Just sixty meters
EPISODE 1: “1016 meters”
He opens his eyes in the dark of the hotel room and the first thing he registers isn’t light or sound, but the air. The air has a different taste, thinner, as if someone had stripped weight from the molecules he breathes. The metallic taste of fatigue is still on his tongue, that bitter aftertaste of lactate and ambition known only to those who have pushed the body beyond its natural limits, past that threshold where oxygen becomes as precious as gold and every heartbeat is a negotiation with death.
It’s November 6, 1994. Or so he thinks. The hotel’s digital alarm clock reads 6:30 AM, the same red numbers he stared at for hours after his attempt, when the adrenaline wouldn’t let him sleep and the 55.291 kilometers he’d ridden hammered in his head like an obsessive mantra. But something is off in the familiar geometry of the hotel room. The light filtering through the blinds doesn’t have the damp gray of Bordeaux in November, doesn’t carry the smell of bare plane trees and wet asphalt he had breathed for days before the attempt.
He gets out of bed, muscles still hard from the previous evening’s madness—thighs still burning with accumulated lactic acid, calves tight like overwound violin strings, hands still curled into the shape of the Colnago’s handlebars. Every fiber of his body still carries the memory of that hour of perfect suffering, a mathematical balance between power and resistance that turned his biological engine into a machine of Swiss precision.
He walks toward the window, dragging his bare feet across the hotel’s rough carpet, and what he sees on the other side of the glass paralyzes him. There are no cobblestone streets of Bordeaux that he knows by heart, no bare plane trees of November with their branches like dark veins against the gray sky. Before him stretches a landscape that looks like it’s been ripped from a fever dream: a modern city surrounded by arid hills that disappear into the horizon, under a sky of such an intense blue it seems drawn. In the distance, on a sign that glows under a sun that shouldn’t exist in November, he can make out characters that seem to move as if alive before his tired eyes: “Konya’ya Hoş Geldiniz – Rakım: 1016 m”. The numbers hit him. He doesn’t understand a word on the sign, but for a cyclist, the ‘m’ after the numbers is a universal language, a physical revelation. One thousand and sixteen meters. The altitude every cyclist knows by heart because it’s written in physiology manuals as the threshold where the air starts to become an accomplice instead of an enemy.
“So that’s why it feels weird to breathe.”
His Colnago is there, leaning against the wall with the same studied nonchalance with which he left it the night before, though he doesn’t remember doing it. Time seems to have lost all meaning in this parallel dimension. The Columbus Oval CX steel frame shines with the same white light as always, those thin tubes he has learned to know millimeter by millimeter, every weld, every curve designed to cut the air with the efficiency of a blade. At least that’s what Ernesto used to say.
But something feels wrong, like when you wake up after getting too drunk to even remember being abducted by aliens. Maybe it happened. “The surgical precision of an alien operation,” he whispers to himself. Instead of the FIR lenticular wheels he used yesterday, those honest, heavy wheels that whistle through the air like bullets, there are two perfect discs of a matte black that absorbs light instead of reflecting it. The Princeton logo is written in white and red with a typographic elegance he has never seen before, letters that seem designed by the wind itself to not disturb the airflow. The wheels emanate a technical authority you can feel just by looking at them, as if they hold aerodynamic secrets that the technology he knows can only dream of.
Tony rubs his eyes, gets closer to the bike, and looks again: the drivetrain has been replaced with components that seem to have come from the near future of a mad engineer. The chain glows with a deep, matte black, treated with a substance that smells of advanced chemistry and industrial research. When he touches it, it slides through his fingers with an oily smoothness that has nothing to do with the mechanical lubricants he knows. It’s as if friction has been banished from the laws of physics, as if someone has rewritten the fundamental equations of mechanics with alien materials. The bottom bracket bearings are different, quieter. He lifts the rear wheel and spins the crank: it turns with a precision that borders on absolute silence. Gone is the characteristic metallic hiss of the steel bearings he has always associated with his bicycle. These new components seem to float in a dimension where friction is just a philosophical theory.
He glances back at the bed, checking to see if he’s alone. On the nightstand, next to a glass of water he doesn’t remember filling, is a black tablet. “…what the hell is this…” The screen lights up at the touch of his fingers, still calloused from the handlebars, displaying screens full of technical data, graphs, charts, numbers that hit him like a digital revelation.
The numbers never lie. Rominger has always known this, ever since he started competing and realized that cycling is basically mathematics applied to human suffering. Every pedal stroke is an equation, every lap a calculation, every record attempt a challenge to the fundamental laws of physics. On the tablet, the data scrolls with the implacable precision of a medical diagnosis:
Air Density – Bordeaux (0m asl, 20°C): 1.204 kg/m³
Air Density – Konya (1016m asl, 27°C): 1.085 kg/m³
Percentage reduction: -9.9%
Those numbers strike him like a physical revelation. Tony didn’t just want to attempt the hour record as a cyclist: he’s always had a visceral relationship with the mathematics of cycling. He knows that aerodynamic resistance follows the relentless formula F = 0.5 × ρ × v² × CdA, where each symbol represents a battle against the fundamental laws of the universe. ρ, rho to its friends, is the silent enemy, the air density you can’t see but that soaks up most of the power at those speeds. A 10% reduction in air density means a direct 10% reduction in aerodynamic drag. It’s linear, simple. “I’d read in the encyclopedia that riding on Mars I’d use a hundredth of the effort, or with my power I’d go a hundred times faster”… “a hundred times,” he repeats to himself. And at speeds over 50 km/h, where the air eats up 90% of the power produced by the human engine, that 10% isn’t just an improvement—it’s a revolution.
