“I’m Gone. I’m Dead”— My First Experience Bonking
If you followed this past summer’s Tour de France, you may have seen stage 17, where Tadej Pogačar seemed to finally crack. Pogačar crashed near the base of the brutal climb up the Col des Saises, and though he was able to catch up to the peloton, he was clearly struggling. Then Jonas Vingegaard did what Vingegaard does, and launched an attack putting 5 minutes between himself and Pogačar at the top of the summit.
Pogačar, one of the best cyclists in the world right now and a two-time Tour de France winner into the team radio: “I’m gone. I’m dead.” So, what happened? Did he burn himself out after so many brutal days of the Tour? Did Team Jumbo-Visma’s constant onslaught of attacks finally wear him down? Did Pogačar… bonk?
In post-stage interviews, when asked how he felt, Pogačar said he was trying to eat as much as possible to keep his energy levels up, but nothing was reaching his legs and he just felt empty, calling it, “One of the worst days of my life on the bike.”
In endurance sports the word “bonk” is regarded with dread. It’s more than just a bad day. It’s the depletion of glycogen access in your body. I’m not here to offer advice on how to avoid bonking. There are much more knowledgeable people for that. I’m just here to share about my first experience bonking. So sit back and enjoy this story of my misery…
The Check-in
In the hushed moments before dawn, a quiet anticipation hung over the sleepy streets surrounding Prospect Park. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the promise of a new day. I somehow managed to find a parking spot right by the entrance to the park, or at least three-quarters of a parking spot. By the time parallel parked with only two dozen rounds of inching forward and backward, the car clock read 4:43 AM. Check-in was scheduled to start at 5:00 AM, which meant I had a solid 15 minutes to take a nap. Of course, pre-race jitters decided that wouldn’t happen.
A few minutes before 5:00 AM, I groggily put on my cycling shoes and pulled my bike out of the trunk of the car. I rolled into the park in darkness looking for… well, anything and anyone. When I managed to find the check-in desk, the race organizers were still setting up. No one was thrilled with how chilly the nights had suddenly gotten.
The check-in was a arduously slow process. Being my first time riding at Prospect Park, I was eager to get in a warm-up lap around the park. When I finally got checked in and pinned my bib to my jersey, I hustled out to get that lap in. The sun was starting to break over the city’s skyline and a picturesque purple dawn reflected off the lake. I leisurely made my way around the park, paying no attention to the time. I had planned my morning well enough to know I could check in, take a warm-up lap, and get ready for the start with plenty of time to spare. Or so I thought.
Check-in had eaten away nearly all the time I had allotted for my warm-up lap, and my sleep-deprived brain hadn’t realized that. As I rounded the last bend and the starting line came into view, I could vaguely make out a dense pack of cyclists gathered for the race start. I heard the race director shouting instructions through a megaphone, going over the rules of the race. My stomach sank. I stole a quick glance at my watch and saw 5:58 AM. Two minutes until the race start time. I sprinted to the start line to join the very back of the pack, unzipped my jacket in a panic and threw it into some trees next to the road hoping that I would still be able to find it after the race ended. The race hadn’t even started yet, but my heart was already pounding. About two seconds after I arrived, the shout of the race director echoes through the air, “On my mark. Get set. Go!”
The Race
Whatever false hope I had given myself that the field would start at a gentle pace were immediately crushed. It was a race, after all. Fifty cyclist barreled over the start line. As we hurtled ourselves up the climb into the first bend, my heart was pounding and my legs were screaming. Somehow, I found myself toward the front of the pack, an ideal spot where I could draft behind the leaders but still be in a good position. The loud buzz of dozens of bikes shattered the silence of an otherwise serene but delicate sunrise as we made our way around the park. We rounded the last bend, heading downhill toward the start line to the sound of a small cheering crowd that had finally awoken after their morning coffee. One lap down. 3.4 miles. Six more laps to go.
As the angry hive of cyclists made our way around the park once more, the pack stayed very tight. Plowing our way down the road mere inches away from cyclists on every side of me was more than nerve wracking. I was trying to stay calm and focused on staying on the wheel of the rider in front of me. Then it happened.
The Bonk
We flew by the start line for the start of the third lap and back into the main climb of the course. My eyes were still focused on that wheel in front of me, but it suddenly started getting further and further and I found myself at the back of the pack. My body complained that it had nothing left. My mind was panicking, trying to make sense of what was happening. “Shut up, legs!” But they ignored my pleas. “Harder! Let’s go!!” I screamed in my head. But the gap grew and grew. I was dropped.
The tank was empty. “It’s only the third lap. We’re not even half way through the race!” I tried to reason with myself. I crawled my way up the climb in utter disappointment. I could still see the rest of the pack in the distance. There was still a chance to catch up. But even the gradual descent that made up the remaining three-quarters of the lap became a burden. I was bonking.
My legs rebuked me. A lack of sleep and skipping breakfast were more than enough reason to be depleted of any energy. Having to sprint to the start line as the race started with no time to mentally recover or prepare all but guaranteed disaster. By the end of that lap, the rest of the pack was out of sight and I knew the gap was only growing. I was gone. I was dead.
For the remaining four laps of the race, I cycled alone just hoping the field wouldn’t come around and overlap me, fueled only by the fear of embarrassment of getting pulled out of the race by the race director in front of the crowd gathered at the start/finish line. Thankfully, he didn’t. An act of mercy. Or was it pity? I slogged past the finished line for the final time, not quite in last place, but not too far ahead of last place. After the race, the park bustled with life, no one aware of the devastating battle I had just lost. My data showed an average pace that dropped ~15% when that bonk ripped me apart. One of the worst days of my life on the bike, but lessons were learned. Time to get back to training…
