Cycling's "The one that got away"
One thing I have always thought about myself is that I am not competitive. I don’t know why, at worst its a fear of failure, at best, the belief in the simple cliché that: “winning is not always first place.”
I saw him quite a way in front of me as I turned my bike onto the national road near Swellendam in the Western Cape Province of South Africa for the final stretch of my semi-regular Sunday cycle. He was quite unaware of me as I quietly built up a good head of speed behind him. Leaning heavily on my acquired momentum, I coasted casually past him with my best “oh this is just my standard cruising pace” look. We grunted a greeting and I couldn't help but notice his bikes carbon frame, pro class components and his shaved oiled legs. He definitely wasn’t one of the locals, not that I am a regular roadie, just that my town is small.
He didn’t appear to be particularly phased by my obvious power and grace, and I pulled away from him unchallenged towards the turn off to the farm stall where they sell the finest coffee, the type that comes in polystyrene cups, is ten points off the sweetness scale and burns your fingers due to the ill fitting lid. Most of the local cyclists stop there and rest under the shade of the Eucalyptus trees, watching the Sunday traffic heading home to the city, leaving us in peace till the next weekend. It's always a pleasant rest after a long ride, just the recharge needed for the final 10km climb home. 100m short of the turn off, I made an unforgivable mistake,
I looked back.
Our eyes locked for no more than a mere moment but it was all that was needed, the message as clear as the whites of his eyes, he was not going to accept being overtaken by some middle aged local, cranking out on a collection of midrange cycling parts. The race had begun.
I ground past the turn off with soft thoughts of Coffee and Eucalyptus shade, a mind steeling up for noble battle, wisdom against youth, proven reliability against complex technology. This was not a fight against steel and muscle, but the defence of honor. I could feel his presence now as he hugged the vortex of my slipstream. I could hear his tires breathing with the ebb and flow of the tar. He was close, just saving himself as he plotted out a simple strategy to beat this simple man, but he knew me not, not the battles I had fought, the lessons l had learned. Twice, I felt him test me, turning on the power to bring his breath just behind my shoulder, and twice I passed his test.
The road climbing steeper now and I could feel the pain settling in, breath sharp and painful, lungs demanding more air, like holding breath for to long under water, and always his wheel just behind me, letting me do the work, waiting for his moment. I had to think now, but the pain fuzzed my brain, legs quivering, I dare not let it show. I longed to look back and see what state he was in, but my eyes remained glued to the road ahead, just far enough to dodge the cats-eyes on the yellow line.
As the road continued to climb, I remembered that while the last section appeared to continue to climb steeply, it was in fact a trick of the eye caused by the shape of the Langeberg mountain range, and that the road actually eased slightly and then leveled off up to my imaginary finish line just at the turn off to Swellendam town. I knew what I needed to do, but whether I had the strength was another matter entirely.
He had moved closer again, but this time I could sense a different rhythm in his stride. He was gathering himself for his move, I had to move first or it was done.
Without warning, I slapped a few gears up the rack, leaped off the saddle and started pumped with every last reserve left in my drained muscles. I thought I heard him cry out, but the flooding of endorphins had my senses focused only on the road ahead. Although he matched me, I could sense he was taking strain, he didn’t know that in a minute the road was going to ease. 30m – heartbeat echoing in my brain - 20m, picture fading to darkness. I felt him give one last burst, but it was too late, and at that moment he lost the race.
The road eased and as expected, I shot forward just managing to hold for the few 100m to our finish line. Standing in the pedals, I coasted, sucking air as waves of nausea flooded over me. It was time for us to be introduced,
I looked back.
Far below in the distance, the eucalyptus trees shimmered in the afternoon haze, fields of wheat, barley and rye, a few cows wandered aimlessly through the fields, children paddled nervously in the swallows of a small farm dam, but none of this rural postcard was responsible for the disbelieving look on my face, which was entirely due to the fact that within the length of that grey ribbon of tar reaching up to me from so far below was not a single solitary cyclist.
Leaning over the railing on the side of the national road between bouts of painful nausea, I consoled myself with two certainties: The first, that the coffee and the shade of the eucalyptus trees at the farm-stall are indeed very relaxing, and the second, that I am not in any way, the least bit competitive.