Time Trial – Part I

Time Trial: Part I

In Part I of this series, I wanted to give you a glimpse of what goes on inside my head leading up to a time trial. After months of threshold intervals, perfecting my position, studying the course, the weather, and my competition, it all comes down to execution on race day. This is not a “How to Time Trial” guide – everyone is different – but this is what works for me. But before I get into my mental tips and tricks, before I tell you how to ignore all the pain when it seems impossible, I would like to set the scene – this is the story of what goes on inside my head on the day of a time trial.

Check-list

• Shoes
• Helmet
• Skinsuit
• Socks
• Shoes covers
• Heart rate monitor
• Bike computer
• Gel
• Trainer
• Bike
  • Check the shifting. Are the aero bars tight? Are the tires rubbing the frame, the brakes? Did you pump up the tires?

Start time: 12:51

I need to be at the start house by 12:40, so I should finish my warm-up at 12:30. I need at least 5 minutes between the end of my warm-up and leaving for the start house – I have to unclip my bike from the trainer, zip up my skinsuit, leave all unnecessary items back at the car, eat/consume/slurp/ingest a caffeine gel, and ALWAYS stop by the Port-a-Potties one last time.

[Nerves can make anyone’s stomach turn, but I always like the mental boost of feeling like I just lost 2 pounds right before the start – that’s not a poop joke. See for yourself how much a full water bottle (or two) of liquid weighs. It’s a lot more than you think.]

Numbers, numbers, numbers…

I roll up to the start house – which isn’t really a house, more like a plastic tent set up with two legs on the grass and two legs on the road – and try to relax for just a couple of minutes before the start.

A USAC official is nervously pacing up and down the road, yelling out the numbers of the next riders on-deck – “81!!! — Yep, gotchya — 82!!! — Yes, I see him right there — 83!!! — He’s not here. I don’t see an 83. Karen, do you see an 83? Gosh dangit he’s gonna miss his start — 83!!!!!!”

BANG! – One of the doors of a nearby Port-a-Potty flies open, and a small, sweaty man clambers out, zipping up his skinsuit as the plastic door slams behind him.

“I’m here!! 83, that’s me!”

I glance over at the thin man in a Lycra skinsuit, stumbling over some gravel as he mounts his bike and rolls over to the start. I am number 84, which means that he’s my “minute man”. It’s never too early (or late) to size up the competition, and I’m immediately drawn to the size of his legs; they are massive, bulging and veiny like that of a bodybuilder. But his upper body is like a stick, his arms made of little twigs sprouting from the tiny trunk of a baby tree, a tree that would only be able to survive indoors.

But his quads are massive – Oh my god, look at his quads – they look like the quads of a track sprinter, or an Olympic weightlifter, or that German guy who pedaled so hard he made toast (Google it – you won’t be disappointed). Those quads must be good for something. I hope he’s a sprinter, but his brand new Cervélo TT bike tells me otherwise. He’s done this before, and I can see that his aerobars are almost touching. His stem is slammed, and his wheelset probably costs more than my car (which isn’t even ‘my car’ – it’s my parent’s – but you get the point).

I’m so much in my own head now that I’ve almost forgotten about the race. I snap back into reality when just over my head, a shrill voice yells – “84!!!”

“Yes sir, that’s me, right here.”

I raise my hand, and the official sees me, checks off my number, and then returns to screaming out two-digit numbers right over my head – I barely notice.

Now, my eyes are fixated on #83’s calves. They look like chiseled-down 40 oz. steaks, the kind that you only buy once every two years because you can’t afford to spend $100 on a meal for two. I can see the striations in his muscles, of which there are many. In school I learned that the calf is made of two muscles: the gastrocnemius and the soleus. But I’m pretty sure he has at least 3.

2 minutes to Start

I try to focus, on my mind, on the effort, and on the suffering that lies ahead. I know it will hurt – A LOT – but it’s better to expect the worst than to be blindsided by it.

I’ve been training for this for months, maybe even years. I don’t hate time trials (as most other cyclists I know do), in fact, I love them – the focus, the immense suffering, the individual effort, and the simplicity in that fact that the fastest man always wins. There are not so many times in life when hard work, dedication, and immense suffering can lead to such precise, measureable, and deserved improvements, victories, and triumphs. Life isn’t fair, but time trials usually are.