Stuff and nonsense

I treated myself to some new pedals and cycling shoes today.  This on the basis of last night's 10 at the Olympic Velopark, which was as slow and painful as childbirth.  Why did I do this?  Well, I suppose it's partly a material requirement.  My current shoes are showing their age, and they're really not fit for racing.  But mostly it was because I wanted to nail my colours to the mast and make a public declaration of my status as a racing cyclist.

Given last night was excruciating and to date the slowest 10 mile time trial I've ever completed, this might strike the onlooker as odd, but it makes perfect sense.  Racing cyclists revel in physical discomfort.  It's part and parcel of the game.  The argot of the sport is shot through with references to suffering and masochism.  When one or two cyclists gather together, you'll quickly hear references to "seeing stars" "turning myself inside out" or "blowing up".  Last night we each of us knew he was about to enter his own private Golgotha, and that drew us together as a group.  "We happy few, we band of brothers."  It was joyous.

All I need to do now is bring my new shoes out for a spot of training - the hard part.

Pain is just weakness leaving the body...via the legs

Good grief - last night's first time trial of the season was hard.  It was always going to be a test of will and sinew; I haven't raced for a year after all.  But the elements decided to chuck their oar in too.  It was blowing a hooley down the home straight - the longest stretch of the course.  It was such a stiff breeze that you felt like you were crawling, and consequently slightly overdid matters.  The cumulative effort required for this meant that the final two and a half laps were physically tortuous and conducted at brisk stroll velocities.  Disheartening.

I had the highest of hopes going into it too.  I'd prepared myself and my bike carefully.  I'd warmed up properly.  In spite of this, I finished a full minute slower than my lacklustre time from last year.  I thought I'd take a minute out of it, to be honest.  Still, I don't think I was the only disconsolate grown man in Lycra there last night.  I heard one of the other riders disputing his time.  He was, like me, incredulous that a ride that hurt so much could have been conducted so slowly.  Despite this, I did enjoy it.  It's good to be back among the faithful.

Yes, they're weirdos, but their my weirdos.

When the going gets tough, the jittery get nervous

I'm riding my first 10 mile time trial of the year tonight.  It's at the Olympic Park in London.  That makes it sound rather grand.  It isn't.  A local cycling team, of which I used to be a member in a previous life, organises it.  It's really low key stuff, and no-one, but no-one will be paying a blind bit of attention to what I'm doing, and yet I'm as nervous as a kitten in dog-filled caravan.

And this is route of my problems with tt-ing.  One must be in control of oneself to execute the event correctly.  You must mete out the effort over the entire length of the course, slowing increasing the pace until you hit your threshold with a mile to go.  A mile can be sustained at this intensity without cracking.  Any earlier than this and you get into oxygen debt and the game's up.

You can see the dilemma.  Your energy levels are at their highest at the start of the event, so you have to go slower than you know you can.  That's tough when there are other people on the track who are faster than you.  The temptation to follow them is huge.  But it's a temptation that must be resisted.

I've never managed to resist in all the time trials I've done, and that's troubling.  I'm always left with the knowledge that I've not shown myself in the best light to the other riders.  Tonight, it must be different; I must be calm and controlled.  

Chris Froome likens time trialling to rolling out a huge, heavy, furled carpet.  At the start it unfurls slowly, speeding up as it goes until it hits its maximum just as the finish line approaches.  And Chris Boardman describes it as more of an art than a science.  I'm quite good at art.  I'm artistic.  I just need to show it.  On a bike.  At twenty-four miles an hour.

When the go and get stuffed.

It's time trial season again!  That's cycling time trialling, I should make clear.  I knew it was looming, but had managed to wipe it from a my mind.  I was in cycling denial.

As soon as I found out my first one is two weeks away, I leapt into action.  I cut out food for the most part, well the foodstuffs that afford pleasure.  Food for an endurance athlete, even one as modest in his abilities as this one, is fuel.  It's not to be enjoyed; it's to be endured.  The only upside to food when one is training is that it stops you shaking when you've overdone it on the bike.

As well as not eating fun stuff, I've cut the portion size of the rest of it by at least a third.  I do feel lighter, which is good.  It's all about power to weight ratios, this game.  Which brings us to the second part of the preparations: training.

I went out after work last evening and did my first interval session.  Intervals involve going hell-for-leather for a short period and then having a rest.  You do this eight times.  It's quick.  Unfortunately it also makes you look like a loon.  You ride along as if all is well with the world, and suddenly, apparently for no reason, go crackers.  You ride with the intensity of a man fleeing a hippo.  Ten seconds later you stop and calm descends once more.  Other cyclists can and do take offence at this type of training.  Understandably so.  You fly past someone like he's going backwards, only to sit up and let him catch you shortly thereafter.  It looks like you're taking the piss, frankly.

I'm feeling it today.  I can scarcely keep me eyes open.  Luckily today is the portal to a bank holiday weekend, so I couldn't give a shite.  A couple of real ales this evening, a homemade curry will restore the tissues.

Right, home time.

Legless in Seattle

Ooh, the legs hurt today.  Well, not really hurt, but they're under the weather, certainly.  I competed in a 10-mile time trial last night for the first time in 14 years, and don't I know it.  I've managed to keep a fair degree of fitness over the years, what with commuting and training, but training is nothing compared with racing.  Racing marks a real step up in intensity.  I'd forgotten this until about a mile and a half into it when my central nervous system started sounding the fire bell.

It really takes some self-procession at times like this not to pack-up and start weeping.  I'm proud to say that I managed to take stock and recover some composure.  My physical well being wasn't helped by my being woefully under-geared.  I'd never ridden this circuit before and had to take a guess on what would be appropriate.  Actually, I didn't take a guess; I simply turned-up on what I had under me yesterday and hoped for the best.  Unfortunately, the track was like shit off a shovel and I couldn't stay up to speed on the flats without spinning like the crankshaft on v-reg Escort RS-2000.

The worst aspect of all this is that I ended the torture thinking I'd acquitted myself pretty well, thank-you.  Sadly, the timekeepers thought otherwise.  I wasn't the slowest by any manner of means, but there were quite a few lame and aged individuals among the starters, so I shouldn't take too much succour from that.

As is always the case with time trialling, the winner appeared to be turning over his pedal cranks slowly and with ease, and yet was averaging 30mph.  Had he been built like concrete shithouse, this wouldn't have been too dispiriting.  As it was, though, he looked just like the rest of us.  He just had a bigger engine. 

That's endurance sport for you.  She's a bastard.