Warming up for an hour of suffering. Photo ChrissyOne
The truth is that I’d been thinking about quitting for the best part of forty-five minutes. Round and round I went on that track, every lap hurting a little bit more than the previous; every lap taking a little bit longer to complete, every lap that voice inside my head getting a little bit louder.
It might have been adrenaline or it might have been enthusiasm, but it was probably overconfidence in the belief that I could go full gas for an hour that had me tapping out a beautiful, seductive rhythm during those first few minutes of my effort at The Hour for Festum Prophetae. As those first laps ticked away, my focus was complete; I saw only the black line with the Sprinter’s lane and the Côte d’Azure framing my field of vision. The perpendicular lines where the slabs of concrete make up the track passed under me like ballasts on a train track. The effect was all-consuming as I felt my legs spinning smoothly and powerfully while my lungs processed litre upon litre of air.
It was just before turn three on an anonymous but early lap that the feeling swept over me. It was that unmistakable feeling when the shadow of fatigue sweeps by like a bird swooping overhead. I wasn’t tired yet, but the momentum had undeniably shifted; something intangible had changed that signalled the suffering that was about to come.
Over the next few laps my focus shifted from the ballasts to unconvincingly convincing myself that I was mistaken in sensing that harbinger of Fatigue Doom. Yet now I noticed the headwind, and I noticed how it seemed to slow me down much more than the tailwind sped me up. The fixed gear was a liability at this point; my muscles were weakening and there was no option to downshift for the headwind and upshift for the tailwind. It was all a cruel game against momentum. A game I sensed I was starting to lose.
It always seemed we would be gambling with the weather; rain had been forecast but the skies were beautiful and clear when I awoke. As I warmed up, the clouds were slowly creeping in. Just before I set off on the effort officially, @Owen announced that the rain was predicted to arrive 50 minutes into the effort. Rain on a velodrome is a dangerous thing; it reduces friction and causes a bicycle to slip from the banking, which will come as a surprise first to the rider and then to the audience.
I have a voice in my head that questions me. Incessantly. Like an annoyed parent, I have tried “grounding” this voice and taking away its iPad, but the little fucker is monumentally insubordinate, not to mention devious; just when I think I’ve got him locked up securely in the basement, it picks the lock and escapes again.
So there I was, for three-quarters of an hour with an escaped convict, my Questions Voice. When the rain started to fall, it started chatting about this being the perfect excuse to stop riding early. Still I kept on. I had put in something like 50 minutes already and I wanted to see The Hour out, irrespective of the suffering and the overwhelming desire to stop. Then both wheels slipped off the banking; first the back, then the front came down to join the party. Thankfully I was low on the track near the black line and it wasn’t a long enough trip to cause me to crash; but on the next time through the start/finish, my coach @Haldy yelled, “If you’re slipping, pull out.”
That was all I needed to hear. I wanted desperately to stop already, and I’d been thinking up a good excuse for ages. Having someone tell you to stop because it would be dangerous – irresponsible even – to continue is the perfect reason to give in.
So I stopped.
Before the bike had even come to a stop, I regretted it. Fifty minutes and change of comprehensive suffering, and all of it for nothing. Sixty minutes is the mark for The Hour, nothing less and nothing more. It is both its cruelty and its beauty.
I suffered, but I didn’t earn the satisfaction of knowing I suffered to complete a goal. I was already behind my goal pace, and quitting makes it easy to tell myself I could have made it anyway, that I would rally in the last 10 minutes to make it up. But I didn’t, and I wasn’t going to. I quit.
I will go back to the track in a few weeks’ time and do The Hour again. This time, with good weather. This time, I will finish what I started, however much I suffer again and however far behind my pace I am. Rule V.
Vive la Vie Velominatus.
I know as well as any of you that I've been checked out lately, kind…
Peter Sagan has undergone quite the transformation over the years; starting as a brash and…
The Women's road race has to be my favorite one-day road race after Paris-Roubaix and…
Holy fuckballs. I've never been this late ever on a VSP. I mean, I've missed…
This week we are currently in is the most boring week of the year. After…
I have memories of my life before Cycling, but as the years wear slowly on…
View Comments
@frank
That's a fair shot. Apologies for not quoting my earlier post that mentioned I have done a couple hours for PR on the bike, which is apparently 10 minutes more than you. Have done hundreds of segments and loops enough times with different prep and pacing strategies to know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you've done that also. I don't think Merckx meant "Start as fast as you can, and end as fast as you can. As for the middle, go as fast as you can." to be taken literally. During the hour attempt you learned first hand the error of that pacing tactic.
@frank
Um, people aren't defined by one single quote, you know. The hammer and nail quote wasn't originally Armstrong's (perhaps Yogi Berra?), but Lance definitely said it before Thomas.
@Dave
Of course he did! You should always be going as fast as you can. Rule #10.
@Haldy
I'm sure the cursing helped too. Sometimes he needs a little prodding.
@Owen
Indeed!
@Owen
@frank should sit and watch Moser's hour....he stays GLUED to the black line for virtually all of his ride. Moser's background as a Pursuiter clearly is in evidence in his hour ride.
Good on ya for giving it a go and stopping when you did. If you were a kid without a job, a spouse, a house, and responsibles...I'd have said, see Rule V. As you aren't in that position and broken bones would be a major pisser for weeks on end, you did the right thing. I've only had a child for 8 weeks and I've already caught myself saying, "You can't be doing that shite any longer!" (I know you don't have a kid, I'm just saying you aren't 18 and free of responsibilities.
Also, what pedals did you use?
@Haldy
Look how much wind he had! Holy smokes!
@Ron
Obviously those two thoughts belong in the same post. You're the best, man.
Time iClic.
@frank
What isn't visible is the shed load of his own blood that was re-injected prior to his attempt by the good Dr Ferrari.