#cyclistsintoilets

An underused hashtag

By James Robertson

The long distance cyclist is most at home on their bike. When pedalling forward they appear efficient and controlled. It’s when they stop you find out how they are really feeling: and it is in the bathroom of a hotel or restaurant that you can watch them unravel. At least that is my excuse for following riders into the toilet.

James Robertson

The final control point of the Transcontinental Race is always one of my favourites. Riders have gone feral and the routine of ride, eat and sleep is firmly embedded as the new normal. As I photographed Jenny Tough’s sleep deprived attempts to wash in a bathroom sink we began talking about an image I’d taken earlier in the race of Bjorn Lenhard in a similar situation at the first control point shortly before he scratched. Her story of habitual and normalised dirtbagging and the connection she felt to that image struck me as the perfect accompaniment to my selection of my images of #cyclistsintoilets.

Jenny Tough

jennytough.com

It’s just past midnight, or something like that, on the top of a hill in a disused and slightly cryptic parking lot in Bulgaria. I’m standing in the middle of the lot, wearing nothing but my sports bra and heart rate monitor, taking a brief look at the lightning storm happening just a few kilometres away, before diving into my bivy that I’ve rolled out neatly between the lines of this strangely forgotten parking lot. All of this feels very normal to me. Just a regular woman going about her regular bedtime routine… right?

Let me explain my choices:

It’s just past midnight because I’m riding the TCR, and that’s the sleep schedule I’ve set for myself. I’ve finished my day of riding, and plan to kip here for three solid hours before descending this hill and putting in another hopefully big day, and - fingers crossed - arrive at CP2.
I’m on the top of the hill because the mosquitoes are bad at night in Bulgaria, and with minimal sleeping kit, my nearly-naked body is completely lain to their mercy. High on the hill, in the wind (which is of course strongest in the middle of a paved lot, away from the trees), the mozzies are just about bearable.
I’m wearing only my heart rate monitor and sports bra because, frankly, I can’t see why I would remove them to sleep - they both take too long to get on and off, and I’m only here for a few hours. My bib shorts, on the other hand, need to be far, far away from me for these precious three hours so I can air out (yes, that is a little crude, but you’ve clicked on a link for #cyclistsintoilets - what did you expect?).

This pyjama set makes sense to me. Standing in the wind after a sweaty day in Bulgaria’s August feels remarkable, and I’m 65% confident no one can see me. I hope this explanation has helped.

I wriggle into my sleeping bag, plugging in devices to my cache battery next to me and manoeuvring my saddle pack that doubles as a pillow underneath my head. Having just stopped my bike, I’m still buzzing and need a few breaths to calm my mind and get to sleep. I take a brief gander at my phone, to see how everyone got on in Day 3 of the Transcontinental. At the top of my feed is an update from friend and sometimes-too-dedicated photographer James, and this photo catches my eye more than any of his previous work: none other than race favourite and personal hero, Bjorn Lenhard himself, in a slightly curious pose by the sinks at CP2 wearing nothing but his shoes, helmet, and - yes - heart rate monitor. (See… No one takes them off during the race!) Ass out. Enjoying a sink bath, which is a few steps fancier than my wash tonight, which was simply standing in the windy parking lot for a full minute, as if the air will blow off the sweat, sunscreen, and road grime just a little (I’m serious about this, by the way).

I am asleep in seconds, drifting off with a smile over the shared experience of HRM style points with Bjorn and the other riders that are currently dotted across Bulgaria and Serbia, either riding through the night, bivvying in other obscure parking lots and goodnessknownswhat, or, bless them, tucked up in a hotel in the valley below (a quick dotwatcher scan tells me the bulk of them are, hiding from the thunderstorm that is going to enforce my short sleep as it sweeps towards us in the next couple of hours). All of us, chasing or simply hanging on to Bjorn’s lead across Europe. All of us losing all sense of social decency in our ablutions routines as we go.

I’m nowhere near the level of Bjorn, but that’s the beauty of this challenge. While we’re all spreading out quickly across Eastern Europe, all ~400 riders will go through the same levels of dirtbag, exhaustion, questionable sleeping choices and, most importantly, will all learn fast to always look over their shoulders when in a checkpoint toilet. Because James will be there. Silent as a mouse and creatively angled, he captures all.

For a brief moment I feel lucky - or something like it - that I’m in the middle of the pack and therefore safe from my nearly-nude parking lot style being captured for eternal insta fame by the official race photographer. (He gets me later on in the race, but I kept my shorts on… I’m a lady, thank you.). Although I am (still 65% sure…) alone in this parking lot, James’ photos remind me that I’m really not alone at all.