Week 4.
It’s Tuesday morning. The day after, the day after the end of a weekend of complete mayhem. I’m just thinking to myself it’s been nice to have 24hours of walrus media respite. “Pinggg”….a notification from the “team leaders” WhatsApp group…George Dix (who else?): ‘are we JUST jumping onto a Zwift race this week?’
And so it begins. There’s the weekly attempt to get Tom Fleming and /or Andy Davies to race up a category or two, as well as the standard discussions about route choice and points allocation – I consider playing to our teams strengths and proposing a 300km ‘Audax’ race, but swiftly remember that riding on Zwift over that sort of distance is absolutely fucking ridiculous.
In the end we just settle on Crit City.
It appears that the Zwift Community has got wind of the Walruses descending en masse and by Thursday evening the race participant numbers are swelling by the second. By the time I’m sat on the start line it’s approaching the 400 mark. It’s going to be absolute mayhem. I knew SW was big, but I didn’t think it was this big.
As I’m sitting in the pen nice and early so I’m up at the front, I’ve got a few things going round in my head – Firstly , why the hell did I decide to race in the As?! Everyone looks incredibly focussed and incredibly fast….’ What about my legs? Am I feeling strong today ? I can’t be after the weekend. I’ve had a couple days off though, so maybe I’m ok ?’ I get out of the saddle to try and test the waters a little ‘actually I think I’m feeling quite good!’. I then remember I was sent home from work on Monday because I was coughing and spluttering and looked terrible…I tell myself there’s no way I’m feeling good.
I hop onto discord to see if any of my teammates are there to help alleviate my anxieties. No luck. Instead I get even more anxious as Lotto Wetboek look to have a full strength squad, all logged in, and no doubt putting the final touches to their in-race tactics.
I turn my focus back to the race as the countdown is almost over.
It’s absolute bedlam.
400+ plus riders at max watts, jostling for position with their balls firmly on the line. About 30 seconds in I find myself in about 130th position. Shit. More max watts. But it’s relentless. It’s a savage pace.
I see the heads of various walruses pop up in amongst the pack, Alec is there, Graeme is amongst it, Bill seems to be storming along! Surely they must be suffocating like I feel I am.
But I have to keep pushing. If I want to stand a chance, I need to get myself to the front group. That’s the one rule really. Get to the front group by any means possible. If you can’t stay there then fine, but you have to get there. I tell myself that the pace will ease once I’m there.
The pace doesn’t ease. It doesn’t ease at all.
After what feels like an eternity at max watts I eventually find myself at the back of the front group, thoroughly regretting my decision to obey the ‘one rule’. I spend the remainder of the race clinging on at the back, cursing the constant in game reminders to ‘close the gap’. I’m trying to fucking close the gap you prick!!
I look around and vaguely notice that I can no longer see any familiar faces in the group, but I get no joy from noticing this, no joy at all. My heart rate is now well into the 170s and I know I’m on borrowed time. But if I’m dropped by this group it’s game over. I have no choice but to hang on for dear life.
Gasping for breath I’ve somehow reached the final lap. I try and muster an attempt at a sprint, but I make up no real ground. 11th plaice.
The WhatsApp group soon lights up again. It sounds like we’ve all been to hell and back.
I try to articulate to Claire what has just happened. She feigns to listen and replies by saying it “sounds like just another Zwift race”.
Week 5
Mr Tinkoff, he say I not racing well. One week on my own in last, one week losing Hill climb to man on mountain bike, another week struggle with pattern in team time trial.
One last chance Peter. Before race he tell me have to go hard on hill. Maximum. Otherwise, only 3 million roubles next year.
Ok, eezy for Peter. Wait. Ride hard. See what happens. First, have to tie pony tail and put on lucky vest.
Juraj, my brother, ride hard at start, try to attack, everyone chase but maybe he has gear problems and has to climb off.
Michael Golar, he have a go at sprint, but Mr Tinkoff tell him the wrong distance. No problem, Peter still in front group and pony-tail look fly.
Hill comes, Peter out of saddle, Haussler can’t follow, nor can Valverde. Good. Tired, but fans go mental. Americans eh?
Over top, have 11s. Not enough, Peter tell Mr T (he pity that fool), that not enough and he will wait. Mr T tell Peter off and say no, you ride. Ok. Peter been told.
14k to go. Easy. Mathews and Kristoff close. Following car keep updated. Groups split and come together. No problem. Gap 12s. Now 16. Peter can’t stop talking. Impressions of himself. Slovaks…? After while, just breathing into radio. Cardiac arrest? No. Just 161 heart rate.
E numbers from Jelly Beans wearing off. Gap 21s. 4K to go. Rainbow jersey almost on back. Kristoff, no, 23w/kg. Car says he rides mountain bike. Not normal. Peter push. Cramp all in legs. Shouting. 4s, 3s, 2s. 0m to go. World Champion. Tinkoff say raced ok. 3.4 million roubles next year.
Now, time for make big party. Industrial strength glue and dabs of spice for everybody.