Friday, July 30, 2010

You'd Be Surprised What You Can Live Through

With the Tennessee State Time Trial coming up this weekend, it is time for some more of my interview with Max Watzz's coach, the nefarious Angus MacKillimiquads.

RB: One of the reasons that Max started racing was because a number of people had said that he might be good at time-trials.

AM: Aye, that's another way of saying that yer squirrelly in a pack an' nobody wants to race with ye' 'ere you'll crash into 'em.

RB: (laughs) That's pretty funny.

AM: No. It's not.

RB: Ahem. Uh, yeah. Sorry. But, as I was saying, Max has been doing pretty well at the time trial this year. He's actually on top of the the points standing in Tennessee.

AM: Oh, really. Well, whoop-de-freakin' doo. How many of 'em has the idiot won, though, eh? I'll tell ye: None! If y'er fast, then ye win. He did nae win any of his time trials, and so he's nae fast.

RB: But he was second in one race and third in another ...

AM: As my sainted father, Lord rest his soul, used to say, "Ye don't win Silver ... ye lose Gold. An' if you lose Gold, you'll sleep an' eat with th' pigs, ye' little losin' bastard." A couple of years lyin' in mud an' fightin' with a 20-stone sow over slops will make a man out of ye', I kin promise ye' that!

RB: But Max is winning the points competition ...

AM: Ah, points be damned! That joost means that he's been to more races. Th' time trial is th' race of truth, ye fool. That means that th' man who wins a time trial is joost flat-out th' fastest man that was out there on th' course, on that day. There's no team-mate helpin' ye' out, no sittin' in to sprint at th' finish line ... it's joost you on yer bike against the fookin' clock. Ye' either win it 'er you lose it. Period.

RB: I get what your saying, but since Max has done well with two races then he's built up points ...

AM: If ye' say "points" again, I'll knock ye' in the head with one of me canes.

Uncomfortable silence

RB: Well, then. Moving on. How do you coach Max on a time trial?

AM: I've 'ad 'im doin' roughly the distance that he's been havin' to race for a couple of weeks before the race. Th' McMinnville race was about a three-mile climb, an' we figured that 12 minutes would win, so he was doin' 15-minute intervals. Memphis was 10 minutes on a flat course, an' Avery Trace was nine miles with some wee hills, so we focused on 20-25 minute efforts.

Th' state time trial this weekend, however, is 40 kilometers -- just under 25 miles for you Yanks. An hour should win it, but the little woos has nae done the test course yet in less than 1:05. I've 'ad 'im puttin' in max efforts for 1:10, so he should have a wee touch left in the tank at the end.

RB: Maximum efforts for over an hour sounds difficult. How do you gauge what a "maximum effort" is? By watts or heart rate?

AM: Watts are decent, but heart rate just shows what a woos ye' are. I go by puke.

RB: Excuse me? Did you say, "puke?"

AM: Aye. Puke. Vomit. Up-chuck. Regurgitation, for ye' nancy boys. Ye' know that yer working hard enough when ye' feel like yer goin' to toss yer cookies all over yer front wheel. Now, you do nae want to actually puke on th' front wheel, mind ye'. It's almost certain to interrupt yer pedallin' rhythm, it depletes yer energy stores, an' ye' get a face full of vomit when the wheel slews it back at ye'.

RB: I see.

AM: No, laddie, ye' won't. Trust me, vomit will smear yer glasses worse than mud. So, ye' have to stay right on th' edge of pukin' ... but don't puke. At least not until th' race is over. Ye' know you've really done yer best on a time trial when ye' can nae stop pedallin' when ye' cross the line, an' yer legs just kind of keep goin' round as ye crash into a tree or a spectator -- it's always fun to hit one of those poof photographers. When ye' finally taco th' front wheel and stop movin', ye' lay there twitchin' as all of yer muscles seize up in a total body cramp, an' ye' heave everythin' back to last week's Sunday dinner out on to th' pavement.

Aye ... that's a great feelin'. Ye' know then that you've really done yer best, an' if some other bastard manages to beat yer time then, you do nae mind it quite so much.

RB: Yeah, I get your point -- ow!

AM: Diddin' I warn ye' about that word?

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