Notes from the Gruppetto
What you find when you resume riding in the real world
Rediscovering the joys of the road
Spring is in full swing. The winter spent huddling indoors, warming hands by the glow of the TV screen and making the trainer hum is now a memory. Back then, as we pedalled through Zwift’s routes, we seemed to be generating enough power to heat our homes during the snow falls that afflicted the whole country, except for Vancouver, where the darkness and rain can somehow feel even worse than heavy flurries. As cyclists, we often eschew sports such as skiing (although cross-country is an acceptable cross-training sport) and focus instead on preparing our minds and bodies for the day when we can unplug the trainer, get rid of that filthy towel that captured months of sweat and return to the joys of riding in the real world.
On the island of Watopia, our rides mostly take place under a beautiful sun with a constant temperature of 24 C. When it rains, well, what does it change? So when the day comes to return to the road after months of virtual riding, it can come as a shock that the world outside of Watopia is not always Utopia.
It hits you soon after you head out the door, kitted up and ready to ride like the thoroughbred racer you are. You start. Then, stop sign. You stop. You start up again. Stop sign. You start – wait: a car. You stop. Wait. It’s clear. Go. You ramp up the pace: 10 km/h, 15 km/h, 20 km/h – stop. A pedestrian who doesn’t look before crossing. You have covered 1.2 km in seven minutes.
As you find more speed, you are quickly reminded that the roads are not quite as smooth as the unblemished tarmac of Zwiftlandia. Even simulated cobbles are smoother than most irl roads. The real surfaces are riddled with cracks, some large enough to suck in that new carbon wheelset you bought with visions of doing 40 km/h at the front of the bunch while using the nowbanned mantis-arms position.
Dodging cracks, you soon realize you must keep your head on a swivel for the ever-present threat of people and cars. For an hour, you and your friends, freed from the tyranny of the trainer, call out obstacles, point at cars about to door you and signal slowing for the traffic. Forced, for the first time in months, to monitor these potential crash-precipitating hazards, you begin to feel a mounting sense of anxiety taking you back to the stress you felt when you last raced a Cat. 3 crit and noticed the person next to you liked to sprint from the hoods and not the drops.
This anxiety drops as you reach the limits of the city. Now you are ready to fly. You and your friends start the paceline, ready to show how the hours of trainer sessions are now paying off in a race to the town-line sprint.
And then it hits you. The headwind. Never in Zwift did you have to do 220 W just to maintain 20 km/h. As you eat wind, you take comfort from the fact that you are outside, in the elements, among friends, and the day is dry. Oh wait. Was that a drop of water? You didn’t bring a rain jacket. You selected kit for a dry ride. Then, the heavens open. You’re quickly drenched. As the paceline rotates, you find yourself unsure whether it’s more miserable on the front in the wind or on the wheel where you are fed a diet of road spray.
You turn left, heading south. The rain continues but now it seems to be hitting you sideways with the crosswinds. Suddenly, you’re off the back. You yell at your friends who mercifully slow down so you aren’t left behind at this most distant point of the ride. No one is talking now. As the kilometres tick by, you long for the cosy confines of your basement, where you can listen to music while coasting along in relative comfort. You consider the filth accumulating on your bike, which will require a deep cleanse after the ride’s conclusion. At this moment, you grudgingly allow a heretical thought to enter your mind: you would rather be on the trainer.
Looking around, you wonder if this thought has been verbalized. You push it down deep, fearful that it will mark you as weak, soft and worthy of riding in the leper position (reserved for riders without fenders on the group ride who are forced to sit at the back) so as not to contaminate the hard men and women who embrace this Flandrian-style weather. You keep quiet. The kilometres tick away.
You hit the lake and turn left again, starting back. The pace quickens as the tailwind pushes you, raising your speed and your spirits. You feel the winter sessions of intervals paying off as you pull through and do a longer turn on the front. Your friends tell you to back it off a bit because they’re suffering. Although you feel the same, you take pleasure in the fact that they asked you to slow down. And then the rain stops. The group is clicking, moving 40 km/h, flying back home. As the chains click and the freehubs spin, no one speaks. The moment is too perfect. Everyone wants it to last forever.
This is the moment you waited for. It’s here. And it’s all been worth it.