Karen Darke | Athlete | Speaker | Author

I’m cradled into my shiny new handbike. I wait, anxious – its taken a lot to get here.

“Thirty seconds to go” the race commisaire announces.
Poised on the start ramp, the Quebec sun too hot for tight lycra, let alone the dark jackets the officials are wearing. Just their appearance makes things feel serious, but it is the World Championships.

I watch the second hand tick, and sense the fun of cycling being crushed by the race, even though it hasn’t begun. It’s the pressure I’ve put on myself, my own need to do well, so that all the hours out training, all the hours away from other commitments, are made worthwhile.

The final countdown comes, beeping, 3, 2, 1, and then I pull the pedals with all the strength I can muster. The pain isn’t instant, but its straight into a climb and I feel the burn in my arms, wonder if I can last for 11.4km. The other women are behind me, starting at one minute intervals, chasing me down. I pedal my heart out, daring the sharp left bend at close to 30mph, barely letting up any power on the cranks.

Down hill, faster, ‘Can I go faster?’ I imagine a thermometer-like gauge that shows my effort. 90%. ‘Harder, you can go harder’ I tell myself, and I power on even more, daring the speed, surprised at how fast the speedo tells me I’m going, scared by the hum of air through the spokes by my ear, the throb of hard rubber over pitted tarmac.

It’s only the second time trial of my life, a race I always thought I’d hate. A sheer all out effort, for 10, 20, maybe 30 minutes, and its over almost before it’s begun. It’s too short to feel the pain, too short to think about anything other than pushing hard, nothing to measure yourself again except yourself, and that internal gauge.

When you’ve given it everything, it’s hard to believe anyone can go faster than you – but they do. I came in 4th, 15 seconds off the bronze, and beat myself up about the clumsy seconds lost along the way, and whether I could have pushed just that little bit harder. But that’s the name of the game. 

Why do I do this stuff?  Why does anyone want to put themselves against a clock, to measure themselves against other fellow human beings who are all great in their own different ways? Who cares who goes fastest anyway?!

The point is that it makes us, and it keeps us sane. There’s nothing like the sense of freedom that comes with a handbike – the wind through your hair, the roll of your wheels, the open road ahead, the horizon expanding with towns left behind. And racing just fuels you to push yourself like you never thought you could, until you feel superabled instead of disabled - and that’s a good feeling.

THANK YOU to Albion Mobility, Alloa, Scotland for helping me into my shiny new bike! Handbikes for sale through www.albionmobility.co.uk