Not far ago I
wrote a piece which has been themed "why do you race?" It was an
exploration in motivation; as an addicted rider it's not just my duty to
determine for myself what workout to do each day or when to rest, but also to
find the inspiration to climb on the bike day in and day out amidst the
pressures of work, social matters, and the inevitable failures that come during
a season of racing. It thought these lines and thoughts might help you as an
active racer (or advocate of this sport) struggling with the same issues and
spend a great deal of time trying to solve these problems .
Bike racing, in
its essence, is a competition to see who can suffer the most and survive.
During the week in training and recovery, and in a weekend of racing,
attacking, and counterattacking, we know it's not always the most talented or
most prepared that wins. Often the one who manages to combine the perfect mix
of timing, tactics, and the ability to suffer and persevere when the
opportunity presents itself is the one that wins the race. It's the essence of
suffering in bike racing that I find the most compelling as a fan and
participant, and what can move me to tears when the winning attack is made in
some of those big marathons, or I manage to slip away for a podium place in the
smallest of local races.
There is a dream
state to suffering on the bike that we're all familiar with. You're aware of
the race, that it's crunch time, perhaps, and that the break is about to go. We
often find ourselves in the clouds at that point, struggling to make tactical
choices while we're at or above our lactate thresholds for long periods,
distracted by the pain, sometimes convinced that it would be impossible to
increase it voluntarily. We repeatedly put our heads on the block and pull it
away, faced with crisis points of pain that are difficult to act against in
order to put in the winning attack or follow the decisive move, even when we
see it plainly in front of us.
The suffering we
feel has physiological basis, of course. Without a formal study or even an
attempt to be scientific, it seems to me to be related to our
self-preservation. Your body wants to protect itself against damage of any
kind, and we know the more intense your work on the bike becomes, the more
damage you do to yourself on the cellular level. The higher the intensity, the
more the damage, and the more your body creates a sensation of pain to
encourage you to stop. Cramping muscles are still one of the great mysteries of
physiology, with no conclusive explanations. It's a clear message from your
body that since you didn't voluntary remove the stress you placed on yourself
by riding at high intensities for long periods, your body's going to take
things into it's own hands to make sure the stress is removed. Anyone who's
raced or trained to the point of cramping knows that it's nearly impossible to
continue to pedal through deep muscle cramps.
To suffer, then,
requires courage. To override your body's instinct for self-preservation, is
the core of that courage. As an athlete, there's a time to pay attention to
pain, give it respect, and back off to prevent serious injury. At the same
time, competition is the place we're able to battle pain, and create tests and
opportunities for acts of courage. Are then race results a measurement of courage?
On one level, perhaps, as it shows who was able to play the game on every level
to perfection, including the surrender to suffering. But isn't it always the
winner who seems to suffer the least? The one who is a level above everyone
else in the race, and is within his or her limits? Perhaps it is the less
prepared who are the most courageous, as they suffer the most. It's the riders
who race every weekend with no hope of ever winning that amaze and puzzle me,
and earn my deepest respect. They suffer the most with pain itself as their
only clear reward for their effort. To line up every weekend knowing that
that's what faces you; that's courage.
I enjoy training
as much as I do racing. I enjoy being systematic and structural in the approach
I take to my preparation, I like the meditative aspect of my daily training
rides, and I like the feeling of being fit. But it's the game we play on the
bike, the races we do on the weekend, that helps us play out the dynamics of
the world at large on a small, personal scale with no real consequences. It
lets us get closer to pain, normally without experiencing any lasting
consequences. I am aware of the glaring exceptions to this rule, but they
themselves are the reminders that we are, in fact, alive, and need to make the
most of the authentic life we have. Without the games, without the suffering,
it would be simple to forget. That's the reward we get from racing and from
suffering, far above and beyond any trophies or prize money we might or might
not win. It's a reminder that we are alive in this increasingly dead and
uninspired world. And that's what keeps us coming back every weekend.
Robert
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