Notes from the Gruppetto

Even when you’re not racing, you feel pain and pleasure

It was Friday, April 19. I woke up to a heavy, cold rain. It was the first Ontario Cup of the season: Mosport Classic. As I pulled the first espresso shot and huddled by the fire (or at least by the heating grate), I held two contradictory thoughts in my head. Damn, I’m glad I’m not racing on this miserable day. Damn, I’m going to miss racing this year. It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced cognitive dissonance when thinking about bike racing. As anyone who races knows, you are constantly in agony in races, but loving it at the same time. You hate interval training, but love the improvements it brings. You dread the “chill” group ride that inevitably turns into an attack-fest, but keep showing up because this day you will be the hammer and not the nail.

But this was different. The cognitive dissonance was born of the decision to not race at all this year. The decision was somewhat easy to make. About a year ago, the DS (that is, my partner) informed me that we would be welcoming a new soigneur to the team. This one, our third, would be small and in need of extra support before she could assume the expected duties required of all team members. The DS, in fact, indicated that my race program would be paused for the full year. I could continue to train for future races, but attempts to enter races would come without the support of the team and could result in future sanctions or even expulsions.

And so I found myself checking the results sheet of Mosport, looking at ride files on Strava and texting others who sought glory in the rain. Early responses, in many ways, only made me happier with my decision. One of my friends, Demetre, who races for Wheels of Bloor, said the race basically ruined his season as it was so cold and wet he couldn’t brake. When he crashed and went back to his car, he was unable to push the button on his keys to open it and had to mash the buttons with his elbows so he could get in and sit on the heated seats. Another friend, Seb, told me the pace was so fierce that at least he stayed warm until he was dropped, at which point he realized his supposedly waterproof booties were soaked through.

Yet my empathy/ schadenfreude was gradually replaced by melancholy as the days went on. I didn’t suffer, I didn’t get dropped, I was warm and cosy, but I hadn’t tested myself either.

As the season has gone on, I’ve continued to wrestle with these feelings. I find myself thinking of just sneaking out one night to race a crit. “Oh no, honey, I wear this skinsuit and aero helmet every time I get milk. Back in two hours!” But I also am enjoying the riding and absence of stress in advance of races. I don’t miss driving two hours to ride in a circle and get my face mashed in. But I do miss the post-race buzz of driving back with tired legs, knowing I pushed myself to the limit.

I guess what I’ve realized is that racing isn’t just great and it’s not just awful, but a mix of both. It’s the pain and suffering and sacrifices that make the small wins and big ones so worthwhile. I do miss it, but I also am enjoying not racing. And until next year, when I’m back racing (Right? I will go back, right?), I’ll just have to embrace this state of grey.

Until then, good luck to all those who pin a number on and get after it. Keep the rubber side down.

“Oh no, honey, I wear this skinsuit and aero helmet every time I get milk. Back in two hours!”