At first, my cycling world was the length of the gravel driveway. After I rode up and down it countless times and gained experience, my parents allowed me to move up to the sidewalk. While retired neighbors watched from their porches, I raced my friends along its stretch of concrete until we knew every crack, diversion and driveway. At the end of the summer day, the grey concrete was marked at either end with long, black skid marks. As the sun dipped behind the row of houses, parents hollered “dinner” and we had one last final sprint for the garage.

As I grew older, my limits were again extended. Our skills increased, we gained confidence, we raced around the block, stopped to check out anthills and garage sales. We were constantly discovering. We could escape into our own world where we had independence and freedom. On our bikes, there was a sense of liberty. Exploring the world broadened our horizons and developed our maturity.

The bike took me everywhere.

Our experiences weren’t unique but perhaps they were rare. Despite living in a large, diverse city, few of my classmates had seen much beyond our gentrified neighborhood. After class, I was riding through the suburbs and into the countryside.

The bike continues to take me to places I never imagined I would travel. And, even the local routes I ride evolve daily, never becoming mundane. Within the silence of a dormant forest in the winter to the electric buzz of a vibrant coastal town in the midsummer our senses are constantly engaged in a diversity of contrasting stimuli. The emotion I felt on a bike as a young boy hasn’t dissolved with maturity. It’s what keeps me riding. Continue Reading »

From the drop of the flag I felt right. After five days of racing at the Tour Med in southern France, my body was adapting to the effort after months of off-season training. Like a musician who has just joined an orchestra, my transition back into the group wasn’t immediately harmonious. On the last stage, I noticed a change in my physique had occurred: I had gone from rider to racer. In any transition there is a moment where the change is marked and noted before it is accepted and becomes familiar. I had found the rhythm of the race.

After two solid weeks of racing at the Tour Med and Volta ao Algarve in Portugal, the unique sensations racing had returned. My legs ached from the stress of the workload and the repeated attacks and accelerations. My lungs felt ripped from the rapid and fierce exchange of oxygen. The wheel in front, the finish line ahead and the surging speed of the peloton allow us, force us, to drive our bodies in ways we can’t simulate in training. The grimace of pain on a cyclist in a race is unique. We dig in, hold on, and push the pedals and the wind until we see tears, then stars.

The stimulation of a race is unparalleled in any training session. Races condition the body to produce the required power to attack up a climb or into the wind.
In February the peloton lacks the fluidity it will develop as the season gains momentum. Riders seem uncomfortable with the chaotic surges and lulls. Many overreact or take uncalculated risks.  Training alone or in small groups during the off season has dulled our skills in the peloton. Within the group there is a jittery nervousness as everybody is keen to prove themselves, eager to race and full of vigor after the off-season. The weight and fatigue of a season of racing has yet to set in.

We have returned to the routine of the nomadic cyclist. Suitcases are packed daily. Racing from town to town we live in a world of industrial park hotels, buffets, intermittent internet connections and long distance phone calls. In the evenings, we’ll walk around the car park to digest the feast, breath cleaner air, note the temperature, and talk about the past race and those ahead.  Before returning to our single beds in a shared room, we’ll tell stories from the race as the mechanics lock up the truck for the night. The days, which are broken down into a structured schedule, pass quickly. The gaps in the schedule are filled with moments of relaxation where we hope our bodies will recover: the bus ride to and from the race, the half hour after breakfast before we leave for the race, the massage, and the evening hours where we can converse before we doze off.

The mental adaptation to the race is instantaneous. Although we’ve been away from the environment for months we settle like schoolboys returning to class after summer break. I find my place in the peloton, where the chat takes place in over a dozen languages. After a lifetime at the races it is all familiar: the aroma of the embrocation on legs, pinning toxic smelling new race numbers to the jersey, the voice of the M.C. as he introduces the peloton to the spectators who hang over the barriers waiting for our arrival or departure. The surrounding environment is never constant but there are things in the peloton that haven’t changed in decades.

But the peloton’s approach to gaining fitness has changed. Twenty years ago riders would ease into the season, letting the fat gained through the off-season melt in the races, which were slow and controlled. Now, every team is eager to make an impact early so we arrive at the first race lean and in shape. The average speeds through the season remain constant. For those who haven’t trained properly through the off-season, there is no mercy. Every finish line counts.

This year we will each race roughly 90 days. We know our roles, strengths, skills and weaknesses. The routine is the same but in our constantly changing environment nothing else is static. On the bike, our lives are uniquely colored and never mundane.

Michael and Sean Yates (Directeur Sportif)

A friend, Jean Michel Dupé, has translated the book Le Métier. Below is an excerpt from the first chapter. Hopefully, the complete translation will be published soon.

The photos were taken by Camille McMillan.

