It's 6:30 a.m. on Sept. 10, the day of the RBC Gran Fondo Whistler and the Giro to Whistler Race. I worked hard all year to move up into Category 3 (from Cat 4) so this was my first opportunity to race with the fast girls. I am more than nervous but still savouring the experience of lining my bike ahead of 7,500 other riders. The sun has just started to peak over the horizon and the air is warm, buzzing with a controlled excitement. I cautiously survey my small group of 23 competitors and know this race is going to hurt. Just how much and when I'd soon find out.
As we glide along the Upper Levels Highway, we have the entire road to ourselves. We stream past the cheering crowds and I soak in their energy.
One hour into the race and I'm still holding steady with the pack. I allow myself just a little glimmer of hope to start creeping in--that I might actually be able to keep up with them for most of the race.
One hour and 30 minutes into the race, we've just finished 50 kilometres and the pace begins to pick up. The hills grow in size and the cadence is relentless. My legs begin to burn. My lungs scream for more oxygen. My brain reminds me that I still have 72 km to ride and I am beginning to doubt my ability to keep this pace.
Two hours into the race and only 75 km behind me, the headwind is driving me backwards as I struggle alone. My vision has narrowed to the asphalt in front of me and I repeat only one mantra: "Pedal, drink, eat, repeat." I no longer think of the finish line as it's still too far away.
Two hours and 30 minutes in and I'm well past Squamish but nowhere near Whistler. I've picked up a new wheel so my new mantra is, "Draft, pedal, drink, repeat."
Two hours and 45 minutes in, I wonder what I'd write in this column if I just quit right now.
At three hours and with 35 km left to ride, my bike computer stops working. I'm too tired to care but then realize it's actually a blessing as I can now stop counting down the distance.
Sometime later, the Whistler welcome sign comes into view and I almost cry with relief. A peloton of riders flies past me and I watch in silent wonder because I have absolutely no will power to jump on. I can think of nothing other than my new mantra: Just pedal.
It didn't look pretty. I was mashing the pedals on every hill, slamming all of my weight into every pedal stroke. Any cycling efficiency I try to practise and teach was gone. I was in survival mode.
As I climbed the hill past the Nordic subdivision I hear, "Last hill!" But I don't listen. I know they are lying. It doesn't help.
As I slowly turn the pedals into Whistler, I have no more pain because I have no feeling--anywhere. I am numb. Even the finish line isn't enough to pull me out of my stupor. I slowly roll across it alone. I hear my name over the loud speaker and realize, "I just raced the Giro to Whistler!" Only a few seconds later my second thought is, "I wonder if I can go faster next year?"
Kristina Bangma is a coach, personal trainer and writer with a love of riding and racing. Email questions to [email protected].
