As I continue this journey chronicled in my recent posts—starting with rediscovering the sheer resilience required to get back on the bike after a long time being away, then committing to a more sustainable revival of my cycling passion, and most recently, dissecting those past training mistakes that nearly derailed me for good—I’m now grappling with a deeper layer of my cycling psyche. It’s not just about building fitness or avoiding burnout; it’s about untangling the competitive drive that’s been woven into my identity since I first clipped in.
My recent posts have traced my physical rebuilding, from dusting off the bike and hitting the local hills for interval training to working with my coach on realistic training zones. But beneath the sweat and power numbers lies a deeper struggle: Will I ever get on my bike without the immediate itch to compete? I’m now turning inwards.
This reflection hits especially close to home when I revisit my wife’s university paper from over a decade ago, “Dangerous Games: Masculinity in Sports,” where she unpacked how cycling culture often amplifies hegemonic masculinity—through risk-taking, enduring pain, and that relentless need to prove oneself in the pack. Drawing from interviews with cyclists and literature like Synnott’s work on masculinity, she highlighted how men must “prove their masculinity… all of the time” (Synnott, 2009, p. 23). Amateur rider Mark captured this in casual rides: “Males want to be on top of the pack, such that even casual Sunday rides will include… a few episodes of sprinting… to show what the pecking order is.” Pro rider Tom Danielson’s vivid recount of crashes—”laying on the ground, seeing tons of bloody, injured bodies, hearing the screams… it felt like being at war” (VeloNews, December 2012, p. 6)—underscored the risk-taking “edgework” that defines the sport. Endurance was another pillar, with Tyler Hamilton boasting he’s “good at pain” (2012, p. 15), grinding his teeth to distract from the burn. And Adam, a 48-year-old businessman, nailed the essence: “More often than not winning will come down to who has the biggest balls going down the fast descents, who can work through the pain of the climbs and not show it.”
My wife contrasted this with her own “pain-free life” of yoga and Zumba, jokingly calling my Trek Madone my “mistress.” As the husband in question—a lawyer, father of six, grandfather, and former Chairman of a professional cycling team—I’ve embodied these traits, from conquering Haute Route events in the Alps and Rockies to winning the San Diego Gran Fondo. But now, in this comeback phase, I’m questioning if that relentless drive is sustainable or even necessary.
Competitiveness sneaks in everywhere for me. It wears many masks. In training, it might push me to sneak in that sixth brutal interval when my plan only calls for five, just to edge out my limits. On a group ride, it could manifest as gunning for the top of every hill or hammering a massive pull at the front that leaves everyone gasping. And in events? Well, it might mean clinging to the lead pack in a Gran Fondo, aiming for a win (or at the very least an age-group win).
I’ve only been back in the saddle for a month and that’s exactly the trap I fell into last week at my first cycling event I participate in in six years: trying to fake my way into success. It was a stark reminder that old habits die hard, especially when they’re tied to deeper cultural scripts like those my wife explored.
Let me break down what happened, building on the sustainable mindset I’ve been cultivating this summer. Last weekend I participated in the Tour of Victoria, an event I have had done twice before. The event started strong: I positioned myself in the front group right from the gun, holding on through those initial punchy climbs. But after about 20 minutes, the repeated short efforts drained me—I couldn’t recover fast enough, and I had to let them go.
Then came the error: I took a wrong turn, tacking on an extra 6.1 km and some frantic map-checking time. Once back on course, where riders from all distances merged, I latched onto faster wheels from the longer routes, but the rolling terrain proved too much. I ended up riding conservatively, drafting where I could and conserving energy on the final bumps. Analyzing the results later, it’s clear I had the positioning right at the start, but my body just isn’t there yet for those quick recoveries. Oh well—progress, not perfection, as I’ve been reminding myself in this comeback series.
Except… if not for that detour, I would’ve handily won my age group. And therein lies the rub. Why does that “what if” nag at me? In my heyday, I’d have aimed to win the whole damn thing, not just my category. But now, as I reflect in the spirit of learning from past overreaches, I’m questioning: Why can’t I just join a big group ride and soak in the joy of it all? My wife’s paper nails this tension—cycling’s emphasis on competition as a masculine rite, where backing off feels like weakness, and “getting chicked” or dropping back becomes a blow to the ego. I still can’t fully shake that; it’s like the sport’s DNA is coded for conquest.
As Drummond (2008) noted in her research, “as men age and seemingly have fewer avenues in which to affirm their masculinity, being with other men with similar goals… is crucial to emotional well-being” (p. 34). At my age, with family and career pulling me in directions far from the peloton, cycling has been my arena for that affirmation. From my 40s transformation—going from mediocre rider to podium regular, chairing a pro team, and tackling seven-day epics around the world—to the COVID shift to hiking in Vancouver, the sport has defined my resilience. But this comeback, sparked by that steep hike where I couldn’t keep up, is forcing a reevaluation. Is competitiveness fueling my return, or is it a barrier to true enjoyment?
Now, eyeing the RBC Gran Fondo Whistler in two weeks—an event I’ve registered for half a dozen times but never actually started—I’m at a crossroads. A few buddies are doing it, all planning to cruise from Vancouver to Whistler for the sheer fun of it. Weeks ago, I told one of them I couldn’t fathom just “riding for enjoyment”; I needed a competitive edge, a goal to chase. But after last weekend’s reality check, I know I’m not ready for any meaningful achievement. I might still do it, but if I decide to ride the event, I’ll feel the need to frame it as a long training ride to build my base for later events. It other words, I wouldn’t ride for enjoyment but to making me more competitive in the future.
Yet, why does it have to slot into a grand plan for fitness gains, comeback glory, and eventual wins? My wife’s insights from 2012 echo here: Cycling’s masculine undercurrents make non-competitive riding feel like a surrender, stripping away the validation that comes from dominating hills or packs. As I push forward in 2025, embracing resilience and growth without the burnout, maybe this is the next lesson—learning to ride for the wind in my face, not just the win. Will I get there? Stay tuned; this comeback is as much mental as it is physical.