Hold My Feet to the Fire - Apologies, not a "proper" Substack today.
I just want you lot to hold my feet to the fire.
Guess who went out on her bike on Sunday?
I can report from the trenches that it was absolutely horrific.
For those who don’t know, I used to live on a bike. If I wasn’t riding, I was cleaning it, upgrading it, or staring at bike nonsense on the internet. It was all about the bike. I was basically Lance Armstrong, just with less talent and significantly fewer performance enhancers.
I carried on competing well into my early 50s. By that point I’d already had a bit of a scare with my heart, my knee was starting to go with a torn meniscus, my lower back wasn’t thrilled either, and, if I’m being honest, I’d lost a bit of heart for it all.
Because once that little voice creeps in, the one that says careful, you’re done.
If you can’t go all in, what’s the point?
Anyway.
Four Substacks ago, I said a new mission would form.
That didn’t take long, did it?
Here it is:
I’m going to do one amateur race as Stevie.
170 kilometres.
July 4th.
And I’m going to write little updates as I train for it.
Now, before anyone says what the hell happened to you, there is a reason I’ve fallen off a cliff.
For the past while, I haven’t really been able to train at all. It’s just been one surgery after another. I’d get to the point where I was almost ready to ride again, maybe sneak in a couple of tiny indoor spins, and then straight back under the knife.
Rinse, repeat.
So this wasn’t just a gentle break.
This was a full stop.
But now, finally, I’m a few months out from the last surgery. The dust has settled. And for the first time in a long time, there’s a clear runway.
So… it’s time to start again.
Sunday was that start.
And it was a shock.
A big one.
This was my first ride back on the road since having my… let’s call it a major reconfiguration. And I can confirm that doing this without testosterone, five years older, and completely detrained is… humbling.
Deeply humbling.
In my head, I’m still the same cyclist. I’m looking at the bike computer thinking, that’s the speed. That’s what I should be doing.
Reality had other ideas.
I rolled out of the driveway like an excited puppy, sprinted up the little hill to the roundabout, full of confidence.
And then… oh dear.
The legs just fell off.
I headed towards Ballincollig because it’s flat and, in my mind, flat equals dignity. Five kilometres in and I’m already thinking, what on earth is this? Who is this person?
By the time I hit Cork city around 20 kilometres, I was absolutely dying.
And that was the moment it hit me.
This ride, which once upon a time would have been a warm-up… a gentle spin to the start line of something serious…
This was now the ride.
And it was killing me.
By the time I got home, I’m not joking, I was seeing stars.
But I did it.
And that’s the point.
Because here’s the slightly uncomfortable bit. I went back afterwards and looked at my old training logs from 2016, 2017, 2018.
They’re absurd.
Hours and hours of training. Then casually meeting someone and running a half marathon. Day off. Then 19 km the next day. Then 150 km on the bike at the weekend like it’s nothing.
It was obsessive. Completely obsessive.
And I don’t want to go back to that version of me.
But…
I do want one thing.
I want one medal that she won.
Not one that he won.
Just one.
After that, I’ll happily go back to my weights, my yoga, my slightly more balanced life.
But for now, this is the mission.
So this is me saying it out loud.
170 kilometres. July 4th.
And if I start slacking, I expect you to call me out.
Deal?
You go!