I'm Here For The Hard

We don't always get what we're looking for

I think the race written about below happened in 2009, which was a particularly shitty spring and I finished two races with a bit of the old hypothermia. I would often joke that I was never as cold in the mountains as I have been on the bike; up there you can’t afford it because you might not come back. In the valley, on a bike, in an organized event you can test the limits of your tolerance and know that the consequence of going too far is not terminal. Still, I want to be the one who decides how far I can go so the “safety first” crowd has never been my crowd.

I drove five hours to Boise yesterday to compete in a stage race this weekend. The forecast promised cold, wet weather. I've been doing my homework though and I wanted to test my clothing solutions as well as my legs and my head. I knew what I was getting into. I relished it.

When referee blew the start whistle it was 43 degrees, with light rain, the promise of more, and of course — being right next to the Snake River in Idaho — wind. Our field was 15 strong when we crossed the line. The first selection happened two miles into the race: a couple of short, sharp pitches up to 14% cut the field to eight or nine. Eventually, two guys got away and stayed out for about ten miles but we caught them shortly after turning into the wind. Then it was détente. A few riders dropped as we passed the start-finish line halfway into the race. The temptation of a warm car was too great.

The relaxed state of affairs allowed me to sort out how to handle the wind. Head-on it's clear where to hide, and how strong one needs to be to do anything but work in the group. To escape in a headwind, to ride away from the field, that's the stuff of legends. Echelons formed immediately when we turned into the crosswind. The course gave it to us from 90-degrees left and right, 3/4s, and a 1/4 of each, but relieved us with a tailwind section too. It was a good schooling. I watched throughout as guys tried to rewarm their hands, complained about the cold, and hid from the wind.

Some guys were surprisingly adroit at hiding from it. In a small group it's clear who works and who diligently avoids the front to save himself for the sprint. I found myself up front for most of the upwind leg. Seriously. I took a long, long pull, then slowed and signaled for someone else to work. No one came through. OK, I'm alright with that. I vowed to give them as little as possible: to keep riders from receiving the whole benefit of my work I put it in the gutter every time I was up front and the wind was quartering. Everyone said "nice pull" whenever I dropped back. Yeah, it was. Now why don't you get up there and work? Or do you want me to take another? I'll do it. Because this is what I am here for.

I'm not here to save myself.

I am here to destroy myself.

I am not here for the smart if smart means shirking the work.

I am here for The Hard.

It may look like I'm here to lose or give the race away.

But when I win one I will have fucking earned it.

I just don't get it. We're amateurs. It's a hobby. The sport is tough. It’s meant to be a semi-controlled contest where we may truly test ourselves, and have our beliefs about personal capacity tested by others and the environment. That difficulty makes the feeling of finishing well after having utterly smashed yourself so satisfying. I know that feeling. I wonder what it feels like to finish after having sat in, after having done the bare minimum for 99% of the race, and then shooting to the line on reasonably fresh legs ahead of the chasing, faltering pack. Is it a good feeling, that win? It must be but I wouldn't know.

Back on the road and knowing that, if someone didn't shake things up and probably even if they did, the race would be decided in the last 200m, a few of us attacked. All digs were countered or stymied by the terrain or the wind. The sprint happened on a sort of false flat. It was still fast. I lost.

And I was ready for more.

There was a polite interval to stop shivering and eat before the Time Trial. Then came an even more polite apology canceling the TT.

It was colder by then, still raining, and of course, windy but that's not exactly why they canceled it. A lot of racers dropped from the road race or finished with varying degrees of hypothermia. The organizer deemed it either unsafe or unkind to have them do that twice in one day.

If I wanted to play Tee Ball I'd have joined a league or settled for softball. If I wanted to be comfortable, or safe for that matter, I wouldn't be bike racing. The lowest common denominator strikes again.

Hey, if you can't take care of yourself I understand. If you made a mistake I understand. But I came prepared. And I came tough. And I want the chance to express the whole of my "fitness" out there in the elements on the race course. Does my preparation give me an advantage? Hell, yeah. And it should. Does the other guy's lack of preparation or his mistake put him at a disadvantage? Yes. In fact, he may have beat me in the short run but canceling the second stage of today's race strips me of my opportunity to have been faster in the long run.

If it's too hard, quit. If you're too cold, quit. If you think it's too dangerous, quit. But don't punish those who want The Hard, who aren't cold and are willing to take the risk. I signed the waiver absolving the organization for a reason: I am willing. When they make it easier it’s still bike racing but not the whole, persistently difficult stage race I came looking for.

It might be hard.

It might be cold.

I have to recover after the first race.

I have to rewarm myself, to eat, and drink.

I have to let the post-race let-down go.

I have to change bikes.

I have to change clothes.

I have to psyche back up for more battle.

I must be ready when the countdown ends.

When all of that is removed or softened the sport becomes something different. And not what I signed up to do.

Allow me to draw a parallel. Recently, my friend John fought an MMA bout. At the weigh-in he looked like all fighters who have cut a lot of weight do: skinny and drawn, drained. His opponent felt good about his extra reach and his chances. On fight night, 24 hours later, John was a monster. He looked huge. The other guy suddenly didn't feel so good. After the short fight he said, "Man, when I saw your arms it freaked me out. They're huge." But the organizers didn't cancel the fight because one fighter's confidence was rattled, or it had suddenly become too dangerous. The referee said "Let's get it on", and John did. Sixty two seconds later he submitted his opponent with an arm bar. Just like that. They both stepped in the cage for a date with The Hard and both got a version of what they came for.

I'm pissed-off this afternoon because I didn't get any of the versions I was hoping for. So I will keep searching.

/

p.s. The following season I finally won my first race (I don't count the uphill TT whatever year that was). It resulted from a combination of hard, smart work; never shrinking from the front when it was my pull but never going truly hard until it would be decisive. At least I had learned that. The terrain and race dynamics allowed that deciding moment about 2km from the finish — definitely not a sprint. Several riders knew the course well enough to predict the move and about ten of us got away. Most faded after the first minute of effort and the unrelenting grade, and the rest dropped when my friend, racing as an independent, pulled through and upped the pace just enough to make a gap. It was small, maybe ten meters but the demoralizing effect was huge and the other eight faded backwards. He and I went to the line together and the difference was one wheel width. I got all of the versions of hard that I was looking for and just enough luck to finish better than I ever had. And yes, it felt good.