It was the last 200 metres before the final turn into the finishing straight. I was busted. There was barely a drop left in my rusting and dented tank.
But still I knew that if only I could make it to that last corner in the top four, I might, I might, I might…
Ah, how easily the mind misleads us. There was no way I was going to win that race. But that didn’t stop me fighting…
Athletes have long lost their tempers during the course of a game, had the red veil descend all too rapidly, flown off the handle and started to hurl punches, kicks, bites.
Commentators routinely trot out lines like ‘He’s lost the plot!’ to describe what we are witnessing, but actually, it is more of an extension of the plot – an unnecessary one perhaps, but a continuance of the narrative of the game nonetheless.
We see it in ice hockey regularly, in boxing (Tyson being the best example), football (remember Cantona? Zidane?) and even badminton.
So there I was. I’d already ridden out 50 kilometres to the race on a sweltering day, then been hanging around an hour under shade but still sweating in the 37 degree heat.
When we finally lined up I noted 12 guys from the same team, Senter Merida, on the front of the line – a line that held back no more than 60 riders. So 20% of the race was from one single team.
And they had the best sprinter.
And it was a crit. And I cannot sprint to save my life.
So, what best to do? Attack, naturally..!
We want our athletes pumped. We demand it.
When you watch that guy on the field or on the screen you want to see a man you’d scarily share a foxhole with. A fighter. A do-or-die glory freak. He scares you but scares the enemy more.
The Rocky Marcianos. The John McEnroes. The Diego Maradonnas. The Tommy Voecklers.
And yet there’s a dichotomy there, because often the very greatest are far more calculating, far more precise, and far, well, greater. Those whom we love are often not those whom reach the pinnacle of the sport.
That takes a self-knowledge that the wild cards lack.
A calm, a cool, a sense of time that is often labeled as other-worldly. Not quite like us.
Think Wayne Gretzky, Michael Jordan, or Eddy Merckx.
Altogether incredible, and altogether as good as they thought they were.
And therein lies the difference.
Not fighters in the base sense of the word. Too good, always, for that.
So there I was, after having expended my quota of patience for the day, after having sat 13th man in line for most of the race – I decided to attack with 4 kilometres to go, just ahead of the bell for the final lap.
I passed by the tail of the Senter Merida guys trying to look innocent, aware that any suspicious move would draw calls from the back to the front of the line, warning them of my move.
So, at 50+ kilometres per hour on the back straight, I passed by in the wind trying to look all innocent, even commenting on the weather in my attempts to distract the vigilance of the Senter train.
Finally I got to within five riders of the front of the race and I attacked, full gas, into a head wind but fully committed.
I got 10 metres, then 20, then 50, and soon I had 200. 2.5 kilometres to go!
Surely I had the race in the bag..!
Amazing really, to think that France’s best-loved cyclist, historically, is not Bernard Hinault nor Jacques Anquetil, whom both won the Tour de France five times, but a man known as the ‘eternal second’, Raymond Poulidor, who was second three times and third five times, and never even wore Yellow.
Britain’s most cherished footballer? A winner? Not really. Not David Beckham, nor Bobby Charlton, nor Gary Lineker, but a wayward alcoholic genius called George Best.
We acknowledge the greatness of the best, yet their perfection is terrifying. It serves in many instances to highlight our own flaws, our imperfections.
It’s indicative of our recognition of our imperfections that the athletes that we truly take to heart are those that we see parts of ourselves in.
We like winners, yes, but we love losers. And, I would go so far to say, we are willing to forgive not those who cheat but those whose passion pushes them beyond the line.
The high tackle. The two-footed challenge. The sly uppercut.
Terrible, atrocious, wrong, and yet, somehow, we know that many of us may well have done the same.
So there I was. 1.5 kilometres to go now, and tiring fast.
The Senter boys were swapping off like highly trained sheep – very fast sheep – and catching me.
1.3km to go and I was done in, but still I latched onto their train, bumping the nearest non-Senter guy off on the penultimate corner.
Then I started to make my way up their train, busting a gut I didn’t really have, hoping to get in place for the sprint, but they weren’t having it.
One of them came too close to me, so I gave him a little shove with the outside of my hand. He drove back into me, then pushed my bars forcibly, his fist clenched.
I almost went down, wobbling all over, but I held it.
‘HEY!’ I shouted. No reaction. So, what did I do? I punched him. Hard, to the upper left arm, at 55km/hr.
He almost fell off. And I instantly felt terrible. No Iron Mike me. The guilt was palpable.
He’d provoked me and almost sent me and ten others behind to the ground, and though I’d never reacted in that way before, still I knew I’d made a mistake instantly.
Kind of.
After the race, which they won and I very obviously lost, I went over to apologise. I was still annoyed that he’d pushed my bars, a la Cavendish, but more horrified that I’d punched him.
I’m a non-violent type, a bit of a pacifist off the bike. Yet later on, as I rode home, I came to a realisation.
There was no way I’d be a bike racer if I was any different.
Off the bike, polite, relatively calm, unremarkable.
But get me on two wheels and in a race and I change. It’s the Weekend Warrior instinct, and I can’t change it.
I rage against the limitations of my talent, fight against my weaknesses, and am, when in the thick of it, unwilling to accept anyone is better than me – even when they clearly are.
This was the first time all that manifested itself in a violent act, yet there it was. A part of me. Shocking, but absolutely me.
Maybe it’s time for badminton?
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