Friday, 29 March 2019

Eighteen no more

It is a truth universally known, but largely ignored, that the body deteriorates far more rapidly than the mind is willing to acknowledge.  There are things that I was capable of doing as an 18-year-old that I am no longer able to do today.  One of those, to consume as much food and drink as I like without suffering a consequent weight gain, has definitely passed.

Yet my mind has successfully kidded me into believing that others are not so far beyond my scope.  The madness to cycle in European Alps occasionally overcomes me, and this year is no different.  I have signed up for a trip to the Swiss Alps in June where, on the back of a push bike, I’ll tackle some not terribly flat roads.  In agreeing to this venture, I have committed myself to a training regime that will see me having to ride 150 miles a week, much of it up considerably smaller hills than Switzerland has to offer, in a bid to avoid losing my lunch when I reach the summit of the Matterhorn, or whichever mountains it is that our tour planner has determined we shall scale.  So far, I have managed 57 miles, albeit, that’s the total for the year so far rather than just this week.

I ride largely alone when training; my (lack of) pace and the times that I head out are often incompatible with those that I might ride with.  Occasionally though, I stumble across other riders and for a few brief moments, whilst our routes align, I may have some company.

On one such ride (not this year I hasten to add), when I was feeling considerably fitter than I am currently, I passed the pop-up base station of a road-race.  There was a high likelihood that I was riding on the route of a competitive event and, shortly after passing, I heard the whirr of bikes behind me, closing in on me as I trundled along.  I peered over my shoulder to see a group of perhaps 15 – 20 riders bearing down on me.  Naturally, their speed was significantly greater than mine, however we were on the flat and there was a decent tail-wind, so I thought perhaps I might try to leap onto the back of their peloton.

I have often wondered what it would be like to join the peloton of an elite group of riders and see whether I could maintain the pace.  For those unfamiliar with cycling, this is not an easy thing to do for the amateur cyclist; you first have to build up additional speed so that the difference isn’t so great and then attach to the back of the group without knocking the rear-most rider off his or her bike, before pedalling frantically to gain the benefit of the group’s slipstream.  Fortuitously for me, the road dipped shortly before they were due to pass me, and I was able to grab their coattails.  Benefitting from the slipstream of another rider is one of the great cheats in cycling.  There’s a range of opinion on what the actual benefit is, however, various studies have suggested drag reductions between 27% and 50% depending on the circumstances.  That day, it felt like I was benefitting at the upper range.

There is also an etiquette to road cycling that suggests that riders in a peloton should take a spell at the front of the group to allow those that had been leading to enjoy a little respite and the advantages that come from having someone else do the heavy lifting.  It was clear to me, however, that I would not be able to take a spell in the lead, unless the group fancied reducing its overall speed substantially.  In such cases, it is polite to ask A) whether you can join the group and B) whether they mind that you’re a malingering benefit cheat that will make no contribution to the velo-society that you have just joined.  In both instances, the chap at the rear of the group was agreeable to my requests and I clung on.

Except for descents on the aforementioned Alps, it was by far the fastest I have ever cycled, and the effort to maintain my position at the rear was considerable.  Thankfully, the road remained flat and the wind direction kind.  We were in two lines as we raced along the road and I had made the group an even number, so I had a companion to my right.  He was an affable Welsh chap, a former rugby player turned elite cyclist, having damaged himself too greatly in the former to continue with the sport.  Happily, he was a chatty fellow, content to burble away and receive mono-syllabic replies from me, given that oxygen depletion rendered me incapable of erudite conversation.

I confess I was at my limit.  My cycling computer recorded my pedalling cadence in three figures, when typically, it sits in the 70s or 80s.  My heart rate monitor was flashing red, reminding me that, at my age, the next beat will very likely be my last, and the fellow next to me was asking the group if anyone was a qualified first-aider.  My determination to stay attached to the group, if not to life, was great and I continued to cycle as hard as I could.

Blessedly, gravity came to my rescue in the form of a short hill.  Carrying 31 pounds more than my 18-year-old self once bore meant that the drag efficient of a peloton, on even the mildest of inclines such as the one before us, is reduced almost to nought.  I knew that in a few short turns of the wheel, I would be lost to the group.  I summoned up all the energy I could to explain my plight to the Welshman.  “You’ll drop me at the hill ahead.”
  “What hill?” he asked, clearly believing that the 4% gradient coming up was no more than a bump.
  “That one,” I said pointing to the barely perceptible mound before us.
  “Hmm,” he offered, finally registering that I was somewhat out of my depth as he began his disappearance over the horizon.
  “I hope the race goes well,” I shouted after him.
His response will forever remind me that I am no longer eighteen.
  “Oh this isn’t the race mate, this is the warm-down.”

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019

No comments:

Post a Comment