Was my Training Sufficient?

By Catherine Canzani

“What are your plans for your training today?” I ask my husband as I walk into his quaint but well-equipped bike shop, which just so happens to be situated in our back yard. He finishes his wheel-straightening job, listening intently to hear if the rim is still touching his gauge. I wait. After four years of watching him do bike mechanics, I know he can’t hold a conversation while straightening a wheel. He finally takes the wheel off the rack. “I guess I’ll head out to Stowe today. I need to put in a really long ride to get ready for the Coupe des Ameriques.”

Stowe and back, I think to myself. That means he’ll be gone almost all day long. That also means that I’m in charge of the bike shop. It’s not that I mind supporting my husband in his training. I’m well aware that his training and racing are an integral part of his life. I also enjoy taking care of the bike shop, until someone comes along and asks me to change their tire, adjust their gears, or reposition them. It always throws a damper on things. I smile apologetically, and say, “Stephane isn’t here right now. He’s training, but he’ll be back later in the day. You can leave your bike with me.” But it’s not me they want to see. Seeing Stephane and talking bikes and training is part of the experience of coming to our bike shop.

The weeks leading up to the Coupe des Ameriques (2007 edition) go by quickly. Stephane has been out there in rain and shine, climbing Joy hill, scaling Mont Sutton, altitude 520, from bottom to top, four times in a row; doing ten repetitions of Des Églises hill – anything to be ready for race day.

Customers get wise to Stephane’s training schedule. It’s Saturday morning, and Stephane is on his usual group ride with the local gang. The business is dead quiet. The phone rings constantly, “Will Stephane be there this afternoon?” I smile to myself; he has such smart customers. A few do show up late in the morning, probably hoping that he is there and can take a look at their flat. One of them asks me, “Do you ride too?” I tell him that I do and I see the look of admiration in his eyes. I hate to break it to him, but I must. “I do ride, but nothing like Stephane. I just ride for fun.” The look of admiration is gone. I’m just a regular human being again. “There’s really only room for one racer in the family,” I explain. He grunts his understanding and tells me he’ll be back in the afternoon to see my husband.

Stéphane is wearing green jersey. Photo by Antoine Bécotte

The big day comes. He’s done his homework. He becomes quiet. I see him getting mentally prepared. The bike shop is swamped with panicked racers who need last minute adjustments on their bikes. He still manages to get ready. He’s done this race for eight years now. This is his race. He knows his strength is in the time trial and gets ready methodically. He snaps on his strange-looking aerodynamic helmet, flattens out his number, slides on his gloves, and hops on his high performance bike with disc wheels. He’s off.

I have high hopes when he pulls into the driveway 90 minutes later. There’s a big grin on his face. “I think I did great,” he says. “I don’t know my time, but I felt strong,” I leave him to his customers and team-mates to see what my children are up to in the house.

It’s not long after that I hear a howl of despair from outside. I run to the window and see Stephane huddled over a sheaf of papers with Denis Boulanger, race director. Oh no, I think, as I race outside. Stephane looks dumbfounded. “I missed third place by one second. I looked at the paper. It is even worse. He has missed second place by two seconds.

I can read my husband’s thoughts. “If I had just tried a little harder… If I had just put in a few more rides… If I had just been a little more prepared…” Do I think my husband worked hard enough and trained long enough? I can guarantee you that the unequivocal answer from me is YES.