But the tablet shows much more. Comparative charts that look like they came from an advanced research lab. Tony starts swiping through it like a book, annoyed by the English but curious as a child:
COEFFICIENT OF ROLLING RESISTANCE (Crr):
Vittoria Pista CL (1994): 0.0035
Continental GP5000TT Clincher (2025): 0.0021
Percentage improvement: -40%
“Clinchers? On a wooden track? What kind of madman’s toy is this?”
DRIVETRAIN EFFICIENCY (η):
Traditional System (1994): 96.0% (loss: 4%)
Waxed Ceramic System + Ceramic Bearings (2025): 97.5% (loss: 2.5%)
COEFFICIENT OF AERODYNAMIC DRAG (CdA):
Bordeaux Setup (1994): 0.188 m²
Konya Setup (2025): 0.172 m²
Reduction: -0.016 m²
Each number tells a story of technological progress, of infinitesimal research on margins, of that philosophy of marginal gains that in 1994 is still science fiction. Rominger stares at the data and understands he is looking at the quantification of thirty years of human evolution, the translation of the species’ progress into pure mathematics.
Tony thinks about the numbers and is hit by a flash: “What the fuck does 2025 mean?”
He drops the tablet and goes back to the window. “Konya’ya Hoş Geldiniz – Rakım: 1016 m,” he repeats to himself. “One thousand sixteen”… it has nothing to do with the altitude and… 1994. “Yes, we’re in 1994, I’m in 1994.” He looks for a better idea than screaming and decides to get dressed and go out. He’d seen an American movie a few weeks earlier, a movie about a groundhog’s holiday and people trapped in time. Time, the very thing he wanted to challenge, is taking its cruel revenge.
Hanging on the coat rack is a skinsuit that looks like it came from NASA’s secret labs. The fabric isn’t the simple Lycra he knows, that synthetic second skin that in the 90s represents the peak of innovation in sportswear. This new suit has a strange, almost organic texture, as if every fiber was designed at a molecular level to cheat the air. The Alè brand is barely visible on the chest, printed with a technology that makes the logo seem like an integral part of the fabric. But underneath, in microscopic letters that require you to squint, it says “VorteQ Engineering – Wind Tunnel Optimized”. The suit has flat seams, looking like it was welded by a spaceship blacksmith, placed in strange, asymmetrical spots that don’t follow normal human anatomy but something more complex—the flow of air around the body in an aerodynamic position. When he touches it, the fabric reacts to the heat of his skin with an almost liquid fluidity. It’s no longer just a garment; it’s a surface designed to manipulate the air, to transform the body into a more efficient projectile. On his left wrist, almost hidden in the folds, is a small tag with technical data that looks like secret code: “Drag reduction: -8.7W @ 55km/h – Trip strips integrated – Boundary layer optimized”.
His helmet is gone. That helmet that at the time represented the cutting edge of aerodynamics but now, compared to this new object, looks like a helmet from World War I. This is a sculpture of the wind. “Looks like an egg,” he smiles. Every curve calculated to guide the air along precise trajectories. The surface is smooth, the visor large and mirrored. The shoes are different too. Instead of the simple road shoes he’s always used, there are black, foot-shaped booties with a fabric-like texture. They seem fused to the cleats, eliminating any discontinuity, any edge that could disturb the airflow. The shoe covers are integrated, no longer separate accessories but part of a single system designed to eliminate any turbulence around the feet.
A knock on the door jolts him. “Tony, it’s late, we have to go,” says a voice from outside with a thick British accent. He doesn’t recognize it, but as if he had read the instructions on the tablet, he pulls on the tracksuit sweatshirt and sneakers, puts the skinsuit, helmet, and shoes in a bag, and grabs the door handle. His legs, his legs don’t hurt. He turns back to the window one last time: “Konya’ya Hoş Geldiniz – Rakım: 1016 m”.
EPISODE 2: “59.940”
The drive to the velodrome is a journey through a city he doesn’t recognize, one that seems designed for speed. The roads are wider than in Bordeaux, the asphalt smoother, the air itself feels cleaner, less dense, more transparent. The cars are different, some he’s never seen, they look newer than a new car, and he’s never seen the people in the van before. But he knows he has to do it, or at least he knows he has no choice, like a guinea pig in a future laboratory where the science of sport has found its ideal dimension.
The Konya Velodrome is a cathedral of speed that defies every architectural parameter he knows. The 45.5-degree banked turns seem to challenge gravity itself, rising toward the sky like launch ramps for space rockets. The wood of the track is perfect, a mirrored surface reflecting the ceiling lights in hypnotic geometries. But what strikes Tony is the silence. In Bordeaux, the crowd created a wall of sound that carried him for the full 60 minutes, a human soundtrack of shouts, applause, and cheers mixed with the hiss of the wheels on the wood and the rhythmic sound of his own amplified breathing. Here, the thin air seems to absorb even the noise, creating a muffled acoustic dimension where every sound takes on a different meaning. The stands are completely empty, as if this velodrome was built outside the world he knows. There are no waving flags and chants like he remembers from Bordeaux. Here, the people bustling in the center of the track seem to think only of being part of a scientific experiment disguised as a sporting performance, a challenge to the laws of physics rather than a simple race against time.
“They’ve kidnapped me. I have to do what they say and that’s it. I’ll wake up,” he tells himself. “I’ll wake up in Bordeaux and all of this will disappear and…”
“Mr. Rominger, please,” says the gentle voice of a blonde girl dressed in blue, with a little white and a hint of red.