Durant l’intersaison, nous nous renforçons au mental comme au physique, en sortant sous un temps froid pour rouler pendant des heures sous la pluie ou la neige. Dévolus au travail et à la poursuite de nos buts nous roulons sous des conditions qui gardent la plupart des gens chez eux. Dans les extrêmes, j’ai appris sur moi-même, et sur mes limites.

En hiver, je pédale sur un rythme stable tout en me hissant au delà des côtes avec ma surcharge pondérale. Il n’y a aucune urgence ; Je construis des fondations comme je le faisais adolescent dans le garage et sur les routes cernées de congères. «  Les kilomètres c’est comme  l’argent en banque » mon premier entraîneur m’aurait dit, « tu dois commencer la saison avec un gros compte que tu débiteras inévitablement à chaque course. »

Les kilomètres à rouler passent rapidement avec les amis à socialiser sur le vélo comme les travailleurs qui discutent tout en creusant les routes. Les repas d’hiver et les longues soirées avec force vins nous ralentissent sur le vélo, mais en attendant on a besoin de se vicier un peu pour échapper à la structure que nous endurerons bientôt. Un cycliste chérit les instants dont il dispose pour se relaxer, tellement ils sont rares au sein d’une saison chaotique. Nous savons cela, vient Mars où le travail exigera une focalisation sans failles.

Loin de Toronto, je vis et m’entraîne désormais à Gérone en Espagne. Conduit ici il y a presque dix ans par mes co-équipiers Américains, la petite ville Catalane est désormais mon domicile. Gérone s’est peuplée doucement de cyclistes professionnels étrangers qui furent attirés par cette ville pour sa proximité aux montagnes, son climat Méditerranéen, et son noyau grandissant de collègues d’entraînement. Rouler est plus facile avec des compagnons, particulièrement dans les mois déclinants de la saison ou lors de printemps humides : souffrir est plus facile lorsque vous êtes avec un ami. Continue Reading »

In thirteen years, the season of the professional cyclist has progressively become the cycle of my life. Years and months are broken down into a race program in which we plan goals, training, rest and time with our families and friends. Our year begins in November at the first team meetings and ends in late October as we cross the final finish line. As is custom with most team, Team Sky was together in January for the second training camp of our season. After a hard week of riding with my teammates, where we accumulated 35 hours of riding, my commitment is as it was over a decade ago. But, my perspective has changed as maturity has given me appreciation, experience and understanding, which have replaced a neopro’s angst.

Each morning at the training camp the team gathers around the mechanics and massage therapists who prepare our bikes, bottles and food for the day’s ride. As we zip up booties, strap up helmets and fill our pockets we chat about the route and the prescribed efforts. Inevitably we leave the hotel a few minutes after our planned departure as someone struggles to adjust his position or requires another layer of clothing. Without panic we wait and then roll away together in our small peloton. Continue Reading »

Surrounding Girona there are some fantastic climbs and descents. The views are magnificent from the local peaks as the Pyrenees tower to the north and the sea lies to the east. Between the two there are lush valleys, pastures and rolling hills. While out training the other day Dominique Rollin and I took some footage of the descent of Mare de Deu del Mont. At the summit of a climb there is a monastery, restaurant and radio towers. There are often hang-gliders jumping from the edge while hikers snap photos. The climb is roughly 30 km from Girona and towers over the town of Banyoles. Dominique Rollin rode for Cervelo last year and will ride for La Francaise des Jeux this season which is why he has a mix of clothing on. The song is Arcade Fire, No Cars Go.

At the end of December the team was back together again. In Mallorca, Spain, away from the snow that paralysed the UK and slowed Northern Europe, we were able to ride for what seemed to be the entire day. We left the hotel just after breakfast and returned as the sun was setting.  Our rides lasted between four and six hours  and we accumulated roughly 32 hours in the week long camp. Rain didn’t hold us back; together we pushed each other to persist and complete the day’s work. The atmosphere was relaxed. After meals we chatted around the table until the waiters urged us to move on so they could clean-up and get home. From the dining room we moved on to the chess board and lounge chairs. The ache in my legs from the distance ridden gave me a feeling of fulfillment while the day’s effort induced a schoolboy’s slumber.

My roommate, neopro and new Team Sky recruit Alex Dowsett, told me that after a few long rides  with the team he went from feeling like an alien to a teammate. The point of a training camp is not only to build the foundation of fitness but also to build the foundation of the team. As we log the hours and as the ride gets tough, the group becomes one.

Le Métier 2nd Edition is essentially unchanged from the 1st edition that sold out in three months, with just a few notable exceptions. The 2nd Edition is paperback and comes in slightly more compact dimensions, making this edition substantially less costly than the 1st ed. David Millar and Christian Vandevelde both pen forewords. There is a new finishing stroke with an afterword about his 2010 Tour de France experience with Team Sky. The book contains four chapters — Autumn, Winter, Spring, Summer — which map the slow crescendo of a pro’s season.

