The Dirt Field

Over the winter, I obsess about other people’s training. This is less of a concern during the racing season, because the very nature of racing lets you know where you stand in relation to your competition. If somebody consistently beats you, they are probably faster (or you are doing it wrong). The winter provides no such mechanism for evaluation. Until racing season begins, there is no way to know whose winter training plan was better, who was more dedicated, and who spent too much time snuggling with the fruitcake and eggnog.

As a result, two things happen for me. First, training becomes more robotic and less driven by passion; each workout is little more than something to get done. If I could remain unconscious while plowing through every interval and rep, I would. There isn’t the fire that’s present during the racing season, where training equals brief periods of high energy work and adjustment in preparation for the next test. I ride the trainer for nearly every ride and approach training with the same joy one might reserve for cleaning toilets or a trip to the podiatrist.

This works for me. As dull and miserable this sounds, it’s how I do winter. I get through it, hitting all the correct levels of effort required for beneficial training, while seeking excitement in the rest of my life. It has become a Fact of Winter.

The other Fact of Winter, and one that is less acceptable, is Training Envy. Somebody else’s training is bigger/longer/harder than mine. It doesn’t help that my Facebook and blogroll are constantly brimming with stories of how big/long/hard people are riding and how they’re eating nothing but wheatgrass and antelope embryos. Unless your ride ended with a cheesesteak or had some other notable feature, it is not worth publicity and just makes me feel like I’m not working hard enough.

I know that you have your training plan and I have mine and it should be okay that they are different. I trust my coach and know that her plans have worked in the past. It’s just difficult to not feel like I should be riding harder, for longer, up bigger hills, and so on, especially when other riders are.

I also worry that I’m not dedicated enough and that I’m losing some sort of edge when I stay up too late or drink or miss a recovery ride because work got in the way. Finding balance is hard. I want to be the best on the bike, but not at the expense of everything off the bike. That means sneaking in a protein bar while running a meeting at the office, sending work emails while doing intervals on the trainer, and adapting my weightlifting schedule to accommodate holiday events where I’ll want a glass (or bottle) of wine. Balance is good. Balance means that if I don’t become the world champion or I crash out of racing permanently, I’m not returning to an empty life.

But it also means feeling inadequate in the face of other people’s dedication. It means questioning if I can commit enough, if I want it enough, if I’ll still be good enough by comparison when the racing season begins again. Maybe I’ll be surpassed by those willing to put more in than I am.

This is an unflattering, insecure portrait of a competitive cyclist. Perhaps there will come a time when things like this don’t bother me, when I can feel content that whatever I’m doing and giving is enough. If Willow Koerber believes she can have a baby this month and contest an international race schedule in 2012, why shouldn’t I believe I can balance my life and win as well? I want to believe, but in the absence of this confidence, please lie on Facebook and tell me you decided to skip today’s ride.