I was talking with a good bike racer friend not long ago. We’d come up through the ranks together, familiar fixtures on and off the front of lower category races, great rivals, and just about absolutely equal in all respects. If you were given both our power profiles, they’d be indistinguishable. Though we’d sportingly crossed swords more than once this spring, he had been absent from the peloton since late May. His job had him swamped, robbing him of both the time and energy to train effectively and race properly. I inquired jokingly if he was planning to retire, to which he replied, “Not sure yet. Not sure I have the time to be at my best and you can’t half-ass it at our level.”
Crossing the threshold into the elite ranks is not simply a change in one number on your racing license, it is a decision to be considered carefully and not taken lightly as it will undoubtedly affect the very fabric of your being. Choosing to leap across this imposing chasm requires you to mine the depths of your soul, to be brutally honest with yourself, to firmly assess your desires. Do I have the time to commit to this? Am I prepared to make innumerable sacrifices in the name of this noble pursuit? Will my loved ones offer support and understanding for what may appear to them a completely selfish endeavor? If you decide to make the commitment, you’ve reached the point of no return. You must no longer just ride, you must embrace a lifestyle.
Even those blessed with pure, natural talent understand that success in the upper echelon of our sport requires—demands—immense discipline and a formidable work ethic. Exceptional form and fitness is built on countless hours in the saddle, on pain and suffering, on sweat and blood, on frustration and disappointment. It is built on the ends of rides during which you’ve dug so deep that turning a single pedal stroke more seems an impossible task. It is built on numb toes and frozen fingers, on shivering in the bitter, freezing air as you roll silently into a barren landscape on a mid-January morning before the sun fully rises. We submit ourselves to all of this because we know good rides cannot be faked.
Preparation is everything. ‘Racing yourself into shape’ is a yarn spun by those who have neglected to pay the fiddler, an empty pledge of assurance that they can get themselves out from behind the proverbial eight ball. Here, mistakes are no longer accepted or tolerated. Everything is magnified. Everything matters. Lose a single hour of sleep, your legs may not respond at a critical moment, leading to you missing a decisive move. Forget to eat, you may lack the power to deliver a teammate to the line at the end of a race. Neglect to properly maintain your bike or keep it in perfect adjustment and an unfortunate mechanical incident could render endless hours of sacrifice completely moot. Because of bike racing’s fluidity, containing so many variables we simply cannot predict or control, not taking command of those things within our purview is unforgivable.
And what happens if you are unable to meet these obligations? Who are you disappointing? Your teammates? Your coach? The loved ones who have patiently tolerated your self-indulgence? Yourself? We don’t fall down the rabbit hole, we choose to slide down it of our own volition. Just as the decision to join the elite ranks requires honesty and soul searching, the decision about what to do when we find ourselves unable to perform up the potential we know we possess requires the same. You can’t half-ass it at this level. As bike racers we respect that. We accept that.
