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Preparing for Pain:
Metaphysics for your Mental Game
Author: Adam Hodges Myerson
In a previous article I asked the question "why do you race?"
It was an exploration in motivation; as a coach it’s not just my
job to tell a rider what intervals to do each day or when to rest, but
also to help them find the inspiration to climb on the bike day in and
day out amidst the pressures of work, family, and the inevitable failures
that come during a season of racing. It helps that as an active racer
I struggle with the same issues as my clients, and spend a great deal
of time trying to solve these problems for myself.
In the course of this constant search, a good friend passed on a book
called "Sun and Steel" by Japanese novelist Yukio Mishima. In
it, he details his struggle with the material world and his attempt to
make sense of it through the process of rigorous weight training and swordplay.
His experiences and observations are well suited to the sport of cycling
and the world of suffering we subject ourselves to when we train and race.
One of Mishima’s primary questions is the nature of courage, and
how it’s intertwined with physical suffering and the simple sensation
of being alive. He argues that suffering as a rite of passage and proof
of courage has always been part of traditional cultures but has been all
but forgotten by modern society. Lost with that is the battle between
the body and mind that exists in courageous acts, as the clear, conscious
mind tries to overrule the physical body that "beats a steady retreat
into its function of self-defense" when faced with pain.
Bike racing, in its essence, is a competition to see who can suffer the
most and survive. During the week in training and recovery, and in a weekend
of racing, attacking, and counterattacking, we know it’s not always
the most talented or most prepared that wins. Often the one who manages
to combine the perfect mix of timing, tactics, and the ability to suffer
and persevere when the opportunity presents itself is the one that wins
the race. It’s the essence of suffering in bike racing that I find
the most compelling as a fan and participant, and what can move me to
tears when the winning attack is made in Paris-Roubaix, or I manage to
slip away for a win in the smallest of local races.
There is a dream state to suffering on the bike that we’re all familiar
with. You’re aware of the race, that it’s crunch time, perhaps,
and that the break is about to go. We often find ourselves in the clouds
at that point, struggling to make tactical choices while we’re at
or above our lactate thresholds for long periods, distracted by the pain,
sometimes convinced that it would be impossible to increase it voluntarily.
We repeatedly put our heads on the block and pull it away, faced with
crisis points of pain that are difficult to act against in order to put
in the winning attack or follow the decisive move, even when we see it
plainly in front of us.
The suffering we feel has physiological basis, of course. Without a formal
study or even an attempt to be scientific, it seems to me to be related
to our innate law of self-preservation. Your body wants to protect itself
against damage of any kind, and we know the more intense your work on
the bike becomes, the more damage you do to yourself on the cellular level.
The higher the intensity, the more the damage, and the more your body
creates a sensation of pain to encourage you to stop. Cramping muscles
are still one of the great mysteries of physiology, with no conclusive
explanations. Anecdotally, though, it’s a clear message from your
body that since you didn’t voluntary remove the stress you placed
on yourself by riding at high intensities for long periods, your body’s
going to take things into it’s own hands to make sure the stress
is removed. Anyone who’s raced or trained to the point of cramping
knows that it’s nearly impossible to continue to pedal through deep
muscle cramps.
To suffer, then, requires courage. To override your body’s instinct
for self-preservation, according to Mishima, is the core of that courage.
As an athlete, there’s a time to pay attention to pain, give it respect,
and back off to prevent serious injury. At the same time, competition
is the place we’re able to battle pain, and create tests and opportunities
for acts of courage. Are then race results a measurement of courage? On
one level, perhaps, as it shows who was able to play the game on every
level to perfection, including the surrender to suffering. But isn’t
it always the winner who seems to suffer the least? The one who is a level
above everyone else in the race, and is within his or her limits? Perhaps
it is the less prepared who are the most courageous, as they suffer the
most. It’s the riders who race every weekend with no hope of ever
winning that amaze and puzzle me, and earn my deepest respect. They suffer
the most with pain itself as their only clear reward for their effort.
To line up every weekend knowing that that’s what faces you; that’s
courage.
I enjoy training as much as I do racing. I enjoy being systematic and
scientific in the approach I take to my preparation, I like the meditative
aspect of my daily training rides, and I like the feeling of being fit.
But it’s the game we play on the bike, the races we do on the weekend,
that helps us play out the dynamics of the world at large on a small,
personal scale with no real repercussions. It lets us get closer to pain,
and closer to death, normally without experiencing any lasting consequences.
I am aware of the glaring exceptions to this rule (Nicole Reinhart, Fabio
Casertelli), but they themselves are the reminders that we are, in fact,
alive, and need to make the most of the authentic life we have. Without
the games, without the suffering, it would be simple to forget. That’s
the reward we get from racing and from suffering, far above and beyond
any trophies or prize money we might or might not win. It’s a reminder
that we are alive in this increasingly dead and uninspired world. And
that’s what keeps us coming back every weekend.
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