Three weeks ago I stood on the start line of a 2000km ultra race which would trace the circumference of the Netherlands, taking in its highest point, its hilliest corner, and a national park in the middle. I’d entered it last autumn, thinking it would be a not-too-challenging training race before a longer ride planned for the summer. Don’t get me wrong, 2000km is a huge challenge, but it felt relatively straightforward in racing terms, with lots of bike paths; never too far from food/water/shelter; and very easy to hop on a train if it all went horribly wrong.
In contrast to what I usually feel when starting a race - nervousness, excitement, a healthy bit of fear - I felt really flat. I had done less training on the bike than I would have liked, and had barely looked at the route. On the morning of the race, some bloke who I had never met before, helpfully told me that he had been stalking me on Strava (his words) and was surprised at how little time I had been spending on the bike. Jesus. I felt like punching him in the face, but after suggesting he avoid a career in motivational speaking, I slunk off to “check my bike”. His comment was really upsetting, especially as he had unwittingly struck a chord. It stayed with me throughout the race.
Day one went surprisingly well. I kept up a strong pace – faster than I had hoped – and had some cheery, time-passing chats with other riders along the way. But I was still curiously lacking in verve. And, probably stating the blindingly obvious, it’s pretty hard to spend 16 hours on a bike, day after day, when you’re not feeling motivated.
Feeling flat on the bike - credit: Berry van den Brink
The second day was long (280 kilometres), cold and wet. A rear wheel puncture late in the day had me cursing as I stooped grumpily with muddied hands, trying to re-seat a stubborn tyre. I was on a village green and could see silhouettes in the houses around me - people enjoying a bank-holiday weekend. Inside. Warm. Dry.
What on earth was I doing? And more importantly, WHY was I doing it?
The next day took me up to the most northerly point. Other riders (lots of locals) had told me there was nothing to see for 150kms except sheep and that you just have to get your head down and get through it.
I was dreading it.
But the day started well. A deer ran alongside me, bobbing in and out of the morning mist. Lapwings swooped in pairs, their beeps and chirps more like submarine sonar than bird calls. It was freezing, my sores were screaming, and my toes were numb. But it was also serene, private, and totally mesmerising.
As I reached the coast, I stopped in a café and downed two hot chocolates followed by a cheese toastie. Comfort food and calories - the cornerstones of any successful pitstop. The next 100k would be nothing but grass and sheep after all.
Sheep cleverly obeying the Green Cross Code
As the bike rumbled across the first of what felt like a hundred cattle grids, and into the Dutch hinterlands, I saw the sheep. Thousands of them. And I will probably be scraping sheep shit off my bike for the next twenty years. But there were also birds everywhere – many with young broods – unperturbed as I cruised past. Ducks, geese, gulls, oystercatchers and the far-off sounds of curlew on the wing. If you don’t know their call, look it up. It’s wonderfully evocative of tides and shores. In fact, that morning’s avian soundtrack was so complete that I didn’t reach for my own music all day.
I saw murmurations high out over the North sea, birds of prey diving towards salty marshes, and a coastline so wild and empty, that I could have been its first ever visitor.
As I neared the final cattle grid, a distant figure was hunched in the track. The race organisers put photographers around the course, so I stopped for a quick chat and allowed my enthusiasm for what I had just experienced to bubble over. Michael, the race organiser, was clearly delighted that I’d enjoyed this section – it was one of his favourite bits too. He then said something which turned out to be pivotal:
Wait for the dunes – they’re even better.
Day 1 in Hoge Veluwe National Park. Credit Berry van den Brink
Much as I had loved that morning, there was another 18 hours of riding between me and the dunes. Those hours were extremely challenging; a whole day of strong headwind when I fantasised about throwing my bike onto the train at Amsterdam, or diverting to the shorter course, which would have still allowed me to finish by bike, but saved me 700 kilometres and 5000 metres of climbing.
There were also some moments of respite. At dusk, a hare ran onto the cycle path and coursed ahead of me. I tried to keep pace but quickly lost ground as it melted into the near-night gloom. At another moment, I turned a corner and saw the rude pinks and bold reds of tulips standing in soldier-straight ranks, like sentries guarding the Dutch coastline in the fading light.
Tulips on the North coast of The Netherlands
But my spirits were still low, and I kept coming back to the big question of why I was doing this.
As the hours passed, it dawned on me that – at least for me - there is no great why. I’m not especially keen on pushing myself to my limits, and I don’t revel in the pain or suffering of ultra racing. But these events bring me fitness, unfamiliar places, and a complete absorption in nature that daily life rarely allows.
When Michael told me that the dunes were “even better”, I focused on getting at least that far. That morning, I started early and as the sun rose, nightingales sang from the hedgerows.
It wasn’t a huge goal, but that promise, that hope that there was even more to see, that was enough to keep my momentum.
This isn’t just true of races. When I work with clients who are stuck or lacking motivation, we don’t look for a big goal or grand why. We decide what one small step they can take. Something tangible and achievable. And that is almost always enough to help them edge forward towards whatever they thought was out of reach.
At the start of this race I did not believe I would finish it. But sometimes you don’t need to believe that you can do something before you begin. You just need to start, and then find enough small things along the way that keep you moving towards where you’d like to end up.
A rider I’d met along the way greets me at the finish
What is the equivalent for you? What can you step towards, without knowing if you’ll be able to get to the end?
