I’ve given up analysing the stages. Much like the low-ranking soldiers of the medieval era, I have become cannon fodder. I simply turn up and deal with the destruction as best I can, and Stage 4 was no exception.
The numbness
In my last post, I talked about the anxiousness and dread of lining up. That’s no longer the case, because you can’t feel anything when your legs are numb. I stare glassy-eyed as the countdown reaches zero, and only then am I flooded with panic, because now I actually have to turn the pedals.
Pain shoots through me like electricity, zapping my peripherals with a jolt of adrenaline as we push out. I’ll admit I was momentarily happy with the start of this one: a straight flat into a downhill. Naturally, the front of Category 6 took that as a personal challenge to drop the biggest watt bombs of the series. And like the night just before dawn, they were gone.
The real race
That’s fine, because the real race was never at the front. Sure, the heavy hitters were setting the pace, and why shouldn’t they? Qvickstrom, Rademacher, Ivanov, Montoya: quality racers, all of them. When you have that kind of engine, it isn’t just about completing the stage; there’s real strategy, tactics, and a specific pre-race structure involved, because the difference between them is often the finish, the placing, and the points on offer. Essentially, you can make choices. There’s a lot on the line for those few, and they’ve earned it.
But the real race, the unspoken one, the one that hides in a few live streams with 5 views, that aren’t broadcast with fancy graphics, was somewhere deep among the back markers, the second-half finishers. Using every ounce of experience and every scrap of motivation, not just to line up but to keep turning the pedals, not once, not twice, but three times up Dragon Fury. No fancy training plans, no coaches, no custom dietary requirements. Just Dads, sons, husbands, brothers-in-arms. Framed that way, the commitment takes on a whole different meaning.
Repaying Bjorn
On the first climb, I managed to repay some of my Stage 3 debt to Bjorn. We rode up Dragon Fury together with Oscar H, alternating turns and working to bag the first ascent. Even that early, my shoulders were hunched, and my head was dipping, never a good sign, but we made it to the top. I shouted encouragement to Bjorn, and although I knew he couldn’t hear me, I liked to think the positive vibes somehow translated through the app. Or that he’d at least catch it on the Twitch replay.
The Tim and Nathan show.
After that first ascent, I caught Tim Sharp, and it became the Tim and Nathan show for the rest of the race. We descended, ticked off lap 1, and suddenly there were only two laps left. Echoing the climb with Bjorn, Tim and I traded turns at the front as we headed back up. The climb was mercifully punctuated by a short, very short, flattish section about halfway, which I eyed hungrily every single time.
And that’s the real gold in events like this: the sense of camaraderie that emerges from shared suffering. We aren’t competing with each other, and we definitely aren’t enemies. (Simon is the exception, but you’ll need to read my Stage 2 recap to understand why. I joke, Simon. Mostly.) There’s something unique about these friendships, even the virtual, online kind, that form through suffering. An unspoken bond develops, and when I sit down and actually think about it, I think it comes from a place of honesty. There’s something to be said for experiencing something that pushes another person to a place where there’s no pretending, no excuses. You see the real person.
The finish
After the second and third descents, we found ourselves bearing down on the final few kilometres. The front had finished a while ago, the broadcast had packed up, the metaphorical lights had been turned off. Our race was still going, with our own places and finish still on the line.
With a kilometre left, I won’t lie: I was quietly thinking about putting the power down for one last kick. I knew there was nothing left in the tank, that I’d be calling on emergency reserves I didn’t actually have, but the would-be racer in me wanted something, even if it was just one more place at the tail end of a race everyone else had already gone home from. Turned out Tim wanted the same thing. We both kicked with 900m to go, and only one of us had the legs to keep the foot down. It wasn’t me.
The numbers
I crossed the line about 30 seconds behind Tim, who I suspect was quietly chuffed with that last effort (and if he wasn’t, he should have been). Congrats, sir. I finished 83rd, my best placing of the series so far, and I’m very proud of it.
Stage 5 brings 57km and 1,669m of elevation. I’ll wait for the numbness to return before I decide whether to line up. But something in me has already decided. I just need to accept it, and at some point, understand it.
Love your blog posts. And it’s even better sharing the experience. Keep up the good work, both on and off the bike
You write like we feel. keep it up!
I where on my own on stage 4. I felt totally empty the hole 3. round! and I could not get rid of the overheating for the rest of the day/night. so I was Scared for how it would go on stage 5 :)