This article is part of a series called ‘A love letter to…’, where Cycling Weekly writers pour praise on their favourite cycling items and share the personal connection they have with them. In this case, it is a break-up letter, addressed to the author's coach.
I think we both knew what was coming. I know people say "if it ain’t on Strava, it didn’t happen", but you - seeing the reality of my Training Peaks account - knew full well that it really, really wasn’t happening. The increasingly missed training sessions were the beginning of the end.
Don’t get me wrong, we had some great times together. Literally. I was able to smash out PBs in local time trial events. We even won a title together. We had so much to look forward to, before the accident...
Breaking my collarbone may have ended the season prematurely, but it provided us both with a new opportunity to "start training early for the coming year". Or, so I thought. If the busted shoulder was bad enough, things soon became worse. The death of a beloved dog, the incontinence of the other, family concerns, a considered relocation to another part of the country. Oh, and the rather pressing matter of work. Then I adopted Max, the highly-anxious cocker puppy, who bit me, a lot.
Still, the training sessions piled up. Still, the emails came, ever hopeful, ever encouraging, and ever responded to with "apologies".
Periods of staring out of the window, finding chores to do, and generally vacillating about how much I really wanted to go into a cold garage and smash myself on the turbo became more frequent.
As yellow (semi-complete) segments joined the red (unattempted) sessions on Training Peaks, with fewer green ones dominating the ‘compliance’ pie chart graphic on my phone app, it was finally dawning on me that not only had my personal circumstances changed, but so had my commitment.
Immediately after my crash, I’d been full of bravado and confidence. Now I’d begun to dread each day’s requirements to train. Moreover, even though the weekday sessions were usually no more than an hour, just finding the requisite time was gradually more problematic, especially with all those chores, and the important task of staring out the window. Eventually, the emails and non-green compliance segments made me feel that I was also living in an alternative reality, as a character trapped in playing (and losing) an endless game of Trivial Pursuit.
It was on a walk with the new pup - now refraining from biting me - that I had a moment of clarity. What brought me to cycling in the first place? The simple pleasure of being able to escape into the landscape, under my own steam and enjoy complete freedom. In other words, it was fun.
With coaching I’d sought structure and meaning for each ride. But as life became more complicated, it felt restrictive and judgemental. One week rolled into another, with me failing to hit the requisite numbers when I did attempt a session. The gains weren’t even marginal, they simply weren’t there.
As is the way these days, I broke the news via text: "Morning, I’ve been having a think & am coming to the conclusion that I need to take a break from structured training."
The response was, as ever, magnanimous and kind. I still experience FOMO at the results that could have been, the gaps I could have closed. But, it was the right call. For both our sakes. And the dogs’.
