After an easy week and being back on my long distance bike I had great hopes for today's ride.
Such a great pleasure to ride this bike. Not the lightest but very comfortable. The endorphin induced happiness of riding fast, even against the wind. Feeling fresh. Believing you are strong.
A shame reality stroke as soon as we hit Green Dene. It is not that I was dropped. It was that I blew up in a thousand pieces and lost about a minute in 100 metres.
You barely warmed up, I told myself. For a diesel engine like yours a climb in with barely 25km in the legs is just too soon. (I’m not really sure I have a diesel “engine” but it was a great excuse to be used at that moment).
The problem is reality is stubborn and I blew up again up Cutmill. To add insult to the injury Cutmill is a climb I know fairly well, I raced it a few times. I know where you have to attack. I was aiming to take it. And just at that very moment I was telling myself “Attack. Now!”, my legs, my brain, all me really, gave up.
For someone with a thousand excuses in the bag I was starting to run short of them. The diesel engine excuse doesn’t work that well when you are 70km into the ride, even if you play the “I’m a audaxer card”.
Worst of all I was still feeling ok(ish) for most of the time. Fair to say part of it is that by now wind was mostly tail wind and that makes it easier to get tricked into believing you are riding fast when the reality is that it was mostly wind assisted speed. I’m sure you know the feeling.
Ah, the reality. The reality is also that I took the Esher sprint. True too the reality is the order we took turns meant I was sitting on a wheel just before the moment you have to launch the sprint. That helps.
I needed that “win” to keep believing I was fresh, strong and fast.
Who cares about reality.
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