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. If you want to be the next Secret Track Cyclist, contact us.
The elimination race is very simple. Every two laps, someone is out. There is a line. You cross it. If you are last, you leave. Simple. Except it is not.
Because there is always one rider who does not leave.
The bell goes. The bunch tightens. Everyone pretends they meant to be in the top five. Someone swings wide. Someone dives low. Someone loses concentration for half a second too long.
At some point, every track cyclist has to explain whereabouts to a normal person. This never goes well. Whereabouts, for those unfamiliar, is a simple system where you must tell the authorities where you will be, every day, months in advance, to prove you are not cheating. Simple.
There is a moment every track cyclist dreads. It happens after the travel, after the unpacking, after the sense that everything has gone surprisingly well. You arrive at the velodrome. You open the bag. Something is missing.
Nobody talks about toilets in track cycling. This is strange, because a surprising amount of elite performance is decided in places that smell like stale air, regret, and nappies. Race days follow a strict routine. Wake up. Eat. Warm-up. Stress. Repeat. And then, inevitably, the coffee hits.
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.
New kit day is supposed to be exciting. There is a presentation. A speech about innovation. Words like "performance fabric" and "next-generation materials". A reminder to thank the sponsor on social media. The box is handed out. You open it carefully. Fresh skinsuit. New colours. Everything sharp.
For all the technology in track cycling, there is one thing that has not evolved. The start. Carbon frames. Ceramic bearings. Wind tunnel tested skinsuits. Laser-timed gates. And then... a person.
Every now and then, elite track cycling collides with the real world. This usually happens in a GP surgery. The appointment is routine. A general health check. Nothing dramatic. You feel fine. The first thing they do is weigh you.
Communal hotel meals during track events are presented as a chance to recover together. This is optimistic. In reality, they are a live demonstration of geopolitics, logistics, and moral flexibility, played out over scrambled eggs...