Success. Not first place but a personal victory. A place on the podium in a hill climb. A reward for pain, for dedication, for not drinking beer, damn it! Not that I was in the top 3 in the general classification. Oh no, I’m much too slow and old. I was third in my age category. So many warnings to success.
It’s a bit like saying I was third in a three-way race. Looking to win in niche groups, “yeah, I was third in the “vegan, name starting with S, black socks” category. Nailed it.
Everything is relative
Small victories? We will take any glimmer of success. A victory is a victory. Everything is relative. The theory of relativity assumes that the laws of physics are the same everywhere, only different viewers will see time and space differently.
For example, what to a casual observer represents only a second, represents a lifetime to a mountaineer. A mountain of pasta is just a simple appetizer for the ultra-endurance cyclist. Riding 100 miles, a huge feat for the beginning cyclist, a normal outing for some club cyclists.
We break everything down. We need to. Otherwise there would only be one world champion of everything and it wouldn’t be fun. Categories for everyone: junior, veteran, skills (Cat 1-4), regional, distance, bike type, whether you ride in tweed or not.
Let success go to my head
Third. On the podium. In my age category. It’s hard to understand why I would be so happy. Let’s try.
First, I’m competing against myself and the hill, not against others. Each passing year is a futile struggle (in both senses of the word) against time, degradation and deterioration. Age is not kind to the climber. VO2max decreases by 1% each year, our maximum heart rate slows, our muscles weaken, and recovery takes longer.
And let’s not even talk about the motivation to kill your legs three times a week for two months. Ugh. Getting too old for this shit? Or just too wise?
Progress from year to year is not just about fighting time, but overcoming it (apparently). We can only win battles for a certain amount of time, but not war. This year I was six seconds faster than my personal best. Six miserable seconds. Fighting, beating the hill. Satisfying. Especially since my training aimed for 15 minute climbs and not 90 seconds.
However, it was not the personal best that brought joy, it was the news of my place on the podium that stirred and awakened my inner chimpanzee. Given my modest talents, I knew this was my peak in cycling. So I stood there for two hours feeling cold before I could get on the podium. The last step of the podium.
A large crowd for such a specialized event. Applause. Enough prize money to buy me some fish and chips on the way home (sorry, weight loss gods). I’m not going to lie. It was really, really good. After all, it’s my local climb, Swains Lane, a hill I’ve ridden hundreds of times, a hill I love to hate.
Podium. There, I repeated it. Of course, I was nonchalant. Initially. Everything changed when I got on the podium. The strange urge to raise my arm and scream. Damn, I was enjoying that so much!
Pessimistic cynic is my default modus operandi. Tearing through performances looking for flaws or errors, always looking for ways to improve.
And there was so much to improve on this ride, including my choice of speed. Climbing a hill on the big ring might seem heroic, but it’s pretty stupid when you slow down to a crawl near the top, cadenced and grinding your teeth.
However, such imperfections cannot ruin the day. Just like I accepted all the hard work and pain of training, we must learn to not only accept success, but celebrate it.
So what?
Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. Now, nada, zip. Or is it? The moment of joy. The excitement of learning I’m on the podium. Congratulations from others. The moment of the podium and the people applauding. Very fun. Insignificant in the grand scheme of many things, this glimmer of success leaves a legacy.
Motivation. Not because the result justifies my search for ever faster times in the face of facts: I’m not really good. I’m doing well. Moderate. We are far from being good.
I’m getting older, I’m fighting biology. I struggle with the 9-5 weekday routine, working out after work when it’s the last thing I want to do. Riding so hard that the adrenaline rush keeps me awake until the early hours. Eating as little as I dare to fuel the machine while still losing weight.
My metabolism is accelerated, my body is so hot that I start to sweat once I sit down. Hot flashes. Sore legs. All. From. The. Time. Riding so hard that I don’t like riding my bike anymore. And no, I can’t explain it, I really can’t. I don’t know where the reader is coming from.
The podium is a little pat on the back, the motivation to continue to surpass myself. This will be my last hill climb of the year. Probably. The national hillclimb championship will take place in a few weeks. I might not even qualify given my lack of races this year. No matter what, I will dig into the ground and climb this hill as hard as I can, even if I don’t qualify and have to climb it alone the day before the actual race!
If I qualify, I will have the chance to finish in the top 120, in the obscurity of the middle of the pack. I will feel bad. The lungs burned, spluttering every other breath with a climber’s cough. Dazed, dizzy with effort, with success. I will be relieved.
I will look back, not just at the last two months apart, but at the entire year that has developed up to this moment. I will wonder why, why the hell I chose to spend my life this way. I will wonder if this is really my last hill climb of the year. But above all, I will wonder how I was able to survive without beer for two months.
Join 1,328 other subscribers
Photographs of the Urban Hill Climb on Swains Lane
Many thanks to the volunteers (my club mates, go London Phoenix!) who make these events happen and to the photographers, especially club mate James who took some brilliant shots – all the shots below are the his except the last two, via my phone.
Photos in the article: 1) James Vernon – Every image except the close-up of my tormented face which just @urbanhillclimb & @samholdenphoto