He changes slowly in the silence of the locker room, not remembering having entered it. Each thing he touches and wears is a technological novelty that progressively transforms him from a human being into a machine optimized for speed. The skinsuit clings to his body like a second skin, but a smarter one, more aware of aerodynamic dynamics. He can feel the difference in air resistance just by walking. The shoes merge with his feet like slippers in a perfect synthesis of biology and technology. The integrated shoe covers eliminate any discontinuity, turning the lower part of his legs into continuous aerodynamic surfaces. The helmet, when he puts it on, changes his perception of the space around his head. He no longer feels the air moving chaotically around his ears, but perceives orderly, controlled flows, guided by the shape of the helmet along precise trajectories.
He laughs.
He gets on his Colnago and immediately knows that everything has changed. It’s not just a matter of weight or position—no, it’s his bike, he recognizes it—but even the “clack” of the pedal cleat is different, alien, faster. He starts pedaling slowly, thinking to himself that he doesn’t know a single person in here, and as he marvels at how his pedal strokes transfer to the velodrome’s wood as if dissolved in a fluid as slippery as soap, he realizes he forgot to put on his helmet. He takes his hand off the handlebar, touches something smooth, a perfect surface, and sees his own eyes reflected in the large mirrored visor from the inside. “No, I have the helmet on too.”
He laughs to himself and starts to push a little.
Every pedal stroke, every watt he transmits to the pedals is translated into movement without loss, without compromise, without that underlying inefficiency he has always accepted as an inevitable part of mechanics, that mechanical honesty, “the best you can get,” as Ernesto always used to say. The black tires roll on the track as if they were made of the same substance as the wood, eliminating any vibration, any waste of energy not directly converted into speed. The waxed drivetrain responds with a fluidity that borders on absolute silence, as if friction has been banished from the fundamental laws of mechanics. But the most profound difference is in the air itself. At 1016 meters of altitude, with a density reduced by 10% compared to Bordeaux, every movement feels easier, more natural. It’s not that the effort has diminished—his biological engine still has to produce the same 468 watts—but it’s as if the universe has agreed to cooperate instead of resist.
At 5:00 PM sharp—the magic hour chosen for Bordeaux, when the sunset light creates that suspended atmosphere that seems made for records—he’s on the starting block, his rear wheel locked, his gaze fixed on the empty turn ahead. He keeps wondering why he’s here, why his legs don’t hurt, why everything is so different yet so damn familiar, and just as he’s about to get off the bike and scream, he hears a voice, muffled by the helmet… trois, deux, un…
He’s off.
The timing starts with the Swiss precision that has always defined him, but the numbers that begin to appear on the scoreboard defy any logic he knows.
Lap 3: 15”8 (56.7 km/h)
Impressive. Fluid and silent from the start. The speed is higher without him putting out more power. His body recognizes the effort perfectly—the same 468 watts he has learned to meter with surgical precision—but the response in terms of speed is different.
Lap 10: 15”6 (57.4 km/h)
The power equation is rewriting itself before his eyes in real time. The fundamental formula governing his performance is always the same:
P × η = (0.5 × ρ × v² × CdA) + (g × m × Crr × v)
But every variable has been changed, improved, optimized by thirty years of technological progress:
- P = 468W (biological constant, the only thing left from 1994)
- η = 0.975 (modern drivetrain efficiency vs 0.96 in 1994)
- ρ = 1.085 kg/m³ (air density at Konya vs 1.204 in Bordeaux)
- CdA = 0.172 m² (optimized aerodynamic coefficient vs 0.188 in 1994)
- Crr = 0.0021 (modern rolling resistance vs 0.0035 in 1994)
Each number represents a thirty-year time leap, the mathematical quantification of human progress applied to pure speed.
“Where the fuck am I,” Tony thinks as a voice yells at him. “Good, keep it steady!”
“Fifty-seven and I’m supposed to keep it steady?” Tony pedals and switches off his brain.
Midway through the attempt, Tony enters that psychological zone that all great athletes know: the moment when the body stops being an enemy to fight and becomes a perfect ally. But this time, there’s something different. It’s not just his organism that has reached perfect equilibrium; it’s the entire system—man, machine, environment—that has synchronized into a mechanical symphony.
Lap 25: 15″4 (58.1 km/h)
Lap 30: 15”2 (59.2 km/h)
The lap times stabilize at values that would have been unthinkable in Bordeaux. His body has found a sustainable rhythm, one it can maintain for a full hour without succumbing to lactate buildup. But that rhythm now corresponds to a speed nearly 3 km/h faster than the day before. The difference isn’t just mathematical; it’s existential. In Bordeaux, he fought against every component of the system—the dense air, the inefficient tires, the drivetrain friction, the resistance of the equipment. Here in Konya, every element is conspiring in his favor. The thin air offers less resistance, the modern tires roll as if on a lubricated surface, the waxed drivetrain turns every pedal stroke into pure, lossless speed. He is no longer a man pedaling against time and physics. He has become part of a perfect equation that is solving itself in real time.
Lap 40: 15”1 (59.5 km/h)
Lap 45: 14”9 (60.2 km/h)
“I’m doing sixty an hour. I don’t know where I am or who I’m with, but I’m holding a steady sixty an hour.”
The calculations race through his mind with the precision of a biological computer. So close to 60, that mythological number that represents the absolute psychological barrier, the speed no human has ever sustained for a full hour. In the last five laps, Rominger understands that he is experiencing something that goes beyond a personal record or a sporting performance. He is empirically demonstrating what technological progress means when applied with scientific precision to human performance. Every pedal stroke is a lesson in applied engineering, every breath a demonstration of how the environment can become an ally instead of an enemy. He looks at the huge digital timer in the center of the stands for three laps in a row, unable to grasp the numbers he’s reading: it shows distances that defy all previous experience.
