GP de Contrecoeur: within the pack

Let's start by setting the record straight: bike racing is really, really hard.

You have to be mentally and physically prepared to inflict a certain amount of pain on yourself for a long (and sometimes very long) period of time, with a specific goal in mind. As for the latter, I participated in the Grand Prix de Contrecoeur with one single objective: to help my teammates as best I could. I had no illusions; my physical abilities and my (lack of) cycling experience (third year on a bike, second year in racing) made it clear that I couldn't hope to win a road race of nearly 110 km with very, very little elevation gain.

Here is the story anyway.

The game plan

The captain's orders are clear. We MUST have someone in the breakaway so we don't have to bear the entire weight and responsibility of the chase. We put on our best clothes and dancing shoes and off we go for a quick warm-up, about thirty minutes before the start. We spin our legs at a moderate intensity, adding a few accelerations just above our functional threshold power (FTP). Since every rider on our team has a bike equipped with a Power Meter, targeting our efforts is a breeze. We show up at the starting line, wish our opponents and teammates a good race, listen attentively to the organizers' speech, and BANG! We're off.

Give it your all

Every start of a race is a shock. We're talking about 190% of my FTP for 5 seconds to get me in the saddle and give me a good start. The essence of these races is quite simple: burn calories as efficiently as possible. Hide from the wind as best you can while staying well positioned in the peloton to be ready to execute the game plan imposed by the captain. A few attacks are launched and reeled in during the first 30 kilometers of the race. My watts hover around 60%during this period. At times, I don't pedal and let myself be carried along by the slipstream of the other riders. At the Ride virages, it's a different story. It's a matter of 200% bursts, but always for very short periods of time. Crashes, flat tires. We lose players despite ourselves. One of the eggplants (see Vélo Cartel Jersey ) has just made a good effort and is falling back into the peloton. I look up and see that a breakaway is forming ahead and none of us are in it, making me the most advanced eggplant in the peloton. I grit my teeth, it's going to hurt. In order to catch up with this breakaway, I push myself to almost 185% for a period of 30 seconds. Within this effort, I push myself to over 235% of my FTP for 10 seconds in order to break away from the pack. My race is really starting now.

The adventure of the escape

Once I caught up with the breakaway, I knew for sure that I wouldn't be able to ride because my legs were on fire. The breakaway got organized and the riders started taking turns. When it was my turn, the rider who was supposed to take my slipstream stared at me, insisting with his eyes that I join the rotation. I quickly say, "I just got back, I'm exhausted." He passes me, while I struggle to get 60% out of my legs. During the 25 seconds it takes me to recover, a hand rests on my back; another rider has joined the breakaway. My strength returns and the 13 riders start riding, passing the baton quickly. I ride at between 70% and 85% when I'm behind another rider. During the short periods when I'm in front, I ride at around 110% with a peak of 115% in order to position myself in front of the rider who has just passed me the baton. This little game goes on for almost an hour and it's going well. Some riders in the breakaway take fewer turns than others, depending on their physical condition and strategy. I try to take as many turns as possible to save my teammate's legs.

They're shooting from all sides!

After an hour of breakaway, attacks begin. I struggle to keep up with them, as fatigue and poor management of my water and food reserves take their toll. My legs are screaming that they are about to explode and that if I have one last push left in me, now is the time! At this point in the race, asking my body for 150% of my FTP seems unthinkable. One of the riders launches a lightning attack and I give everything I have to cover it, making sure my teammate has followed. My vision blurs a little and I see the survivors of the breakaway pulling away, interspersed with black dots that only I can see. I have a taste of blood and salt in my mouth. The peloton catches up with me, swallows me up and spits me back out. My race is over, my job is done.

I'm entitled to a Coke and a banana. That'll help me get my legs back, and my sight.