Le Métier can be purchased at Competitive Cyclist.

There was a knock on the bedroom door that woke me from an adolescent’s deep sleep. “Time to get up,” my mother said, as she placed a cup of tea and biscuits on the bedside table. The room remained dark after I rolled up the blind. It was still pitch black outside.  The click of the light switch blinded me and I plunged my head back into the pillow to allow my eyes more time to adjust.  At the end of the bed there was a duffle bag, still open but full with my racing kit. Studded cyclocross shoes sat beside the duffle. Polished and clean, they were ready for the race.

After a few sips of tea and a biscuit I pulled on my jeans and sweater. From my room, I could hear the clink of the plates and chatter of voices as my mother prepared breakfast. With cup and saucer in hand I made my way downstairs. Chris, my good friend, was in the kitchen chatting. Dressed in his cycling gear, his cheeks flush from the cold air and the ride across the city, he sipped on tea as my mother spooned out the porridge. My father came down. Still somewhat asleep, we ate quietly. Finished with breakfast, the frozen air bit my skin as I stepped outside to load up the van. Two other club mates, Mike and Joe, arrived sweaty and out of breath from racing to make it to the house by 6:45 a.m.

We piled the bikes along with stakes, arrows and tape to mark the course into the back of the van while my father scraped the frost from its windows. Ready to go, the engine started and the music was playing. The weight of the race could be felt behind the frosted windows. It was the same nervous atmosphere I still sense on the lavish team buses that now drive me to the ProTour races.  The goal, the assured suffering, the finish line, the odds for and against;  all create a tension which we share but rarely speak about.

Under the rising sun, we neared the expressway and the conversation picked up over Creedence Clearwater Revival blasting from the stereo.

As we pulled into the conservation area where the race would be held there was one other car waiting.  Seeing our van, Jim shut off his engine and with Lisa, his wife, began unloading the car. Wearing rain jackets and boots we began marking a course through the woods and across the fields. We came alive with the day. We conversed, joked and laughed as the circuit took shape. We marked out challenges that we would have to face. During the upcoming hour of racing, we would switch from being friends to rivals.

Cyclocross in Ontario during the ‘80s and ‘90s was a fringe sport. In the 1960s my father, who raced the cross in England, organized the first North American events. The community remained tight and small for several decades. Few had specific cross bikes. Most people rode in sneakers and used converted road bikes for the autumn events. The races lacked the competitive, elitist edge that pervaded the road scene. The cross community transcended the competitive. In the 90’s, when elitism drove a wedge between mountain bikers and road cyclists, cyclocross remained the event where we reunited.

The picture on the left is of my friend Chris Mathias (in the blue and white) followed by Jim Sciberas. Pic on the right is of Chris Mathias, Brian Pedersen (National CX Champion) and Gary Timmons (in red). Brian’s Dad Jorn is wearing the black hat.

The faces on the start line were familiar. We all knew our strengths and weaknesses. The “runners” would love the muddy unrideable bits and the steep hills while the “riders” would excel across the frozen farm fields. We each knew where we would push hard to hold on and where we might be able strike the blow to open a gap. Everyone, regardless of their ability, had rivals. The veterans and neophytes raced each other at the back of the group while the near-professionals, who might even race the European events we had only read about, sailed away and lapped everyone.

Groups of bundled-up parents and friends walked the course. Their cheers of encouragement created clouds of vapor in the cold air. The frigid air seared our lungs with the intense effort. It lasted an hour, thank god, and not a minute longer. We finished soaked with sweat. Our toes were frozen from the icy water crossings and the sticky, deep mud.

As others finished we cheered them on and then entered the warmth of the van to clean up and change. Riders mingled around the parking lot like a congregation after Sunday mass. The course tear down was easy as half of the peloton helped out. As we walked the course, taking down the arrows and rolling up the tape, we discussed where we might meet for lunch on the way back to the city. Someone always knew a good spot where we could warm up, eat and lengthen the race day by another hour or two.

As the sun set, we dozed in and out as my father drove. The tension of the race had been replaced by the elation of the endorphin surge every cyclist knows. We were content. The cassette tape spun in the deck, the music was loud, and all seemed right.

Fixed wheeled commuters are now ubiquitous in most major cities throughout Europe and North America. While in Barcelona last week, I watched as riders skidded, bounced and dragged their feet before eventually stopping at traffic lights. While most fought to control their bikes like cowboys on wild horses, some rode with the finesse of a ballet dancer. They flew with grace through the traffic and made the chaotic motion of the city seem momentarily elegant. Watching the riders and studying their bikes I thought back to my first real city bike– a bike my Dad aptly calls a “treader”.