He’s already ridden 55 kilometers. “It’s not going to end. I’m a guinea pig and this is a fucking experiment by that Italian. I’ll ride here until I die.” The thoughts fill his eyes with tears behind the mirrored visor as the bell rings for the final lap. The final calculation materializes before his eyes with the implacable precision of mathematics: 59,940 meters. 59 kilometers and 940 meters. By 60 meters—sixty meters—he has missed the barrier of 60 kilometers per hour sustained for an hour.
But those 60 meters contain a truth greater than the record itself. They contain the proof that his 55.291 from the day before wasn’t just speed—it was heroism against inefficiency, a victory of the human will over air and friction, the triumph of determination over the technological imperfections of his time.
Tony slows down, intending not to stop. They’ll sedate him for analysis, for experiments. He won’t be able to fight back; he doesn’t know the language of these people. He slows down so much that he stops pedaling and lets himself coast along the banked track, the silence of the velodrome broken only by the hiss of the Princeton wheels on the perfect Konya wood. No applause. His eyes meet a man in a blue tracksuit like the girl who had called him to the start. He looks for him, a look of victory in his eyes. “It’s sixty meters, after all, less than a quarter of a velodrome, one turn,” he repeats to himself inside the shiny helmet. The man in blue flips through pages on his tablet, consults his notes, shaking his head no. He says something to the blonde girl dressed like him. She nods, he shakes his head again and leaves Tony’s eyes waiting for a gaze that will never come.
No applause in the velodrome of perfection, only the muffled echo of mechanics already starting to disassemble the bikes. Tony remains seated at the end of the turn, at the end of those missing sixty meters, his legs straight and his back bent as if the helmet suddenly weighed a ton.
“59,940 is sixty an hour, it’s only sixty meters missing…”
Tony can’t find peace. His is a triumph beyond all logic, almost sixty kilometers in an hour. No one, not even Boardman in the era of Hyperbikes, not even the champion Filippo Ganna, had ever even imagined such a result.
Yesterday: 55.291 km with:
- CdA = 0.188 m²
- Crr = 0.0035
- η = 96%
- ρ = 1.204 kg/m³ (sea level, 20°C)
Today: 59.940 km with:
- CdA = 0.172 m² (wheels, skinsuit, helmet, crankset = 8.51%)
- Crr = 0.0021
- η = 97.5%
- ρ = 1.085 kg/m³ (1016m, 27°C)
The difference of 4,649 meters is not the sum of technological progress, method, and advanced engineering; it is the quantification of how extraordinary what he did in 1994 with primitive means truly was. Every extra kilometer in Konya represents an obstacle he overcame in Bordeaux with willpower alone. The final equation governing his future performance resolves into sixty meters of frustration or a few kilometers of deceit. Sixty meters separating the human from the superhuman, a few kilometers distinguishing the possible from the unreal.
“Clinchers,” he mumbles, watching the people in blue leaving the infield. “Maybe with tubulars… sixty meters…”
EPISODE 3: “Sciur Ernesto”
Charlie opens his eyes in a hotel room that stinks of Gauloises cigarettes and sweat. The smell is so intense, so characteristic of the ’90s, that it triggers an instant nostalgia for an era he never lived. On the nightstand, a glass of Bordeaux left by someone the night before tempts him like an alcoholic siren. The wine has that deep ruby color that only great French wines can achieve, and the aroma rising from the glass carries stories of centuries-old vineyards and family traditions passed down through generations. “Drink and forget,” the liquid seems to whisper.
“Where the fuck am I?”
On the nightstand is a copy of “Sud Ouest.” November 5, 1994, Bordeaux. The city of wine and impossible records.
He gets out of bed, ignoring the hypnotic call of the Bordeaux, and sees his HOPE bike propped against the wall with the same studied nonchalance with which he’s seen his bicycle a thousand times in hotels all over the world. But this HOPE is different. Instead of the ultra-modern carbon wheels he knows, it has FIR lenticulars with garish yellow decals—heavy, honest wheels with that glossy, convex surface that reflects light imperfectly, but sincerely. The drivetrain is primitive, the chain lubed with oils that smell of traditional mechanics, of workshops where mechanics still work with their hands more than with computers. There are no power meters, no computers analyzing every pedal stroke, no algorithms turning effort into data. Hanging on the coat rack is a simple Lycra skinsuit—that smooth, minimal texture that in the ’90s represents the peak of innovation in sportswear—and a Bell helmet that looks like a construction hard hat coupled with a submarine torpedo. But there’s something liberating in that simplicity, something that reminds him why he started riding a bike as a kid.
“No maniacal expectations here, no British Cycling analyzing your every breath, no performance metrics turning every heartbeat into a moral judgment.” The voice seems to come from the clock radio on the nightstand. Charlie touches it, but nothing happens, no signal. He turns the station dial but finds only silence.
“What a weird dream…”
Charlie has always had something stronger than wine in his blood, something that goes beyond escaping pressure: the pure curiosity for speed. Not speed as a number to be optimized, but speed as an existential experience, a direct dialogue with the fundamental laws of physics. He’s been an underdog since the KGF days, since the challenges against that same British Cycling of which he is now the flagbearer, since those nights in Derby with Dan, Jacob, Jonny, his brother Harry, and sometimes that crazy American with the mustache. A lot has happened since then; he came close to an Olympic gold. The challenge never weighed on him. He looks at the digital numbers on the clock radio, opens the newspaper, and reads that this evening, at 5 PM, Tony Rominger will attempt to break the hour record at the Bordeaux velodrome. He’s awake, and a drop of wine certainly won’t kill him. “Salut,” he says, smiling at himself in the mirror as he feels the clink of the glass against the glass in his fingers.
“It’s all real, fuck, it’s all real.”
