15
Mar
Spun: Ascent Cycling Spin Class
Spun
By
Scotty Mac
“The trick, William
Potter, is not minding that it hurts.”
Potter, is not minding that it hurts.”
-T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of
Arabia
Arabia
“Ten-second roll-in!” I say to the crew, my eyes clocking every rider as they prepare to
retreat to their pain cave. Justine’s face is a resolute mask, eyes boring a hole in the opposite wall. Lane, our primary coach (he allows me to lead this section, I think to focus the group’s collective rage on me instead of him) shakes his head as if to clear it, hair flopping forward against his headband. Craig, stoic as always, gives almost no indication that he heard me, just the barest head nod, but I know as soon as the action starts he’ll be right there, redlined with the rest of us. Clay stares at a spot on the ground, three feet in front of his wheel, shaking his left wrist to adjust his band. A quick glance at my watch reveals the
countdown’s on. Five… four…
retreat to their pain cave. Justine’s face is a resolute mask, eyes boring a hole in the opposite wall. Lane, our primary coach (he allows me to lead this section, I think to focus the group’s collective rage on me instead of him) shakes his head as if to clear it, hair flopping forward against his headband. Craig, stoic as always, gives almost no indication that he heard me, just the barest head nod, but I know as soon as the action starts he’ll be right there, redlined with the rest of us. Clay stares at a spot on the ground, three feet in front of his wheel, shaking his left wrist to adjust his band. A quick glance at my watch reveals the
countdown’s on. Five… four…
“Three…two… one… GET IT!!” I scream and as one we jump out of our saddles, pedal cadence surging from a barely turned-over 40rpm to a frantic 140rpm-plus in afterburner fashion, jets launched off the deck of an aircraft carrier. I clench my teeth and focus on the sprint, the rest of the class forgotten with the dedication to the effort. My watch tells me we are five seconds into this first phase, known as a ‘power start,’ with five seconds remaining until we hit phase two. My legs and lungs are in serious oxygen debt. It may as well be five minutes.
This is Ascent Cycling’s indoor training class. Welcome to the suck.
Meanwhile, halfway around the world…
If you haven’t watched the movie Seasons by The Collective, I highly recommend you beg, borrow or steal a copy of the film from one of your buddies. Make up a story, tell them you’re good for it, but do what you need to do to. It profiles a number of different riders
throughout their riding year and is fantastically edited with an eclectically great musical score. The movie leads with none other than Steve Peat, a world-class downhiller who has been on top of his game for the better part of two decades. What’s telling about this opening scene in Sheffield, England, is the first look we get at Peaty isn’t of him annihilating a rock garden on his Santa Cruz downhill bike, or boosting a tabletop, or even footage of him from a previous race. We see him on his stationary trainer, spinning like mad, plugged into his iPod and oblivious to the outside world. The takeaway is that there’s a serious behind-the-scenes effort riders of his caliber undertake before they are ready to compete at a high level. Later in the movie, Peat talks about his training regimen being essential for his success, leading up to a third place finish at the Mont St Anne World Cup downhill race. Training is important enough to him, to Steve Peat, multi-World Cup champion, that he mentions it multiple times in an hour-long movie.
throughout their riding year and is fantastically edited with an eclectically great musical score. The movie leads with none other than Steve Peat, a world-class downhiller who has been on top of his game for the better part of two decades. What’s telling about this opening scene in Sheffield, England, is the first look we get at Peaty isn’t of him annihilating a rock garden on his Santa Cruz downhill bike, or boosting a tabletop, or even footage of him from a previous race. We see him on his stationary trainer, spinning like mad, plugged into his iPod and oblivious to the outside world. The takeaway is that there’s a serious behind-the-scenes effort riders of his caliber undertake before they are ready to compete at a high level. Later in the movie, Peat talks about his training regimen being essential for his success, leading up to a third place finish at the Mont St Anne World Cup downhill race. Training is important enough to him, to Steve Peat, multi-World Cup champion, that he mentions it multiple times in an hour-long movie.
Very few of us will ever be mountain bikers at the highest level. That’s okay. If you can manage a couple times a week to put in a concerted training workout during these nasty weather months, your spring and summer riding will take on a whole new level and the smile on your face will grow wider and wider.
“DOWN!” I yell, or I think I do, it might have come out as “DNNGH!” I’m not entirely
sure. I’m gassed from the standing sprint but I have to stick with it because the diabolical part of the power start interval is coming up. Sitting down, we stay in attack mode even as our cadence returns from the stratosphere, the gears on our bikes becoming known once more. 145rpm becomes 133… 127… 122. I’m ordering myself not to drop below 120,
and simultaneously pleading with my watch to tick off the seconds faster. Finally, blessedly, I see the magic number.
sure. I’m gassed from the standing sprint but I have to stick with it because the diabolical part of the power start interval is coming up. Sitting down, we stay in attack mode even as our cadence returns from the stratosphere, the gears on our bikes becoming known once more. 145rpm becomes 133… 127… 122. I’m ordering myself not to drop below 120,
and simultaneously pleading with my watch to tick off the seconds faster. Finally, blessedly, I see the magic number.
“DUMP!” I manage to gasp. Somebody call an ambulance, I sound like I’m dying. It’s
been 20 seconds since we started our sprint. We stop our legs from turning, all of us making unintelligible, desperately relieved noises. The flywheels of our trainers sound like a small contingent of World Cup soccer fans puffing on their vuvuzelas with all their might. Our
back wheels nearly come to a stop. Too soon, much too soon, we break our legs out of their reverie. We have four more power starts to knock out, coming as they do at the tail end of our 90 minute session. Our hearts pound out a staccato beat within our chests. Our lungs sear from the machine gun breaths we take. Our legs tense and shred, seemingly one pedal stroke away from disintegration. It damn well hurts.
been 20 seconds since we started our sprint. We stop our legs from turning, all of us making unintelligible, desperately relieved noises. The flywheels of our trainers sound like a small contingent of World Cup soccer fans puffing on their vuvuzelas with all their might. Our
back wheels nearly come to a stop. Too soon, much too soon, we break our legs out of their reverie. We have four more power starts to knock out, coming as they do at the tail end of our 90 minute session. Our hearts pound out a staccato beat within our chests. Our lungs sear from the machine gun breaths we take. Our legs tense and shred, seemingly one pedal stroke away from disintegration. It damn well hurts.
The trick…
Mac out.