My philosophy may be changing a bit on the issue of what it takes to become an elite cyclist, something I wrote about in early 2008. The topic is what characteristics are necessary to go faster than other people in bicycle races. This quest is what ultimately drives me to race, and the fact that others are so challenging to overcome is what keeps my attention. I originally posited that focused training (or “deliberate practice”) over several years was the formula for becoming an expert cyclist, which is the same formula for most endeavors. While I still hold this to be true, I am now conceding that innate and intangible factors are at play. Within the last year, there have been a few examples that have challenged my paradigm:
Exhibit A, The Wrestler: In a mid-race conversation I struck with one rider, he indicated at the beginning of the year he was Category 5. So, this being a Pro1-2 race, I assumed he must have had some type of endurance-based sport experience before the season, like perhaps triathlon or running. So I replied, “You’ve done triathlon?” The answer that followed revealed he was a wrestling coach. Now I know that wrestlers stay ripped, but it is far from an endurance sport like cycling. How is it that a wrestler leaps through all of the categories in a single bound, while the rest of us struggle to slowly move up the ladder? My conversation with the wrestler ended with him asking, “Do you want to bridge up to the leaders?” My thought was, “That would be nice, I wish I could do that.” My actual response was a blank stare, and he proceeded to pedal across the 2-minute gap without me behind him. How, in less than a year, can he do that while I’ve been training to be that fast for 6 years?
Exhibit B, The Alcoholic: This guy is actually an amalgamation of a few guys I’ve raced with. He pounds beers and generally eats crap most of the time, yet goes out and trounces me and others regularly. He might be erratic with performance, but it only takes a couple training rides to be fast (even sometimes while a bit intoxicated). Others claim how good he would be if he paid attention to his diet or laid off the booze. Regardless of whether or not this is true, how does someone ride a bike so fast on crap fuel and spotty training? On the other hand, slower me has been conscientious of my diet and training consistency.
So how is it that some people are faster than me on a bike? To examine the question more fully, let’s turn to cyclists’ favorite explanation, the excuse. Here are mine:
Others are genetic freaks: So I can try as hard as possible, but if I didn’t win the gene lottery I’m relegated to a slower pace in the race regardless of how hard or smart I trained. The problem with this excuse is that I’ve seen first-hand the test values of many of the fastest guys I race with, and they’re not much different from mine. This includes the all-important VO2max score, which is considered a best predictor of endurance sport success and also closely tied with genetics. I even see wattage test values that aren’t much different from mine (although I don’t have all the comparison data with wattage). So what defines “talent” from a genetic perspective? I realize there are some other important physiological characteristics that I am not examining (e.g. dilation potential, hormonal levels, muscle fiber types), but I have yet to see definitive evidence that the riders have a genetic predisposition to be faster than me.
Training harder: While racing at a few NRC races I saw how much pro contract riders are riding their bike during the day, and it is basically all day, all the time. They would be riding the day before the race, riding to the race, and riding back from the race. Then later in the evening they were out riding again. While I don’t get that kind of mileage, I do know that I train longer and harder then most others who are regularly beating me. This is the same issue Erik Zabel grapples with in the documentary Hell on Wheels.
Not enough recovery: Since I’ve had several experiences of overtraining effects, sometimes I wonder if I am riding too much and not allowing enough recovery. This has been something that is often in question, should I train more or less? From time to time I have tried both approaches–backing off and doing more–and neither seems to result in a jump in performance. Another excuse nullified.
Need better equipment: This excuse is not applicable to me.
Getting too old: I started racing when I was 30, so perhaps the years have just caught up with me? Wrong. I have about 50 reasons to refute this theory: Zim Master, Aussie Zim Master, Weekend Warrior, and Rad Doc.
Not doing the extras or training smarter: You need to do the little extra things to make yourself better than others. However, I’ve done everything including laboratory testing, biomechanical examination, nutrition charting, riding in every (and I mean EVERY) weather condition possible, examining tactics, reading, power training, research, hydration, drink mixes, goal setting, bicycle maintenance, etc.
I’m too big: Perhaps my 170 lb (77 kg) weight and residual upper body strength has me too big to keep up on the hills? Wrong again. I’ve weighed less but not climbed better. My percentage of bodyfat is right there with other climbers. I don’t go any better on the flats.
I don’t have a coach: Everybody has a coach nowadays. The problem there is that given my background in university degrees and knowledge I’ve gained in cycling and other sports, I’m more knowledgeable then most coaches I could get. Certainly some feedback would be helpful, but it wouldn’t make me any better.
Need to live in a city with cyclists: You need to live where a lot of cyclists are, so you can get intense training efforts with the boys. There are two reasons that debunk this myth. One is that I recently lived in Australia and rode all the time with the crazy blokes there (including him, him, him, and him). I’m not a super-cyclist because of it. Second, several successful cyclists come from rural towns where they train mostly solo.
Psychological fortitude: To be a cyclist, you have to be mentally tough, confident, and focused. Not a problem here.
You must ride in the front of the peleton: Cycling is about positioning and you must be in the right place at the right time to avoid crashes, save energy, and go with the winning moves. This is true and I have suffered a few bad results because of my strategy as a tail gunner and fear of crashing. However, I have also had the company of several race winners and top 10 finishers right there at the back with me during races. Also, when I am racing well I am usually at the front when I need to be there. More importantly, I’ve never crashed nor missed any races due to injury or sickness.
Not juiced: To compete at the top level, you have to be taking something. While this is apparently true at the very top of the sport, the guys riding past me at the amateur races are not roided.
Alas, I’ve exhausted all of my excuses for not being the fastest cyclist in the world. I have come to no conclusion that explains why others are faster. While every year I seem to get a little bit stronger, I’ve plateaued and other riders are jumping me continually. Is there an unknown condition I have? Is it a residual injury from other sports? Have I overlooked something on my list?
Earlier I referred to inherent and intangible factors that make a rider stronger. Just what are these? I have yet to find out, but at least I have ruled out some potential ones based on my own personal experience. In the end, I still believe that concerted practice for several years will yield excellence (expert status) but there is something beyond this that makes an elite athlete. For me, the value of the sport lies in the challenge and the experience. Cycling has been a fantastic sport in both regards but it has done no better than golf or basketball to resolve my quandary about elite performance.
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