At the Bordeaux velodrome, Charlie finds Michele Ferrari checking times with a mechanical Omega stopwatch, one of those jewels of Swiss watchmaking that measure time with the precision of atomic clocks but retain that human dimension, that tactility that digital timers have never had. Next to the track wall is a Colnago, identical to the one Rominger will use for his record. The Columbus steel frame gleams under the velodrome lights with that particular luster of noble metals, and every weld tells the story of artisans who build bicycles with their hands and experience rather than with computers.
“Doctor…” Charlie says, approaching Ferrari with the typical curiosity of someone catapulted into an era he only knows from history books.
“Charlie, we don’t have much time, get on the rollers.”
“Me?”
Ferrari looks around. “Who else? Tony Rominger?” he laughs to himself. “Come on, kid, get on that bike and warm up,” he says, nodding toward the white Colnago.
“On that one?” he says, looking at the Colnago.
“Kid, on that one, on another one, you choose, I don’t care. Just listen to me and follow the times.”
Charlie nods. That bike, so slender, so thin, in his mind it can’t fly at sixty an hour, but he’s never ridden a steel bike designed by Ernesto Colnago himself—not by a staff, not by an engineering company. “How beautiful,” he whispers.
Ferrari looks up from his stopwatch and smiles with a look that has seen a thousand champions rise and fall, that has witnessed impossible victories and unexpected defeats, that knows the deepest secrets of human performance applied to cycling. “In this sport, Charlie,” he says with that Italian cadence that turns every sentence into a lesson in applied philosophy, “giving it everything is the only strategy that makes sense. Everything else is compromise, and compromises don’t break records.”
Charlie nods seriously, approaches the Colnago, and touches it with the same reverence a violinist touches a Stradivarius. The steel frame has a weight and solidity that modern carbon bikes no longer possess. It’s not light like the frames he knows, but it has a structural sincerity, a mechanical clarity that you can feel just by laying your hands on it. He trusts it. He doesn’t know where or when he’ll wake up, but he trusts it.
Charlie gets on the Colnago and something magical happens, something that goes beyond mechanics and technology. Without pressure, without maniacal expectations, without the ruthless mathematics of performance metrics and wind tunnel numbers turning his every move into a number to be optimized, his body melts into a fluidity he hasn’t felt in years. He just pedals. It’s like being a kid again, when he rode with his brother for the pure pleasure of speed and not to satisfy performance algorithms or external expectations. The bike responds differently, more directly, less mediated by technology. Every input is translated into movement without passing through electronic filters or computerized analysis. The first warm-up laps are an existential revelation. The wooden track in Bordeaux has a slightly different texture from the ones he knows. Here, the wood still has natural imperfections, small variations that require the athlete to constantly adapt, to stay present and attentive to every curve. There are no digital screens showing instantaneous power, average speed, optimal cadence. There is only Ferrari’s mechanical stopwatch, the feeling of the air on his skin, the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the wood, the heartbeat that increases progressively as the body prepares for the effort.
There’s a short guy with a side part and a blue sweater in the velodrome. He was in the stands while Charlie warmed up; now he’s there chatting with the mechanic who’s tinkering with the spare bike. “Is the other frame in storage? The long one?”
“The blue one?” the mechanic replies.
“Blue, white, what do I know? To me, they’re all steel, and I wouldn’t even have them painted.”
“Go check in storage if the blue one is there,” the mechanic yells to a kid about to go downstairs with two wheels to glue. “Mr. Ernesto wants it.”
“It’s not for me, eh. It’s for the kid, that one who’s riding, he needs a longer one, he doesn’t look right on that one,” says the man in the blue V-neck wool vest. “He needs it longer, an hour is a long time.”
The kid returns with the blue bike on one shoulder, the wheels in his other hand held between his fingers, and tubulars in his mouth. “Ah, yes, this one,” as the kid places it next to the stand and the mechanic hurries to check the gears and mechanics. Charlie watches the scene as if in another dimension, smiling to himself. “Actually, I am in another dimension,” with his head tilted to one side like many track cyclists, looking at the blue bike, realizing he doesn’t notice any difference from the white one. He hears the man in the vest say, “Keep the chain looser, it runs smoother.” He doesn’t understand him, but from their glances, he feels they are taking care of him. One look to size him up, another to put him at ease. “He’s tall, he’s not Tony, eh!” while the mechanic fiddles with the extensions, pushing the screws to their limit. “There, that’s good. Kid, come and try it!” says Ernesto. Charlie doesn’t understand the language but finds his six-foot-three self already on his feet, walking towards the bike leaning against the railing.
“Try it.”
Charlie reacts to the sounds, not the words, but it feels natural to get on the bike and start pedaling on the rollers, with Ernesto watching him from a few meters away, arms crossed, legs planted wide as if preparing to face a rugby team’s attack.
“Now that’s beautiful,” he says as Charlie pushes his back down, realizing he can breathe well, that he feels good, that he doesn’t feel the pressure of the saddle. He lowers his face between his arms again and feels good, feels welcomed by that noisy heap of iron and tightened bolts. He closes his eyes and increases his cadence, head down, faster, faster, faster. Sweat starts to drip from his forehead, the first drop tinkling as it hits the roller, drowned out by the chatter of the crowd beginning to fill the stands.
EPISODE 4: “I’ll Beat You Piggy”
5 PM.
The first laps are a different kind of revelation than any he’s ever had on a bicycle: Charlie is rediscovering the purity of sensations unmediated by obsessive technology. Every pedal stroke is his, not the system’s. Every watt is expressed for the pleasure of speed and personal challenge, not to satisfy external expectations or preset engineering parameters. Besides, nothing and no one is counting those watts. Only speed decides. Distance over time. Nothing more. He doesn’t even remember starting. He hears the noise of the chain, the wheels howling in his helmet. He likes it.
“SIXTEEN-SIX.”
