I’d never say it to their faces, but as a scrawny distance runner I’ve always enjoyed watching muscle-bound decathletes run their final event, the 1,500 meters. They make it look almost as hard as the pole vault would be for me. Of course, they don’t actually have to race against middle-distance specialists. In cycling, on the other hand, the sprinters, time-trialists, climbers, and all-arounders all compete in the same Grand Tours. Imagine, for example, if Usain Bolt had to finish the marathon within a certain time limit in order to start the 100-meter final the next day. What would that take?
I used to see my finishing kick as a sign of toughness. Nobody passed me in the closing stages of a race, I’d tell myself, because nobody wanted it more than me.
But as time went on, I began to see it from a different perspective. No matter how a race played out, whether it was fast or slow and whether I was way ahead or way behind, I would always manage to sprint the last quarter-mile or so. Why did I always have energy left for a sprint, even if I’d been dropped by the leaders? Shouldn’t I have used that energy to avoid being dropped in the first place? Eventually, my kick became a source of frustration. I tried to race hard enough that I’d have nothing left for a kick, but I almost never managed it.