Words Lester Perry
Images Sam Horgan
Each time I head out for a big mission, I’m trying to answer the question: “what else is possible?”; trying to redefine what I can do; and maybe even find a limit to what I can do.
Riding mountain bikes takes on myriad forms. For some, it’s an artistic expression, flowing through trails and jumps, interpreting features in their own way, translating them into a kind of moving work of art. For others, riding bikes is more about the physical feeling: muscles, heart rate, breathing, focus and exhaustion. Some would call it “Type 2 fun”.
My riding life has been expansive: I’ve flowed through jumps, interpreted trail features and chased the clock racing down hills. I still enjoy all aspects of riding but, these days, I’m drawn to bigger and bigger days on the pedals which ideally take in hours of translatable single track.
When I was younger, a three-hour ride seemed impossible but, over time one hour of riding stretched to one and a half, then two, eventually three, then five, then 12. It’s been an evolution over 30 years, and while I’m pushing to find the limits of what my body can do, the more hours I spend pedalling, the more I realise the limits of what I’m capable of are really in my head; mental not physical. It’s a kind of exposure therapy that’s helped me redefine what I’m able to achieve on the bike. Add a bit more time to each mission, more hours, more climbing, more hike-a-bike, a little more of everything. The more we’re exposed to adversity and challenge, the more we can adapt and overcome it.
Generally, when out for a big ‘endurance’ ride, it’s not the body which fails first, but the mind. The mind puts in place safety measures and boundaries to keep our physical self safe, telling us we can’t go further or do more in order to protect us. I’ve found a huge learning is the ability to distinguish between my brain telling me I’m simply uncomfortable, and it telling me I’m actually in trouble, in danger, or perhaps even injured. If I’m sure I’m just uncomfortable and there’s no real threat to my wellbeing, it’s a case of reframing the pain as just information. Information that yes, I’m uncomfortable, but I’m not actually in real danger. Success is about adapting to discomfort and overcoming it in order to keep pushing forward, ignoring the brain saying we can’t, or shouldn’t, be doing what we’re doing.
Big rides bring a big appetite, and food brings comfort when you’re out on the bike for many hours. Food not only provides fuel for our endeavours but helps the brain stay sharp and able to make good decisions. Even having the sharpness to know the difference between being uncomfortable and being at risk. A hunger bonk in the middle of nowhere can be the start of bad decisions and the slide to disaster.
The old saying, “suffering shared is suffering halved” is absolutely applicable here. A multi- day mission seems so much harder alone than when it’s shared with friends. Take the Kahurangi 600 ride I outline elsewhere in this issue; if I’d done that trip by myself, it would have felt like such a huge undertaking with much higher consequences if things went sideways. Sharing the trip with mates made it seem so much more approachable and achievable; much like most things in life.
Each time I head out for a big mission, I’m trying to answer the question: “what else is possible?”. Trying to redefine what I can do, and maybe even find a limit to what I can do. Obviously, it’s a balance between trying to go big and being underprepared, stupidly putting myself at risk, and stepping things up each time, exposing myself over time and taking things up a peg rather than just trying to ride headlong toward a limit to try and break through. That would likely find the limit, but end in tears.
Ultimately, I’m finding that big rides are more than just hours on the bike and kilometres under the tyres. They’ve become a practice in resilience, patience, and redefining what’s possible in other areas of life.