“SIXTEEN-FOUR.”
The numbers are different from what he expected, shouted like the pain he’s starting to feel in his legs. But he doesn’t have to read them on a screen; a person is screaming them at him while his head can only focus on the calculations: a man pushing mathematics beyond its theoretical limits. “Sixteen-three, sixteen-four—CdA of 0.188 m², Crr of 0.0035, drivetrain efficiency of 96%, air density of 1.204 kg/m³… I’m going fast. Maybe I won’t take Pippo’s record, but Dan…” Charlie smiles inside the funny, pointed helmet. He’s doing something modern physics says is almost impossible: he’s challenging a record from his own time using inferior technology. Or maybe just different.
But it’s not the technology that’s making the difference. It’s the absence of pressure, the elimination of that psychological weight that has turned his performance into a process of maniacal analysis rather than a pure expression of athletic talent.
Lap 20: 16”2 (55.6 km/h)
Ferrari observes the splits with the clinical eye of someone who has seen thousands of athletes push themselves beyond their limits, but there’s something different in the way Charlie is approaching this attempt. Charlie hears “sixteen-two,” loud, maybe too loud. He’s pedaling with a fluidity reminiscent of the great champions of the ’80s and ’90s, those who raced on instinct rather than algorithms, who listened to their bodies more than to computers. His position on the blue Colnago is natural, not forced by the extreme aerodynamic geometries that in 2025 turn cyclists into contortionists in service of numbers defined by engineers sitting on the other side of the glass in a wind tunnel.
“How do you feel?” Ferrari yells as he passes the twentieth lap.
“How do I feel? What kind of question is that,” Charlie asks himself inside the black Bell helmet. But actually, he feels good.
“Free,” Charlie answers, out of breath but with a smile Ferrari hasn’t seen on a cyclist in a long time. “I feel free.”
And it’s true. For the first time in years, Charlie is riding without the weight of external expectations, without the paranoia of marginal gains, without the reduction of the human being to a series of metrics that has defined his career in the British Cycling system. Here, there is only him, the bike, the track, and the stopwatch. It’s his challenge: no telemetry, no real-time analysis turning his every pedal stroke into a data point to be optimized. His power has never been the problem. His talent has never been in question. You don’t become an Olympic medalist with the legs of a good amateur, you don’t become a World Champion, you don’t remain a pillar of the British quartet for eight years without ever racing in the World Tour, you don’t win from 2018 to today (which today is it, anyway?) with a 300W FTP. And his mind goes back to that final against Ivo in Minsk, 4’12”. “What an adventure,” he smiles, pushing harder. What a victory with the guys, that final with his brother Jonny and Dan… “Fuck, I’m taking that record from you, Dan…”
Lap 30: 16”3 (55.3 km/h)
Midway through the attempt, Charlie has reached an average speed that in 2025, with all the modern technology, he struggled to maintain. But here, with a 1994 Colnago, heavy FIR wheels, primitive Vittoria tires, a simple Lycra skinsuit, and a Bell helmet that would look like a museum piece in the future, he is flying. It’s not magic; it’s psychology applied to physiology. His biological engine is the same—same heart, same lungs, same muscles. But his mind is different. Free, clear of all the mental superstructures the modern system has built around performance.
Every so often, Ferrari stops to observe Charlie with that clinical gaze he has perfected over decades of analyzing human performance. There’s something different in the way the Brit moves on the bike, a naturalness that contrasts with the mechanical tension of the modern hour specialists that no one in the Bordeaux velodrome has ever seen.
“He’s beautiful,” a lady in the audience says.
“He’s relaxed,” Ferrari murmurs to himself, making a mental note of a phenomenon he has often observed in the great champions of the past but which has become increasingly rare in the era of sports science pushed to its extreme.
The times continue to improve with a progression that defies all logic of modern physiology. The equation governing his performance is always the same:
P × η = (0.5 × ρ × v² × CdA) + (g × m × Crr × v)
But Charlie, by a twist of fate, has found himself not benefiting from the improvement of all the technological variables, and he is proving that the most important variable is the one that doesn’t appear in the formula: the human component, that mental dimension that transforms theoretical watts into real watts, that converts biological potential into actual performance. That piece no one saw, that man in the blue vest who took care of him, that mechanic who watched him with pride as he warmed up on the rollers. Those people, that complex spell devoid of the coldness of numbers, had shaped a result because they wanted it, they all wanted it for him, for that metal bike, for those wheels as heavy as stones. No one had calculated how many kilometers he could or should ride, but everyone in there was committed to that grand finale that every good movie deserves. The man who shapes his own performance, his own position on the bike, who “feels” the air and finds the stratagem to limit its cruelty. “Like Obree,” Charlie thinks to himself, “I have to come to terms with reality and give it everything.” The result, the number, the kilometers ridden in this hour of a time he doesn’t know will be a consequence, the consequence of moments designed together with his own body, with that noisy, almost invisible steel frame.
Charlie starts doing mental calculations: if he maintains this progression, if he can sustain this average for the remaining fifteen laps, he can approach 55 km/h, even surpass it. With an iron Colnago. “I’m beating you, Piggy, this time I’m beating you.” It’s impossible according to all the scientific parameters he knows. But it’s happening under his ass.
