Yes, I know, typical teacher bringing a play in to my blog, but this phrase really came into its own this weekend during our training ride in the Hajar Mountains.
We all know that mental strength plays a huge part in endurance sport, but up until this weekend´s training session, I really hadn´t realized quite how much this would come in to play in my Ironman training. The challenge began with the four o’clock alarm to make the hour drive to the mountains in the North East of the UAE. The aim was to have wheels rolling at 6am and hit the smooth, unused tarmac of the UAE for 120km of hilly fun. Needless to say, things didn’t go to plan.
The first issue arose when, around 2km in to the ride and about halfway up the first incline, a deafening crunch, a screech and the blast of a horn heralded the writing off of a motorbike in the central reservation five meters behind us. I broke all rules of group riding and dived sideways onto the gravelly hard shoulder to avoid whatever it was that I could hear flying up the hill towards us. Thankfully for all involved, the gradient of the hill was steep enough to have slowed the biker down, although I’m sure being dragged along the central reservation helped too. I swiftly dispatched my ex-army training partner to deal with any injuries, stipulating that if I had to deal with blood and gore, he’d have two casualties on his hands. Having said that, the ordering of an ambulance was an ordeal in itself; the emergency number was not actually the number for emergencies and the paramedics had never heard of the road I was on, so I had to share my location via Whatsapp. Thank goodness for 4G.
Unusually for this part of the world, once they had my location, the ambulance turned up within thirty minutes and after a cheery wave to our mercifully not so injured biker, we were on our way. However, if you have ever cycled anywhere near the equator, even in November, you will know how much of a difference thirty minutes can make to your suffering at the hands of the weather. At 6:45am, we already knew that in four hours’ time we would have been out in the sun for thirty minutes longer than planned. That knowledge in itself was enough to terrify, but my mental challenges only continued as the ride went on…
I sensibly span up all the hills on the way to Hatta, knowing that 120km of incline/decline would present their own challenges without any unnecessary heroics from me. I know 80km of the route very well and was careful to hydrate and refuel in the right places to get me up the worst inclines. The village of Huweylat brought me in to entirely new territory as we turned right towards the Omani border as opposed to our usual left for home. I now knew that I was on my way to Generator Hill, a name which inspires dread in most UAE based triathletes and cyclists. I could feel my mind sending slug-like signals to the rest of my body, as if my brain was physically trying to pull me in the opposite direction to that of travel.
“I feel sick. I’m too hot. I have a headache. My shoes are hurting. My triceps are hurting. My electrolyte tabs are too sweet. My water has gone warm. It would be better for me to give up now, and try Generator Hill next time. My sportive next weekend isn’t this hilly, I don’t even need to be doing this. Oh crap, I have to cycle 200km next weekend. I can’t do it. I’m too unfit. KILL ME NOW”. This was my silent howl of a monologue as I ground my pedals towards the base of Generator Hill. Then, I saw the hill itself and almost broke down in tears of utter despair.
It’s steep. Really steep. 2.7km of 10% gradient, to be precise. Despite being in my lowest gear, spinning was no longer an option. I pushed and hauled my way up towards the summit, stopping three times. At one point, my training partner offered to give me a push, to which I yelled “Don’t you bloody DARE push me up this effing hill!”. When I finally, finally reached the tunnel, I collapsed in a broken heap on the pavement, not caring that every car driving past thought I needed medical assistance. I still had 35km to go.
As I headed back towards familiar ground, my determination really started to wobble. The dreaded climb over the final ridge on the Hatta rides is always a dreaded challenge, but never more so than after my crawl up Generator Hill. Three times I resolved to stop, give my car keys to my training partner and collapse, weeping, on the side of the road. But actually, once you’ve climbed Generator Hill in 42°C, the 13.3km of ascent before dropping back to Showka is a piece of sugar and electrolyte fueled, shaky cake.
120km complete with more ascent than I’ve seen since leaving the UK, I spent the afternoon curled in an exhausted ball on the sofa refueling on McDonald’s and Nando’s. Not the best nutrition strategy admittedly, but all I could face. I now have no idea how the sportive next weekend will go, but all I can do is take from it what I learned this weekend: that Coca Cola is the nectar of the gods and that someone suggesting you might need help is the best way to snap you out of the negative hole you have invariably dug yourself.