Selective Memory
I remember the races I did well in far better than those I turned into a junk show.
Sure, I can remember the moment when it all became too painful to hang on and I got dropped, but the time leading up to that point is a blank. I know it sucked, but I can't come up with a mental image of just how much it sucked. It's a blank.
I suppose it's because when I'm at the point of breaking, chewing on the stem cap just to stay with the pack, my mind is more concentrated on survival functions than on making Kodak moments.
The one exception is the 2nd stage of the 2012 Tour of Fairbanks, which is (so far) the hardest day I've ever spent on a bike. Our small Sport class started with the Masters on the over-and-back Fox to Chatanika road race, and a couple of the wily and skinny Masters decided to fry some legs on the way up the mountain. One moment I was in the paceline, chugging up the hill, and the next I had to pull over because I started to black out and was seeing stars. Fortunately, I was able to latch on a group of dropped riders and they dragged me slowly back to the main pack before we began the descent. I never really recovered, so when we turned around and started climbing again, I was in trouble. I remember pleading with Alex De'Ath to ride steady so I could wheel suck to the top. I always liked racing with Alex, mostly because he's a great guy, but also because of his last name. Either I was chasing Death, or Death was chasing me. Once over the top, Alex and I started to rotate pulls to try to bring back a breakaway. If Alex pulled for 30 seconds, I was bound and determined to pull for 45 seconds to pay him back for dragging me up the hill. We flew down the switchbacks and across the flats, catching the breakaway a couple miles from the finish. I led out the sprint before my legs popped, and Alex beat me across the line. He deserved it.
Maybe that's the exception because it ended well. Usually when I blow up the race is over right there. There's no 2nd group to bring me back to the front or kind-hearted competitor to drag me up the mountain. There's just a bunch of guys riding away that have one less fatty to worry about at the finish.
I remember the good races because I have the form to be aware of what's going on around me. I can do the mental calculations of how much energy to expend, which moves to chase down and which ones to let go, where attacks might occur and how to respond, where to launch my own attacks, and when to drive the pace to discourage others. It's a pretty cool feeling, and it doesn't happen very often. When it does, I feel like a racer, instead of pack fodder. I feel like I can influence how the race plays out, instead of simply reacting to others.
Maybe my amnesia about the rough parts is why I still race. It's not like there's any glory in amateur cycling. For that to be present, people would have to care. We invest thousands of dollars and countless hours to go head-to-head against other idiots on what is essentially a kid's toy. That's part of the beauty of it for me. It's like a Peter Pan world, where I'm still racing around the block on my Schwinn with the banana seat and monkey bars. Tomorrow doesn't matter. The only thing that exists is what you're doing right at that moment. That silence and clarity is rare in today's hyper-stimulated world.
I don't always find it, but I keep looking for it. The rest of it I just conveniently forget about.
Sure, I can remember the moment when it all became too painful to hang on and I got dropped, but the time leading up to that point is a blank. I know it sucked, but I can't come up with a mental image of just how much it sucked. It's a blank.
I suppose it's because when I'm at the point of breaking, chewing on the stem cap just to stay with the pack, my mind is more concentrated on survival functions than on making Kodak moments.
The one exception is the 2nd stage of the 2012 Tour of Fairbanks, which is (so far) the hardest day I've ever spent on a bike. Our small Sport class started with the Masters on the over-and-back Fox to Chatanika road race, and a couple of the wily and skinny Masters decided to fry some legs on the way up the mountain. One moment I was in the paceline, chugging up the hill, and the next I had to pull over because I started to black out and was seeing stars. Fortunately, I was able to latch on a group of dropped riders and they dragged me slowly back to the main pack before we began the descent. I never really recovered, so when we turned around and started climbing again, I was in trouble. I remember pleading with Alex De'Ath to ride steady so I could wheel suck to the top. I always liked racing with Alex, mostly because he's a great guy, but also because of his last name. Either I was chasing Death, or Death was chasing me. Once over the top, Alex and I started to rotate pulls to try to bring back a breakaway. If Alex pulled for 30 seconds, I was bound and determined to pull for 45 seconds to pay him back for dragging me up the hill. We flew down the switchbacks and across the flats, catching the breakaway a couple miles from the finish. I led out the sprint before my legs popped, and Alex beat me across the line. He deserved it.
Maybe that's the exception because it ended well. Usually when I blow up the race is over right there. There's no 2nd group to bring me back to the front or kind-hearted competitor to drag me up the mountain. There's just a bunch of guys riding away that have one less fatty to worry about at the finish.
I remember the good races because I have the form to be aware of what's going on around me. I can do the mental calculations of how much energy to expend, which moves to chase down and which ones to let go, where attacks might occur and how to respond, where to launch my own attacks, and when to drive the pace to discourage others. It's a pretty cool feeling, and it doesn't happen very often. When it does, I feel like a racer, instead of pack fodder. I feel like I can influence how the race plays out, instead of simply reacting to others.
Maybe my amnesia about the rough parts is why I still race. It's not like there's any glory in amateur cycling. For that to be present, people would have to care. We invest thousands of dollars and countless hours to go head-to-head against other idiots on what is essentially a kid's toy. That's part of the beauty of it for me. It's like a Peter Pan world, where I'm still racing around the block on my Schwinn with the banana seat and monkey bars. Tomorrow doesn't matter. The only thing that exists is what you're doing right at that moment. That silence and clarity is rare in today's hyper-stimulated world.
I don't always find it, but I keep looking for it. The rest of it I just conveniently forget about.
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