Looking from the outside in, many sporting pastimes make little sense to the casual observer. I for one have never been able to see the point of the athletic discipline that is walking. Why on earth do individuals deliberately suppress the urge to run, in order to travel between two points in the shortest time possible? The steeplechase baffles me, scatter obstacles over a perfectly good running track and humiliate yourself stumbling over them in the later reaches of fatigue. The butterfly stroke, bowls that don’t roll in a straight line and of course oval shaped footballs. All of these leave me scratching my head.
And so I sympathise with the non-cyclist trying to fathom the hill climb. Why on earth would a pack of perfectly sane cyclists wave "goodbye" to their competitive season with a race up a steep hill? In the age of the internal combustion engine where is the pleasure in racing against Newton’s great discovery with legs? This season I made a pact with myself to find out.
I’ve always been a good climber on the bike. Personally, I’m convinced that it is down to training, mental attitude and natural talent and that is why I willfully ignore the shouts of "There goes that skinny bugger again" on the club runs. I suppose my lack of weight must contribute a bit, but I’m going to stand firm and talk about "power to weight ratios". Being a good climber doesn’t help much in the British chain gang. It only gets you the road signs that nobody else wants to go for and often a win up a steep incline is swiftly followed by being shot off the back as soon as it gets flat (and they’ve all recovered). So, you can understand why I have been looking forward to our club’s annual hill climb championship. It’s the only road race I’ve really got a chance at.
My preparation had been pretty good. Base fitness was fine, I was near the front of the chain gang and doing a high weekly mileage. I’d included a large amount of climbing in my weekly miles and had even attempted a few sessions of hill reps. I’d ridden the course on several occasions and beaten the times of last year’s winner. I’d even been visualizing, I pictured myself on Salthrop Hill, staring mockingly back into the eyes of a beaten Armstrong as I glided away upwards from his contorted sweating exertions. As an added bonus my main rival had a walking weekend that clashed with the competition. I had convinced myself that he was afraid.
The night before the race I prepared in my usual fashion by sleeping poorly, drinking too much alcohol and eating mounds of food devoid of carbohydrates. I awoke feeling awful and dehydrated. Breakfast did nothing to perk me up and the 3 mile ride out to the course was characterized by a high heart rate and low average speed. It was all going wrong, and it got worse.
On arrival I was greeted by a number of unfamiliar faces that were attached to skinny powerful looking riders on lightweight bikes. One had even brought his fiancé, he must be serious (as must she). Not only was I in a poor physical state, but I had competition. How dare they, didn’t they understand that this ride was to be mine?
Against better judgment I put my name against number one on the start sheet and intelligently used the twenty minutes before start by not warming up at all. Instead I attempted to psych out my opponents with a nonchalant "devil may care" attitude whilst removing from my bike and person as many weight baring objects as possible.
All too quickly I found myself clipped in and supported by the "pusher offer". The thirty second call released far too much adrenaline into my blood stream and on the call of "go" my legs spun like a Dutch windmill in a hurricane.
In preparation I’d told others that I would ease into the climb and leave my acceleration for the steeper sections where I would gain maximum benefit. In the heat of the race I expended all of my available energy on the lower sections of the hill in a fit of high ratio ultra cadence. This destroyed any hope of my gaining a rhythm on the steeper sections and as the gradient increased I found myself out of the seat jerking my bike from left to right desperately scratching for height.
I’d like to be able to clearly narrate the next 250 metres, but the truth is I can’t remember them. They were lost in a haze of gasping, wrenching, rasping, face pulling and spitting. My brain was so occupied with pacifying screaming muscles and complaining tendons that it failed to switch on any memory capability. Somehow, I emerged at the lip of the hill and through streaming eyes caught a blurry vision of the finish line two hundred metres ahead.
I found the resolve to change down a gear and even managed to attempt a feeble sprint from the line. The sympathetic sound of encouragement drifted towards me and gave me the resolve to maintain the hurt and pass the finish marker.
As I coasted to a halt I felt no sense of relief. In fact the pain in my legs became more profound, I coughed and wretched, my eyes continued to stream and I barely had the strength to maintain my grip on the bars. At that moment I was the worst possible advert for the healthy benefits of cycling. I had momentarily destroyed myself for the sake of a position in a results table. There weren’t event that many competitors.
I gingerly turned the bike back towards the finish line and watched the other riders who followed. They all looked remarkably smooth and composed. They all looked faster than me. I was convinced that I’d be beaten and so I began to catalogue my list of excuses. I’d be a graceful loser, but of course there would be mitigating circumstances.
I checked my time with the finish line marshal and free-wheeled down the hill. The pain was taking a long time to dissipate, however the endorphins were beginning to help. I had a little giggle to myself, suddenly I’d spotted the point of fast walking, the steeplechase made sense and it was entirely reasonable to play rugby.
The hill climb is a perfectly logical end to the road cycling season. It demands an intense degree of suffering for the lowest possible speed. It celebrates the cyclist’s ability to cope with pain in order to make progress. It’s almost akin to a pagan rite of passage into the winter, a short self sacrifice to ensure a better performance in the coming year. I still haven’t got a clue why swimmers bother with the butterfly stroke, but I think I get the point of the hill climb.
I ambled up the hill after the final rider and dejectedly approached the group huddled around the finish sheet. The race organizer looked up and gave me a smile, "Well done Dave". I’d won my first hill climb, by two seconds.
(c)Dave Barter
September 2004
Previously Published in Cycling Plus Magazine
Daves Twitter Feed
