The long winter ride

 We would meet later in the morning, waiting for the sun to rise high enough to warm the air and burn the frost from the roads.  Without an agenda, there were no intervals to tap out, no training program to follow. We only knew we would be out until the sun was low in the sky and the kids were gathering outside of the schools waiting for their bus home. For the current professional, who lives under the watchful eye of his coach,  these days are fewer as their rides are programmed, broken down into structured intervals, then logged and uploaded online for analysis. The unrelenting oversight erodes some of the freedom a ride gives. The digital tentacles ensure they are always on the clock. 

At the local cafe in the square the waiter knew us and our order. Our routine had become part of his. Sometimes, when it was wet, or the cold air was uninviting, we would linger longer, drinking another cup of coffee, or munching through another croissant. In the square, the Christmas market stands were opening for the day, selling trees, creches, knitted clothing, food, and Caga Tios. A stand roasting chestnuts, with its alluring aromas, would be open when we returned.  

We were the few cyclists in town, especially through the damp winter. The weather was rarely foul enough to keep us indoors. A riding companion or two gave us a little more courage to get out the door. The bite of the cold, the dampness in our shoes, and the numbness in our fingertips somehow gave the ride more value. 

After deciding on a route, we left the cafe, dodging the cars whose drivers were perhaps late for work and the delivery vans being unloaded of cases of rattling glass bottles to be delivered to the bars. We were all uniformed for our workday. But our day, even though it was part of the job of a pro cyclist, didn’t feel so. At the races we were competitors, fighting for every inch of tarmac, but through the winter we worked together. 

These were the rides that would form the foundation of our coming racing season both physically and mentally. The final races of the last season were a fading memory and the coming season, and the training camps we would all soon attend, were not yet a consideration. A racer's mind is often planning ahead whether it’s the next kilometre, the next race or building future fitness. Yet, there was a small window, through the late autumn and early winter, when none of that seemed to matter and we could be present. 

Climbing through forest we could smell the fallen wet leaves. Alongside the fields the pungency of freshly tilled earth and manure overwhelmed every other odour. Through the small towns, the plumes of smoke from wood fireplaces were inviting from the cold. Further north the wind blowing off the snow capped Pyrenean peaks reddened our faces. 

On the road, like in the cafe, our conversations would float across topics, cycling focussed to familial to cultural. Local Catalan friends would join us on the rides, showing us different routes, teaching us about the land, the architecture and its rich and sometimes dark history. We rode by Spanish Civil War encampments, through towns where artists we grew up learning about in school painted their masterpieces, and past farms that produced what we ate for dinner. With each kilometer pedaled deeper into the countryside, it felt as though we were weaving ourselves into the fabric of the culture, understanding more profoundly the place we had chosen as our new home. Their history had passed through millennia.  We would always be foreigners but absorbing all we could would bring us closer. 

We rode with the daylight, our energy draining with the hours, the climbs and the effort. We would stop midway for drinks at a restaurant, sometimes full of workmen eating their lunch of chops or cod, other times, it was just us at the bar, swallowing warm drinks and munching on whatever pastries, or sandwiches were left from the morning. In the final hours, the sun was low, and our shadows long. Drivers sped around us on their way home from work, or to pick up the kids from school. 

For a professional cyclist, like any adult I guess, it is rare to again feel the freedom of youth, when there is nowhere to be but present in an experience that is feeding growth and bonding friendships. Often, when I meet old friends with whom I passed those hours, and raced around the world, it is the long winter rides they recollect not the races won. 

Now some of those riders are coaches of Nationals teams and pro teams. The cycling world has evolved with the tools to analyze every aspect of the racer, resulting in record breaking speeds. But, focussed on the metrics, the freedom of youth is eroded, if not lost. Understanding that the monitoring tools are a parent’s eye looking over a teenage kid as they try to grow alone, an old friend who is now a National team coach, encourages his riders to disconnect everything once a week and spend the day riding. He recalls and recognizes the growth he experienced when we rode through the winter over a decade ago and the importance of it. Human instinct is that too much oversight can drain energy whereas the freedom to be present fuels it. 

As the professional side of the sport begins to recruit younger riders, their opportunity to mature and develop both mentally and physically has shifted as have the pressures they’ll feel to perform. Not only is their training monitored but their results are now documented online, giving every race they start weight that could influence their potential and value. They no longer have the privilege we had to mature into adulthood progressively as they are thrust into the job of racing, often before they reach their 20th birthday. Many who have paid coaches from a young age, have never known the freedom of the long winter ride, of being absorbed in the moment with a few friends, without a concern for what will be posted. It’s now too easy for each ride to become a measuring stick. Will their careers be shortened with oversight or perhaps, longer due to scientific monitoring and more strategic training. Time will tell. 

By Michael Barry

Photography by Camille McMillan