I tried not thinking about this race leading up to it. Racing on Zwift is hard enough without adding nearly 6,000 feet in elevation gain within 29 miles. Let’s just break that down for people who don’t ride up a ton nor in such a short period of time. Elevation gained from Idaho Springs to the top of Mount Evans is 6,260 feet in 27 miles.
So I damn near raced up Mt. Evans from my bike room, going nowhere.
A course for the lighter racers
But not only did I do that, I had to race against women faster, stronger, and lighter than me. And in Zwift, much more than IRL, your height and weight mean everything. Seriously. I had to submit height and weight videos before every race. And as much as I’d love to see my weight go down, this gal LOVES to stay 130 or above.
It was pretty much showing how my weight and height do not change.
It’s difficult not to compare my height and weight with other Zwift races seeing as how many of them were lighter than me. But it’s always good to remember that smaller does not equal better, happier, more fulfilling, sexier, etc. You could be 5’6, weigh 110 lbs, and be a terrible friend. Or you could look like something out of a Victoria Secret’s catalog and be clinically depressed.
I remind myself of this all the time. I also ask myself if I lost the elusive 10 pounds, would I be happy with my body then or would I find something else to be unhappy with. Most likely, I’d find something else to nitpick. I think there will always be something I don’t like and will want to change. So the best thing to do is learn to accept the same I am now and appreciate what my body CAN do — like race up Zwift mountains for two hours on a Sunday morning while most people were sleeping.
Sure, the lighter racers got up the mountains faster, but that’s all they did.
Shifter problems and dead legs
I highly considered quitting a number of times during the race. On the second big climb, the Epic KOM, I was working hard to keep up with a group of three. I was already in 50-something place so I wasn’t going to both attacking. Hell, there was nothing in my legs to try to attack.
I shifted to my little ring to do higher cadence for more aerobic work instead of staying in the big ring and grinding out the gears on a particularly steep section. When the grade went from 6% to 3%, I shifted back to my big gear in order to keep up with them and it wouldn’t budge. I used both hands to move the shifter and the chain wouldn’t catch.
There went the group.
Went it finally caught, I lost them. In all honesty, I would have eventually dropped from them anyway because my legs were toast.
I spent too much effort at the beginning through Titans Grove trying to hang on to the wheels of remarkably strong riders. I held on to them for a big four minutes this time. I worked hard to distance myself from other racers dropped and to hang on to whatever group I could find.
The problem was that after Titans Grove and the Epic KOM, there was still the Alpe du Zwift which is 7.45 miles long with an average grade of 8.5%.
After Monday and Thursday’s race, then two big race climbs before Alpe du Zwift, my legs weren’t having it. And that’s where I considered quitting. I was dropped from another packed that picked me up along the way after my shitting shifters.
I could hang on that group and naively thought I’d be able to hang with them up Alpe du Zwift. And then, all of a sudden, they were gone. And so was any energy in my legs and the desire to continue.
I know you know how it feels to race alone. It’s tougher to keep going when you’re by yourself. And as I watched my heart rate and power drift from each other, I kept saying to myself, “this is bullshit.” It wasn’t much fun. I felt pretty lousy about myself. And the time kept on ticking but the miles crept along.
Death before DNF
Racers continued to pass me and I kept thinking to myself, “Fuck it. As long as I finish.” I did. I finally did finish that GD “race.” It was a race of attrition. It was a race of tenacity. Maybe it was pride. I’ve never quit a race and when I wanted to during this one, I said to myself (alone in my bike room as people enjoyed the nice morning outdoors), “Death before DNF.”
DNF = Did Not Finish. The only time I’d ever quit a race is if it was health or mechanically-related. I would have to be throwing up or in need of a doctor to stop. Or there’d have to be a major issue with my bike (not just terrible shifters) for me to quit. Otherwise, I’d fight tooth and nail to finish a race — even the bullshit ones like this Quatch Quest route.
It’s easy to quit. It’s easy to give up when things are hard or seem impossible or feel terrible. I’ve had too many times to count where I wanted to throw in the towel. But all those little “I’m going to keep going”s add up. They make us more resilient the next time.
Thanks to my patrons who make my writing possible. You can become part of our club here:
Become a Patron!