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.”
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
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