The treader was the first bike project my Dad and I shared. When my mother worked late, we spent the evening down at my Dad’s shop building bikes and fiddling with my Dad’s old Lambretta scooters. The treader grew from a broken and bent Motobecane frame discarded by a customer after an accident. The shop was full of broken frames and bike parts. Up in the dusty frame shop, where every surface was thick with grime and metal filings, I learned to cut tubes, then braze, file, and sand them.  I was taught how to gauge the moment when the tubes were just hot enough for the brass to flow down into the seam. There was an aroma of burning flux, chemicals and grease. On the bench, among the tools and torches, sat our cups of tea, their handles dirty with fingerprints.

Slowly, we watched the bike take shape. Once finished, the frame and fork went to the paint booth. From a worn and grimy book of swatches, I chose an apple green (my favourite colour), and asked that it fade to darker shades around the frame’s lugs. Tony Beek, the painter at the shop, did a brilliant job. Perhaps it was too good for an 11-year-old schoolboy’s bike. On the top tube my name was hand painted in gold.

Onto the treader went mudguards, a generator and lights, CLB brake levers and Mafac Racer centre-pull brakes from France. I laced up the 650 B touring wheels and father made them true. The TA chainset was fitted, and then we riveted on the chain. By early spring I was flying to school on a custom, fixed wheel treader.

During the winter in Toronto, I was often the only boy riding to school daily, particularly when there was deep snow or icy, pouring rain. I loved riding and commuting but I was an oddball in a school of rowers and hockey players. I was also a bit shy and embarrassed to be seen on my bike. I was the only boy at school with tubular cement stains on his flannel pants from gluing on my training and race tubulars. But in the end my desire overwhelmed my social hesitation.  I rode a lot and everywhere.   Wearing a uniform of flannel grey pants, shirt and tie, and jacket, I would tear off to school, racing along Davisville Avenue and arriving just in time for class. Over time, the pressure on the pedals wore deep grooves into the sole of my leather shoes. I knew every corner, every bump to jump, and every short cut up a one-way street or an alley. I sprinted out of green stoplights and raced to avoid getting caught at a red.

While riding, my pant legs were folded tightly against my ankle with rubber bands to avoid getting snagged by the chain. Inevitably, they occasionally did get caught, making a mess of the pants. If I was lucky, the teeth of the chainring would shred little bits of fabric and stop there. But if the chain grabbed a sizeable piece of pant they would tear, get wrapped up in the drive and force me to a stop. Once I ripped every seam up one leg and half way down the other. The bottom of the leg looked like a dog had gnawed at it before it was dipped in grease. The pant seat was also torn, the zipper blown out. Thankfully, I was wearing a belt, which held onto what was left of the pants. With my stripped boxer shorts as the only thing truly covering me up and tatters of grey flannel blowing in the wind, I rode home as fast as I could with my nose to the stem in embarrassment (not a fun experience for a young boy).

Imagining she would be upset, I hid the pants from my Mom as soon as I was home. Obviously, she wasn’t. When she found them she laughed till she cried. The flannels and uniform are long gone but the frame still hangs from the ceiling in the workshop. There are bits of rust where the paint has been scratched.  Powell Peralta, Campagnolo Record and other stickers dating my youth cover different tubes. Like an old journal found in a pile of discarded books, the frame carries a few good stories and marks a period of a life.

A professional cyclist is rarely off of his bike in the off-season for more than a month.  Progressively, through the months of November and December I slowly ease back into the routine of training. With time, the distance and intensity of the rides increases. As the morning fog lifts with the chill of the damp night air, we meet at a café to plan a route over cortados and pastries. In the warmth of the café we linger and socialise. The races are months away, we know our fitness will come so for now we can simply enjoy the ride, the camaraderie and the environment.

Catalonia, and specifically Girona, is magnificent in the autumn and winter. The streets, which were once crowded with tourists through the summer are now spotted with locals who chat under the Christmas lights. The sun lies low in the sky creating long shadows and setting before the children arrive home from school.

We’ll ride for half of the day in a small group. There are no intervals pencilled into our programs or specific goals to meet. We rode as we did when we first started this sport ages ago. As David Millar wrote in the foreword to the update edition of the book, Le Métier,  “What was once the worst time of the year for me is now my favourite; Winter is now the time I enjoy most. During the Tour de France, Michael and I discussed how much we were looking forward to our December training rides. It’s then we get to meet in the morning and ride our bikes for fun, with an appreciation of our good fortune.”

Here are a few photos from a recent ride. Dominique Rollin is wearing the Cervelo clothing. Dom will ride for La Francaise des Jeux next season. Jordi Cantal, a local fireman, took many of the pictures and rides with us often. He knows the smallest roads and trails. And, he teaches me a little Catalan and Spanish as we ride.

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