Ten minutes to go and Charlie is still accelerating. It’s not a physical acceleration—his body has long since reached the physiological plateau of sustainable power—but it’s a mental acceleration, a progressive release from every psychological reserve. The times continue to improve with a consistency that defies all the physiological knowledge he possesses. In theory, Charlie should be starting to pay the price of lactate accumulation, of neuromuscular fatigue, of the energy debt. Instead, he seems to be entering a different dimension, that state the great athletes call “the zone,” but which rarely manifests itself in such extreme conditions. Charlie has broken the 55 km/h average speed barrier. He knows he is matching performances that in the future require years of research on marginal gains, wind tunnels, computerized analysis of aerodynamic position, and thousands upon thousands of Euros of investment. But the most incredible thing isn’t the numbers—it’s his eyes. Ferrari, who has observed hundreds of record attempts, has learned to read in athletes’ eyes the moment they start to give in, when the will begins to negotiate with fatigue. In Charlie’s eyes, there’s no trace of that negotiation. There is only a serene, almost playful determination.
When the bell rings for the last lap, Charlie doesn’t know the distance he’s covered, and honestly, he realizes he doesn’t give a fuck. Dan’s record will probably stand, just barely, but he doesn’t mind having tried. “Dan is a friend. He’ll smile seeing that I didn’t beat him, and he’ll smile if I do beat him, but either way, we’ll have a beer together, just like we challenged and beat the giants together.”
Charlie realizes in that last infinite lap that he doesn’t need numbers to know he’s doing something special. He feels it in the way the air glides over his body, in the way the Colnago responds to his every pedal stroke, in the way the French crowd—usually so reserved—has started to shout encouragement.
Charlie slows down. The finish line is passed, there’s nothing left to beat now. The silence of the velodrome is broken only by the applause of the crowd and the sound of the FIR wheels rolling on the wood. He hasn’t broken any world records, he hasn’t rewritten the history books of cycling. But he has done something more important. He has given everything.
EPISODE 5: “Bald old Man”
He leaves the velodrome with a smile on his face, people patting him on the back and offering compliments in languages he doesn’t understand, his legs in pieces and his soul lighter than it has been in years. Bordeaux has a special charm in the evening, with the lights of the bistros starting to turn on and the smell of wine mixing with the cool November air.
Outside the velodrome, a bald man with kind eyes is waiting for him, a man with an air of having seen much in life, of knowing the deepest secrets of sport but also its most human dimension.
“Eh,” the man says with a smile that holds decades of wisdom, “I think when I was racing, we had more fun. When I see the riders at the finish line today, they don’t look happy. Must be the stress, so they say. These races, these finish lines are very stressful, with very high stakes.”
“Are you talking to me?” Charlie turns, gesturing to his chest.
The man pauses, observing Charlie with that clinical but affectionate gaze that only great masters can have. “In your time,” he continues, as if from the future, “you turned sport into science. It’s progress, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes science, engineering, forgets that we are human beings first.”
The man puts a hand on Charlie’s shoulder with the confidence of someone who has the right to give advice because he has earned that right on the field, with results and wisdom. “Welcome to my time,” he says. “Here, at least, when you fail, it’s only your fault. And when you win, the credit is all yours.”
Charlie nods, immediately understanding the deep meaning of those words. In the future he comes from, failure is always the system’s fault—the wrong equipment, the unoptimized strategy, the marginal gains not implemented correctly, the imperfect aerodynamic position, the watts not distributed according to the optimal algorithm, the temperature and humidity. In his time, every defeat is analyzed by computers, broken down into variables, turned into data to improve future performance. The simple, clear, human failure no longer exists. There is only the inefficiency of the system to be corrected. In 1994, failure is human. It’s honest. It is, paradoxically, easier to accept because it’s real.
“Who are you?” Charlie asks, though he already suspects the answer.
The man looks him in the eye with that particular smile that only those who have dedicated their lives to understanding the secrets of human performance have, who have seen champions born and who know how to recognize talent even when it’s hidden under layers of system and pressure.
“I’m just someone who believes that cycling should still be fun,” he replies. “But ever since they took me,” he gestures with his eyes and head towards the sky, “no one listens to what I say anymore.” He smiles. “Every village has its fool.” He pauses, looking towards the velodrome where the lights are going out. “I’ve seen many talents destroyed by the pursuit of perfection. I’ve seen riders who stopped smiling when they won. I’ve seen sports science turn champions into robots.”
“Once, in one hour, I rode sixty kilometers on a bike like yours, you know? Actually, for sixty meters, I didn’t make it to sixty kilometers, and that’s why no one remembers it.” The distinguished man runs a hand over his emotional face. “Then when they brought me back here, I was too old to try again. Sixty meters, young man, you ride on the track, a single turn is sixty meters in there,” he says, his eyes on the velodrome, “that’s why no one remembers it. It was a faraway place, more than a thousand meters high. There were no people to applaud, there was almost no one, to be honest.”
“Maybe if I had used gloves, who knows, maybe that carbon nitride lubricant would have given me those sixty meters, I could have gained those sixty meters… maybe those special shoe covers… they said three watts, you know? And with those three watts, I would have made it sixty meters further, right?”
Charlie nods with compassion, looks him in the eyes, and wants to do nothing but cry. In this sport, no one gives you anything; nothing lets you gain time, seconds, or speed.
“But you, today,” the bald man continues, “you reminded all of us why we started riding bikes. Not for the watts, not for the aerodynamics, not for the marginal gains. But for the pure joy of speed, to win races, to break records.”
Charlie feels something melt as if thirty years of accumulated tension were finally leaving his body. “I only did 55 kilometers,” he says. “A little more. In my time, with modern technology, I could have done better.” But his voice trembles as if he’s not convinced of his own words. Deep down, he knew that in those 55 kilometers, he had given everything and that nothing could have pushed him further.
The man shakes his head with a wisdom that goes beyond numbers. “The numbers lie, Charlie. Or rather, they only tell part of the truth. Today you rode 55 km of joy and effort. In your time, how many kilometers did you ride free from everything?”
Charlie feels like he’s been punched in the face, like a boxer too weak to face the fight. He sees the silver in Paris, the loser’s crash in Tokyo, he tastes the tears and frustration.
