THE SECRET TRACK CYCLIST - NEVER ROOM WITH A SPRINTER

There should be a rule in elite track cycling that nobody ever rooms with a sprinter.

Not because they are difficult. Not because they are loud. Not even because they insist on turning the air conditioning down to arctic settings.

It is the protein.

Sprinters consume protein with a level of commitment usually reserved for religious practice. Shakes, bars, powders, liquids of uncertain origin. Everything comes in tubs the size of small buckets and smells faintly of vanilla, regret, and poor decision-making.

The problem is not the consumption. The problem is what happens later.

It always begins at night.

You are lying in bed, finally relaxed. The day is done. The racing is tomorrow. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of someone slamming a door somewhere down the corridor.

Then it happens.

There is no warning. No apology. No acknowledgement.

Just a sound that suggests something has gone very wrong at a molecular level.

Sprinters sleep deeply. This is a skill. They can recover through almost anything. Noise, light, emotional tension, and apparently their own internal combustion.

You, on the other hand, are awake.

The smell arrives in stages. First confusion. Then concern. Then a creeping realisation that the room is now fundamentally unsafe.

You consider opening a window. There is no window.

You consider turning the air conditioning up. It is already on its highest setting.

You briefly consider the ethics of leaving the room entirely and sleeping in the corridor.

By morning, the room smells like a mixture of protein powder, embrocation, and something you cannot quite identify but are fairly sure should not exist indoors.

The sprinter wakes up fresh.

"Great sleep," he says.

You nod, because lying is part of the sport.

Breakfast becomes a tactical operation. You watch him load his tray: eggs, omelette, yoghurt, three slices of toast, and another shake. Chocolate this time. He shakes it vigorously, right there at the table, as if daring the universe to intervene.

You say nothing.

You have learned that comments lead nowhere.

Later that evening, after racing, he returns triumphant.

"Coach wants me to keep the protein high."

Of course he does.

That night is worse.

You wake briefly, not from the sound, but from the smell. A slow, spreading presence. It has weight. It has intent.

You lie still, staring at the ceiling, questioning your life choices and wondering whether the team hotel has any single rooms available for people who value oxygen.

The sprinter does not stir.

In the morning, he stretches, checks his phone, and announces that his legs feel great.

You agree. They probably do.

Eventually, the trip ends. Bags are packed. The room is vacated. Housekeeping enters, unaware of what they are about to face.

You leave without looking back.

Weeks later, you will hear someone complain about rooming arrangements at a race.

You will smile, knowingly.

Because once you have survived a sprinter on protein, nothing else really prepares you for the realities of elite track cycling quite like it.

Secret Track Cyclist is an anonymous diary inspired by real-life experiences in elite track cycling. Each entry is written from the perspective of a different figure within the sport. Names, identities, and events are intentionally obscured to protect this week's author.