sport

Hitting big at any cost. Does anyone ever remember who came second? Always better to win than being first loser. I pursued a gold medal as if it were real gold. It meant more than anything to me to stand on that top step, not because I wanted to be rich, but because I had learned from my dad that whatever we do, it is about winning.

To me, winning makes all the sacrifice worth it. The path to success is gruelling and mean, so there’s always a price to pay. You have to compromise if you want gold to hang from your neck. Bigger goal tag means a higher price to pay. There aren’t any shortcuts to winning. The terms and conditions are simple and must be met: you have to work harder than anyone else.

Tyche demands honesty, not guile. She sees it all, won’t allow fools and cheaters. She knows that to achieve, you need the burning desire that winners will accept at any cost. If compromised, your pride is lost because results will never come. If bargained with, the contract is nullified, and a colossal mountain of guilt will haunt you for rest of your life. Success will be born from your own creation but watch the path you take as there’s a lot at stake. Walk the less travelled path to success, be different, take risks and trial the impossible. Push the limits, but most importantly, give it your very best on a daily basis. That is the straightforward formula to join the winners’ club.

My style of racing feels like meditation in motion and often releases a multitude of orchestral sounds like my pounding steps, snot rockets and heavy breathing. An elevated cadence driven by a dangerously raised heartbeat, lungs screaming, legs burning, head spinning, lactic acid brewing in the stomach, taste of blood in the mouth, teeth grinding, mind playing tricks and trying to slow the body down. I love it all. I never let my body tell me what to do. My mind is always boss. ‘Mind over body’ has always been my motto while racing. When I race hard, I go into a state of trance and become numb to the pain.

Racing hard is not for the faint-hearted. The effort has sometimes been so violent that my mouth filled with a sticky bile that resembled the energy gel I had just choked on. Sometimes my mouth was so dry and my jaw so locked up from pain that it stopped me from saying even one word. You also don’t take toilet stops when you want to win; you just release in your tri suit.

The pain in races sounds like a booming rhythmic drum to me, but the spectators only hear wet foot slaps and grunts. Racing hard means dealing with cramps so pronounced that they seize your entire body. Muscles so stiff that they feel torn. A back almost paralysed by the stabbing pain. Blisters so severe that the skin falls off your feet. When I get close to passing out, my cadence no longer matches my breathing rhythm and the technique drops as well. This makes me look like a malfunctioning marionette, and it is all but the harmonised concert you witness when the pros perform.

Cyclists in the peloton are like soldiers galloping across the battle fields of Flanders on their Flemish horses. They are our heroes and, like the Second World War where soldiers saved us from being taken over by Germans, they save our honour each weekend by squashing the opposition on two wheels.

Cycling races are like a battle. The front line is dangerous; you don’t want to be exposed on the bike either. The infantry if fighting on wheel, not on foot, and the front line is for domestiques who will sacrifice themselves for their captain. My favourite French race is called Hell of the North. Rough old cobbled paths stretch along the Belgian border and form part of the route. The French cobbles bring the Belgians out there in force.

The cyclists are manoeuvring through the trenches which reek of vile mud. The wind and the bitter cold bite their pistons and their fingers tips. They feel nervous. They grin and, at the same time, feel frightened of what will come next. In the peloton, they yell and point out the pot holes as if they were mines. They plough through the dust and venture deep into no-man’s-land in the middle of the bare potato fields. They are often blinded by the dust, the sweat and even the tears. They are left behind in their despair and in pure solitude if they lose the battalion or the bunch. Tyres are exploding like bombs. You can hear bullets flying past, but these are snot bullets propelled at high speed out of the ever-expanding nostrils gasping for air. For both soldiers and cyclists, the radio is communicating about the enemies’ whereabouts and positions. The cold is fought off with neoprene boots instead of army boots, their helmets are made of light polystyrene instead of heavy metals, and the team leaders drive a Skoda instead of a tank. The only things falling from the sky here are the drink bottles thrown by the riders to save some weight and the March showers, often releasing hail stones and tick snowflakes that will freeze you to the bone

Winning at all cost

King Sport