The tyranny of completion

On riding without a headline

I did a big ride over the weekend, and I stopped about 40km from the finish.

I’ve decided to call this a success. Stopping was the only sensible thing to do, much as I wished it could be otherwise.

The superb images in this post are by Heather Wood

Of course, I spent a lot of time agonising over the decision – mostly in the fortnight leading up to the event, when it became increasingly obvious to me that my fatigue had returned. I’d been feeling fine for a couple of months, and had, yet again, begun to hope that all that long COVID stuff was finally behind me. But a few weeks ago I noticed a very specific flavour of tiredness creeping back in: the sinking sensation; the feeling of my body trying to cave in on itself; the struggle to keep my eyes focussed.

It wasn’t a full-blown relapse – more just a premonition. A faint noise carried on the wind. A goblin, rapping its fingers on the windowpane. Sometimes I couldn’t hear it at all, and I hoped it had gone away. I took a couple of extra rest days. Instead of runs, I went for long walks. I wondered, as I always do, if I was doing too little – or too much.

I really didn’t want to pull out of this weekend’s ride – partly because of professional obligation (it was organised by Rapha), but mostly because I really love a long day out on the bike, especially one where someone else has planned the route and bought the snacks. We’d be setting off from Manchester, and riding a loop around the Peak District that came quite close to Sheffield, where I live. I was looking forward to seeing familiar roads from a different angle, and tackling climbs in the west of the Peak with fresh legs – normally I’d have cycled over the hills from Sheffield to reach them, and so they’d feel harder.

As the weekend approached, I dithered over whether to pull out, or whether to pretend everything was OK and do the ride.

In the end I had to give myself a talking to. There were, I pointed out, only three possible options: