THE SECRET TRACK CYCLIST - THE PUBLIC GYM

At some point in every elite track cyclist’s career, logistics fail. The team gym is unavailable. The hotel gym is “under renovation”. Someone books the wrong venue. And suddenly, a professional woman sprinter finds herself training in a public gym on a Tuesday afternoon.

This is not ideal.

Public gyms have rules. Not written ones. Cultural ones.

The first rule is that nobody believes you are strong.

You walk in carrying lifting shoes, a belt, and the kind of calm focus that usually precedes violence against a barbell. This is ignored.

You load the bar carefully. Plates go on. Then more plates. Then clips.

Someone nearby notices.

He is wearing a vest. This is important.

“Just so you know,” he says, leaning slightly too close, “you really don’t need to go that heavy for warm-up.”

You smile politely. Smiling is a skill.

“Oh, this is just my first set,” you reply.

He nods, the way people nod when they are about to save someone from themselves.

“You want to make sure your form is right,” he continues. “Don't want to hurt yourself love!"”

You nod back. Everyone nods.

He explains squatting.

You have been squatting since before he discovered creatine.

He gestures vaguely at the rack.

“Also, it might be better to start with just the bar.”

You step under the bar.

The room changes.

You descend smoothly. Controlled. Below parallel. You stand back up like gravity has briefly lost interest.

You do it again.

And again.

He stops talking.

By rep three, phones are out.

At first, you pretend not to notice. Then you realise they are not texting. They are not scrolling. They are filming.

Quietly. Angled. Like this is a nature documentary.

You focus on the lift. That is easier than acknowledging you have become a mid-afternoon attraction.

You re-rack the bar.

“Nice,” someone says, from a safe distance.

The man in the vest has retreated. He is now very focused on his phone. Or his soul. It is hard to tell.

You add weight.

This is where things get awkward.

The next set is heavier than his max. Not by a little. By enough that the maths becomes uncomfortable.

You squat it anyway. Clean. Calm. Like it is part of your job.

Because it is.

After the set, as you start unloading plates, someone approaches.

“So… what are you training for?” he asks.

You tell him.

“That’s cool,” he says. “Could I get your number maybe?”

You pause.

You are sweaty. Chalky. Wearing a belt. Surrounded by phones pointed suspiciously in your direction.

“No thanks,” you reply, politely, efficiently, professionally.

He looks surprised. This is not your problem.

You finish your session. You wipe the bar. You leave the area.

As you walk out, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Strong. Focused. Entirely unimpressed.

Because this was never about proving anything.

It was just another session, in another compromised environment, before going back to doing your actual job properly.

And somewhere behind you, a video is already being shown to someone’s mates, captioned with something unhelpful.

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.