Urban Ultra Coast to Coast Challenge: lessons learned.

Well. What a weekend. Last Friday I took part in the Urban Ultra Cycle Challenge, and it was potentially the biggest learning curve I have ever experienced. It was hell on a pair of carbon wheels, but it has really shown me where my weaknesses lie when it comes to my cycling.

The morning got off to an inauspicious start when I thought I had forgotten my inhaler and actually did forget my Snickers bars for the ride. The inhaler turned up, the ‘nutrition’ needed replacing in a service stop on the way to the start. There was then the standard issue of Google Maps not actually knowing its way around the UAE, meaning that we drove around the Sharjah corniche a couple of times before locating the start line. However, inhaler tucked securely in to my bright orange jersey and pockets stuffed with peanut butter Snickers, off we sped in the back pod, intending to average around 28kph for the 200km of the ride.

The first 92km of the ride were some of the toughest hours of riding that I have ever endured, and where my first real lesson was learned: don’t EVER put yourself in the back pod of a big race or cycle challenge. There are so many reasons for this but here are a few:

• You are the last group, and therefore more likely to get swept up by the ‘grim sweeper’ bus if anything goes wrong.
• You could end up in a group of utterly inexperienced riders who have absolutely no idea of how to ride in group formation in a windy highway.
• Your group captain might spend so much time trying to rescue these people that he gets swept up by the grim sweeper, leaving your pod speed at the hands of other utterly inexperienced riders who don’t know how to maintain pace.
• All of the above may result in your already significant (and yes, irrational) fear of the hills being compounded by fear of being dropped and seen as an utter failure by the rest of the group.

At the first break at 60km, we were averaging 28kph. Physically, absolutely fine. What was not fine was the fact that my fickle brain had decided to sabotage my entire race. The next 32km passed by in a blur of sickness, shakiness and terror as I tried desperately to cling on to the back of the pack. I dropped twice and was hauled back by the support car – total legend. I was on my last legs, and that was it. As soon as that thought entered my head, I was slingshotted out of the back of the pack at the bottom of the first climb. Coming to a natural stop, I mentally berated myself for having entered a race in such a state of unfitness, for being overly arrogant etc, etc, etc. I was swept up by the grim sweeper, and away we went in the bus.

I was furious. With myself, with the race organizers, with the heat, with the wind, with my training partner for not telling me I was crap at cycling… until, after around five minutes of rest, a bottle of water and a protein shake, I suddenly felt as good as new. I wrestled with myself for twenty-odd kilometers on the bus, made friends with another swept up cyclist and, on the other side of Generator Hill (see previous post), got back on my bike.

We rode together the next twenty kilometers to Feed Station Three, where I found my tough-as-nails friend Aimee, and we joined the next pod up. Weirdly, despite a higher average speed, I tucked in, ducked down, put in some work and loved every minute. I stayed with the pod for the next 80km, only getting dropped on the final hill, around 10km from the finish line. I felt absolutely great. It was hot, fast, and hard, but something had changed. My mindset.

I crossed the finish line to be greeted by my amazing Dubai family consisting of my Head of Department, her husband (ex-army training partner from last week’s post) and their two awesome little girls. I had a little cry, ate three plates of the BBQ food put on by Le Meriedien Al Aqah, and spent the afternoon relaxing on the beach.

It was a long, long way from my finest race. But, as my husband said to me when I finished, it may have been one of my most valuable in the starting stages of my Ironman Wales Training. I learned a huge lesson: despite being a Welsh triathlete, since moving to Dubai I have developed an irrational fear of hills. It’s not going to go away over night, but I have time. I have a feeling that Jebel Jais, Jebel Hafeet and the Hajjar Mountains are going to see a lot of me and my little bike over the next few months. I have a lot of work to do in the gym, and a lot of work to do getting out of my overactive little mind. But I have a pretty awesome crew around me, and the game is officially on.