See you in April, Mark. We will be stronger. And you will still be the King.
His name is Mark. Officially, he is a 42-year-old regional sales manager with a VO2 max that suggests a clerical error in his birth certificate. Unofficially, he is the monarch of the asphalt, the sovereign of the suffering. For eleven months, he has endured our half-wheel attacks and our ill-timed surges. He has sat on the front into a headwind, spinning 110 rpm while the rest of us drafted in his wake, sipping from our bottles and negotiating the terms of our own surrender. He has been patient. He has been merciful. No more. See you in April, Mark
There is a specific, sacramental dread that descends upon the peloton in late October. The sun, once a generous benefactor, now flees the sky by 5:30 PM. The temperature hovers precisely where sweat meets shiver. And on this particular Tuesday, the air in the parking lot of the Daily Grind Coffee is thick not with humidity, but with the unspoken truth: the King is about to pull. His name is Mark
When he goes, he goes like a dispensation of justice. The wattage spikes not from 250 to 400, but from 250 to a number that cannot be displayed on a standard head unit without an error code. His pedal stroke is a piston; his back is a flat table of cruel intention. For the first thirty seconds, we cling to his wheel like drowning men to a life raft. Then the elastic stretches. First, the weekend warriors pop, their legs turning to balsa wood. Then the crit racers, who thought themselves fit, begin to gurgle and fade. Finally, only three remain: the Watt King, his faithful lieutenant (who will be dropped in precisely 47 seconds), and me, clinging to the ragged edge of my anaerobic capacity. For eleven months, he has endured our half-wheel
Then he does the unthinkable. He looks back. Not with malice. With pity . He taps his power meter. He shakes his head, almost sadly. And then he accelerates.
My computer reads 490 watts. I am breathing in the key of despair. My front wheel is exactly four inches from Mark’s rear tire. I look down at his cassette. He is in the 13-tooth sprocket. He is climbing a 6% grade in the 13-tooth sprocket. He is not a man; he is a Danish time-trial robot sent back in time to make me regret every rest day I have ever taken.