I was bathed in sweat, my HR bouncing off its top limit. My lungs were bursting and my legs about to explode as I wrenched the handlebars left and right trying to get some more power through the pedals, which were creaking and groaning with complaint at the abuse they were getting. The focus of my entire being was on a number on the screen in front of me - a number that refused to rise above 200. Next to it, another number was constantly changing but so fast that you couldn't read it other than knowing it was "19" something to "2" something. Why was I burying myself so deep to influence these random sets of pixels on the screen? Power readout of course! Each month on the first Tuesday at the Breakaway Performance Centre, a group of cyclists measures their progress over the previous month. We hook up to the power test software and undergo a 20-minute test to establish our most recent FTP (Functional Threshold Power) - a figure which then dictates our training levels for the next month. Last month I got 206 watts, and this month after some serious training and effort, I was expecting - not hoping, expecting - 215 watts or thereabouts. As soon as the test started I could see this was going to be hard to achieve. I was producing somewhere in the range of 190-195. I decided that I could build, and finish stronger. At 5 minutes I wasn't feeling stronger, but I thought maybe once I established a proper rhythm I would build. At 10 minutes this wasn't happening and I considered that a brutal final 5 minutes could bring me back. This has long ceased to be a test of what my power output was; it was now a complete battle of wills between me and the pixels. I had to get above 206. As that ambition withered, it had to be - just had to be - above 200. The readout average was 195; the current power readout was wavering between the "19" something and "2" something. it was moving too quick to register exactly what it was at any one point, but obviously if I saw "19" something that was bad. If I was going to get 200 then the current reading had to always say "2" something, and the "something" had to be high to bring up the average. The average crept up, 1 by 1. 195, 196, 197, 198. I was running out of time. Those damned pixels weren't going to get the better of me; I dug in. Hard. 199. No time left. At the final few seconds, it ticked over to 200. I had retained a small level of pride, but essentially I was beat. A month's training, gone in a flash. Clearly, this backward step was an indicator of a serious decline, almost certainly a permanent condition from which I would never recover. I was devastated. How could this be? The month's training - wasted. I've gone down. My fellow test victims were variously pleased, elated, or satisfied with their results. I was on the floor - literally. Everybody could see how distraught I was, and offered different reasons for my result. Coach Dave was probably closest with the honest, if somewhat brutal, observation that "the more mature" athlete took longer to respond to a training effect. I know this; I'm spending as much effort holding back time as I am progressing my body! Coach Dave and I were to have a long session the following day analysing the test further. Maybe I was a bit tired from my recent training block, maybe my nutrition hadn't been as good as it should have been, maybe I was just having a bad day. Whatever, I resolved to tackle everything I could control, accept the results, and move on. The pixels won this time. Next month I'll be good and ready. they aren't going to beat me twice.
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