Cycling - The Racing Post

Cycle Logic - Fish Tales from the Peloton

By Diana North

Fish tales are alive and well in the sport of cycling. We’ve all heard them; and maybe we’ve even indulged in the verbal posturing and exaggerated re-telling of our own accomplishments at some point in our cycling lives. It’s just part of the deal.

When I started cycling I believed every word that swirled past my ears. I’d see the big dogs, gods to me, spinning along still able to breathe while discussing their last group ride, training ride or race. And I’d think, “Wow, pro racers had better watch out for these guys.” All that talk made me feel unworthy of riding on the same pavement with such superhuman cyclists.

Well, I still share the same roads with them, only now I know better.

I’m not saying I’m a pro racer or anything. And I’m not saying I don’t still envy the truly fast, truly brave, somewhat crazy serious cyclists that elevate our sport to art.

What I am saying is that I am about to let you in on a pretty well kept secret I call “fish tales from the pelaton.” There are exceptions to every rule, of course, but in most cases what passes for accurate recounting of many training or group rides is not, exactly.

Truth is relative. And sometimes truth has different versions, too. It all depends on who you are, the group you ride with and how familiar you are with the behavior of cyclists in their natural environment.

Until I became fast enough to be anywhere near the local big dogs as they sprinted to the “finish line” on a group ride, I had no idea what happened there.

None whatsoever.

Those days are over, I am happy to say. And while I rarely hang with the real racers for any length of time, I’ve seen enough and heard enough to know what’s going on afterward; the cycling version of fish tales. You know fish tales, those colorful stories your daddy and uncles tell about the ones that got away.

In the original fish tales a giant, powerful and wily fish that you never actually see escapes capture by far more powerful and wily fishermen, usually because of some fluke such as the extraordinary prowess of the fishermen has a run of bad luck through no fault of their own. And that “tale” part seems to grow every time the story is told.

Only in cycling the “fish” may be the weather, other riders, miraculous feats of cycling ability or excuses proffered like a secret confessions. The “tale” is what happens next. While I cool down behind the pack on my way to the car, I overhear snippets of conversation that go something like this:

“I couldn’t believe those guys! Nobody would pull so I ended up doing all the work the whole time even though I was cramping.”

“We were cranking and we passed those guys like they were going backward, it was crazy fast.”

“We held 30 mph for seven hours in a gale force headwind.”

“The only reason I didn’t win the sprint was (fill in the blank with “I’ve been sick with Avian Flu,” “I did five hours of intervals yesterday,” or “I haven’t been on my bike for six years.”)

The list, dear readers, is as endless as it is creative. The first time I ever hung at the back of “the big sprint” of a group ride I remember seeing a bunch of weaving and bobbing and some small to moderate speed surges. But I’d hung on at the back just long enough to know it was nothing superhuman. I mean, I was there wasn’t I? I saw it.

So imagine my surprise when the usual bragging started. It sounded eerily similar to the stuff I overheard every week. You would have thought the Tour de France was small potatoes compared to the miracle I’d apparently missed. Weren’t these the same guys I’d just seen bobbing about?

All I could think was, “huh?”

But I didn’t say a word.

Eventually, after several months of hanging tough at the back of the pack, I started being noticed. One of the most memorable moments was when a “big dog” came up alongside me after the sprint and said, “Hey, guy.”

I think I smiled all the way home.

Another cyclist, a serious commuter, dubbed me “The Truckster” after explaining that “keep on trucking” was a good thing. I’d never considered trucks objects of grace or beauty. No matter, it remains my unofficial moniker.

And that’s how it happens, folks. Fish tales have that way of sneaking up on you. At first you don’t know any better and you believe them. You are humbled and intimidated. Then you start having suspicions, and eventually those suspicions turn into doubt that gets verified the first few times you find yourself in the thick of things that grow to interesting proportions in the recounting.

By then, it’s too late. You have entered the realm of cycling fish tales and after a few kind words and questionable monikers are thrown your way, you adapt. You ignore, you embrace and you might even join in.

Now I barely notice the snippets of conversation about exaggerated speeds, hurricane-force headwinds and miraculous surges to the finish line of an end-of-the-ride sprint. I’m too busy telling anyone who will listen how I’ll be motoring past those guys at some point during the ride, knee problems, lack of sleep and Avian Flu be damned. And I don’t even care if they hear me.