illuminating the early morning sky; the day was already reaching perfection, with the breeze keeping the already warm air cool. Soon this warm earth would be my battleground, the place where I would strive for glory, and in its warm embrace I would shed my sweat and blood. Today I would prove what I was worth.

         The reality of it all quickly struck me; the severity was indeed great. I shook my head. Being nervous at this point would be foolish, and it would jeopardize everything that I've done. I knew what I had to do. I stretched and relaxed. I went on a quick, morning bike ride, and it helped me focus and relax. It did more good mentally than physically, though. I was able to just focus on the movements. It would be the same later today; I'd get into the zone and forget about the pressure. That's what I hoped for, at least. I stretched some more, for probably a half hour. I wanted to be as prepared as possible. I ate lunch and started getting things ready.

         Lunch was good; I ate a healthy amount of carbohydrates. I'd need all the energy I could get. Then I laid out my equipment and went over the mental checklist: two large water bottles, an emergency tire inflater with CO2 cartridge, an extra tube, tire levers, synthetic lubricant, chain repair kit, some Allen wrenches, spoke wrench, emergency rations, and a sock. It was all there; nothing had moved around during the night. I looked over at my bike, and the realization further took hold of me. My skin crawled. I looked at my watch. Two more hours. This was it; I had no more time to spare.

         The race was being held up north, about a half hour away, but I wanted to leave plenty of time to get ready. The course itself was simple - a rectangle with four sharp turns, about two miles in total length, repeated eight times. It was a Category 5 race, which is a category for beginning racers. I would be racing against about 40 other inexperienced racers like myself. I thought about all of this as I packed my car and triple double-checked my equipment. The nervousness had left me now, and in its place was a vague sense of being in a dream; my journey was so close to turning the next page that I was unable to grasp it tangibly. There were too many variables, too many unknowns. I just had to throw my strength and skills at this challenge and hope that I would come out victorious. I guess you could call that enthusiastic skepticism, maybe. My mind began to wander as I drove to the venue. I started to reflect on how someone like myself, lazy and unchanging, could have embarked on such an exciting journey, and how I got to were I was now.


         It's kind of funny how one seemingly random, insignificant action could be the catalyst for all of the past events which have crystallized themselves into this quest of athletic competition. It started three years ago in the spring. My roommate and I randomly decided to buy a couple bicycles to take advantage of both the weather and the winding park trail nearby our house. It was an amazing thing to cover so much distance, my two legs as the energy source, at the same time getting a workout and surrounding myself with the beauty of nature. That first season was very pleasurable, but I rode without passion. I rode to ride, for its own enjoyment, with very little of the competitiveness I had now. During the second season, however, I began to get sucked into the world of competitive cycling. It started out slow at first, upgrading this component here, trying to beat this time there, and reading obsessively about tips and tactics somewhere in between.

         It was during this season that I fell in love; she was a new, lightweight, aluminum road bike, with carbon front forks and nice drivetrain components, and from the first time I rode her I knew she must be mine. That bike, the same one I was racing now, compelled me to ride even harder and further. The third season brought about the revolution of training logs and more fitness training, and, though I had some unmotivated fits in the fall, progressed through the winter to where I was now. This is what I was thinking as I pulled up to the venue.


[ more of them words go here ]


         The crit is, by road racing standards, a short race; this, however, leads to fury of riding from the word "go." I was unprepared for the sheer acceleration of the initial launch, and my front position was quickly taken from me, as the living, buzzing entity that is the peloton consumed me. I drifted further and further back until I could see the backs of all but a few struggling riders. Already, I was feeling nervous and frustrated. I got out of the saddle and sprinted back to the main group, but as I glanced down at my heart rate monitor I noticed it was alarmingly high. "Calm down," I told myself, "calm down. I'm back in the pack; I can't afford to get nervous now." After a moment, I began to calm down; I was back in the peloton, drafting off the riders in front of me, letting them block the wind.

         I began to curse again as the first lap ended. An entire lap was already gone, and I was still in poor position. I had read that the crit is all about pack position; the first few riders get to make the choice cuts through the turns, while the riders at the other end of the group had to slow and wait down for the rest of the pack to turn through, only to sprint back up again. This is described as an "accordion effect", and experiencing this confirmed that piece of data was indeed correct, and I was learning this the most effective way, through example. Staying here would not suffice.

         I thought over the course in my head. It was relatively flat, with one decent sized hill shortly after the second turn. I rode smoothly through the first corner, slowly overtaking a few riders, getting myself in good position to attack. I could see the second corner in the distance, now; time to get ready. With a 100m or so left, I darted to the far right, almost touching the rider beside me, before careening sharply left into the turn. I skipped past the corner, leaving a few inches of room left, but also leaving five or six other riders behind, too. As soon as I passed the apex of the corner, I saw the short, steep hill, looming in the immediate distance. I began to wonder if I could really make this without blowing up, but realized doubting myself would get me nowhere. I was up out of the saddle again, overtaking riders one after the other. I sprinted to the hill. Then I switched to a smaller gear on the large chain ring, giving me more resistance, and I sprinted up the hill.

         Hill climbing is not something to be taken lightly. Even the best riders in the world suffer up those long, treacherous mountains. Fitness and technique only take you so far; a little bit of masochism should be expected of the good rider. I muscled my way up a few gears then sat back down on the saddle and began pedaling furiously, keeping a higher cadence to counterbalance the lower power output of sitting. My muscles burned and my heart ached, but I was nearing the top, and I was still gaining ground on the riders in front of me. This was my first real test as a racer, and it was exactly what all of those long hours of training and planning were for. I made if over the summit with maybe 10 jerseys still ahead of me. My heart was pounding, the cause a strong combination of oxygen deficiency and pure adrenaline; this is what it was like to race a bicycle.