Lara Loves a shit sandwich

July 16.

9 hours on a bike. Two mountains. 28 degree heat. 10 bidons. 12,000 other cyclists. I'd lost count of energy bars. Medal. Another goal achieved. I was expecting elation, pride, tears, relief. But it was just kind of, done.

Thinking back;

March 2.

I finished work before 7pm for the first time in I can't remember how long.  A beautiful still evening, a little cold, but clear and almost still light. The calm before a storm perhaps. I found myself standing at Kings Cross//St Pancras station, staring up at the vast black departure boards. Trains to all over clicking across the displays.

A tight feeling in my chest. Twitching in my legs, a low frustration buzzing through me. Pick one. Buy a ticket. Go. My brain alive with the potential rebellion to the routine, with all life's possibilities. That Fuck It feeling, a longing to do something spontaneous and extravagant, just something I shouldn't; stay out all night, disappear, escape, be free! There's a huge bird cage sculpture just outside the station, the bars are lit at night by rainbow LEDs. It's empty. Like the bird has escaped.

I was tethered. Autopilot to commuter route home. I could blame obligation, I could blame the constant nag of financial limitation. Really, it's that I wouldn't know what to do, when I got to wherever I ended up. Rule 14 is know what it takes to get back to yourself when these episodes occur. For me, to feel free I just grab my bike or throw on my trainers and head out the door. But for the first time in my life even running or riding my bike, couldn't dislodge the discomfort I felt.

If these two things are what usually helped me feel free, the pressure of achievement had bound me up. I'd set an audacious goal for myself, to ride the Etape du Tour in July. Stage 18 of the Tour de France, 180km with 4000m of climbing in potential 30oC heat. All I could think about was the mountain ahead of me. Suddenly, the training i'd planned and usually relished, was no longer an escape from the routine of everyday, but an extension of the same.

Kanter's Law says that in the middle, everything looks like a failure. Big goals and projects come in three phases; I'd gone past the exciting beginning where you feel alive with your potential for greatness and was too far from the smug medal wearing, bonus spending, gin drinking afterglow. I'd reached the shit in the middle of the self growth sandwich.

It's at this point then the why becomes important. Why do we set audacious goals? Why do we keep pushing to go faster, go further, earn more? Why do I even need to prove I can do this? I'd lost my why and at that same point i'd hit the Grind phase of the project. The shit bit in the middle, where you just have to get it done and trust that you're moving in the right direction.  It's boring and when we are waiting for something to happen, preference is to be distracted, escape, take the easy way out.

Ergo, me, sitting alone at a bar in St Pancras, trying to escape the ordinary and wash down the shit sandwich filling with expensive Champagne. 

July 21.

Comparing Strava segments. Warren Barguil, Winner of Stage 18 of the Tour de France (the Etape stage) sailed across the line in 4hrs 40 minutes. The man could've done the stage twice and still beaten me round. He climbed the Izoard in 38 minutes. It took me 1hr 48. Fuck. I looked down at the medal on my desk. By these stats you're probably thinking ( I was thinking) that I'm pretty average. That, I spent a hell of a long time (7 months) and a lot of time, energy and money to achieve... well nothing extraordinary. 

Peak-end theory is a psychological rule in which an experience or event is judged based on how we perform at the peak (the most intense point) and at the end of the experience or event, whether pleasant or unpleasant, rather than the experience as a whole. Finish Line. 

 For me the past 8 months has been huge. I've ridden 7000km. I've met some incredible people. I've doubted myself, I've been scared, I've been stranded, freezing cold, close to passing out from the heat. I've laughed so hard my legs have gone weak and I thought i'd fall off my bike. I've climbed mountains, and sped at 70km an hour through switchbacks. The views. I'd do it all again for the views... and the post ride burgers.

The whole sandwich is the why. Most of us are going to be pretty average. But we learn about ourselves along the way; I get bored easily. I like constant feedback. I am too harsh on myself. I prefer going antisocially fast to riding for 6 hours. I often don't believe until the last 5km. The most important thing.... I have not failed yet.

"Tell me not in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!-

For the Soul is dead that slumbers,

 and things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is Earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than today.

[...]

Lives of great men all remind us

we can make our lives sublime

and, departing, leave behind us

footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints that perhaps another

sailing o'er lifes solumn main

a forlorn and shipwrecked brothers

seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing

with a heart for any fate;

still achieving, still pursuing 

Learn to labour and to wait."

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life.

We push and we test our limits. We learn that we can chew through shit, and wash it down with champagne. Its the mountain road and not the medal. Some images from the road to Izoard, to remind me it wasn't all chewing through shit.

April. My birthday ride, 60km, stopped by police and binning it for the train home. 

Hitting Sa Calobra in Mallorca dressed as a pro but certainly not riding like one. 

The damns in Girona, in 38 degree heat.

Early morning laps... again.

 Some thank you's for supporting this years shit sandwich self development programme go out to; Matthew Wells for sewing the seed, everyone at 10,000kmcc for endless early morning laps, long weekend rides, and endless boredom distraction on the worlds worst (best) group chat. Anthony Harris, sorry for never going fast until 10km to go. Mum & Dad, and my non bike friends, for their patience in never seeing me.  KPP, for being the ultimate super domestique, belief at 100km, shoulder massages at 150km and every wednesday morning ride. The Manxman, for pro words of wisdom. Rapha, and fellow Etappers because at least we always looked pro.