“That’s the difference between today and your time,” the man says. “Losing hurts, but winning makes you happy. In 2025, winning is a result, but losing makes you feel inadequate for the system.”
The man looks at his watch, a gold Rolex that shines under the Bordeaux streetlights. “It’s time to go back, Charlie. But take what you learned today with you. Remember those men who took care of you,” he says, looking at him from a distance. “Eh, because you’re tall, young man, damn you’re tall,” he says with a mix of surprise and a smile. “The blue bike, Mr. Ernesto made it for me. It was longer, and I didn’t feel right on it. He made two because he wanted me to feel good on that bike. For me, it was the white one and the blue one, but for him, for all of them, it was nights of work.”
Charlie feels a wave of dizziness, the same sense of disorientation he felt upon waking. Reality begins to dissolve around him, the colors of 1994 start to fade, the smell of Gauloises disperses into the air.
“Remember,” is the last thing he hears from the bald man’s voice, “technology is a servant, not a master. You are the actor, you must demand to be the protagonist of your story, and in our sport, metal, carbon, steel must be shaped by those who want that story to be exciting for you, by those who want to write an ending with you that surprises everyone. The numbers, those are a result. See, you leave here with fifty-five and a smile, and me, I was missing sixty meters… just sixty…”
Tony is almost afraid to open his eyes. He’s been awake for a while and can’t bring himself to abandon the darkness of his eyelids; it was just one turn, one damn turn. He feels his legs stiff, his back heavy on the worn mattress. As if at the start of a race, he suddenly opens his eyes and recognizes the frosted glass ceiling light in his Bordeaux hotel room. The clock radio reads 6:30 AM on November 6, 1994. “They brought me back here,” he says aloud as if someone might hear him, but something has changed in that room. The air is familiar and heavy; it should be celebration day, but there’s no one to applaud him.
On the “Sud Ouest” on his nightstand, his picture is on the cover: 55.291, with “Colnago” written below the photo, that funny Mapei uniform he also wore in road time trials. He looks at the photo carefully, remembering that dark blue skinsuit that seemed made of speed and promises: “Maybe with the long-sleeved skinsuit…”
On the other side of time, Charlie wakes from a heavy sleep, as if he’d traveled too uncomfortably to rest. He slowly opens his eyes, focusing on the objects in the room to figure out where he is, like those times you travel so much that it takes a while to realize your location when you wake up.
“What a dream,” he says aloud. “There’s good stuff in the air here in Turkey.” But as he talks to himself, he realizes he’s not in his room in Konya; he’s in his bed, in his apartment in Manchester.
He snatches his iPhone from the charging cable, opens Instagram, and it’s full of photos of his record attempt: “Ganna holds on, but the phenomenal Charlie Tanfield stops just 60 meters short of Dan Bigham’s British record.” Below, his photo in a ridiculous vintage Mapei skinsuit and a black Bell helmet, his name in large sky-blue letters on an improbable yellow background with red text: 55.488 Km.
“It’s not Konya, the wood is too dark,” he moves his head to the side to stretch his neck muscles, smiling like that frozen day in Minsk when the unknown Charlie, a twenty-year-old amateur on an all-black bike, put a gold medal around his neck, nearly breaking the world record. “You were walking, Dan,” he thinks to himself, recalling those years of challenges too wrong to be won: “And yet we did…” He stops on a photo as he scrolls Instagram: a bald old man, seen from behind, is leaning against the railing right on the finish line, a gentleman in a blue vest, standing firmly at the edge of the track with his legs slightly apart and a white bike in his hands, stares at him like a sniper’s laser, a guy with sunglasses and clothes two sizes too big holds a stopwatch, crouching on the ground, just before the bend. The stands and the center of the track are full of people; he can almost still hear the applause.
“Sixty meters.”
Charlie throws the phone on the bed, laughing; in his head, the words of the bald gentleman.
“Sixty meters, Dan. One turn, less than a quarter of the track. But next time, I’ll beat you.”
Just then, the iPhone screen lights up. WhatsApp > Good job mate, 60 mtrs ha! 😉 – Piggy.
Charlie smiles. “Next time, I’ll beat you.”
The Mathematics of Humanity
The calculations presented in this story are based on real and verifiable physical principles. The power equation P × η = (0.5 × ρ × v² × CdA) + (g × m × Crr × v) never lies. The drag coefficients, air densities, drivetrain efficiencies—it’s all accurate and supported by scientific data. Tony Rominger in Konya in 2025, with modern technology, calculating the declared marginal gains of components, wheels, clothing, helmet, and accessories used by British Cycling (excluding the frame, which remains his 1994 Colnago), would have effectively ridden 59.940 km.
The mathematics confirms it through the resolution of the cubic equation:
For sixty meters—sixty meters only—he would have missed the mythical 60 km/h barrier.
In 2022 in Grenchen, Filippo Ganna beat the best human performance of that Chris Boardman who stole the record from Tony Rominger in 1996, with 56.792, beating the British champion’s performance by four hundred meters, thirty years later.
The calculations, the formulas, the numbers, say that the young Tony in 2025 would have beaten that record by more than three kilometers: that’s twelve laps. Not sixty meters, but twelve laps.
Mathematics confirms it, but reality doubts it.
That bald man keeps remembering it: “only sixty meters, one turn.”
But the real discovery of this thought experiment is not in the numbers. The story of two champions separated by time serves to remember a fundamental truth: marginal gains are important, but radical joys are essential. Sports science can optimize the body, engineering can improve the equipment, but numbers have a scale, a maximum, a limit: man does not. Around him, around his intuitions, ambitions, dreams, surprise is born. Around madness, the unknown, the never-been-done-before, the overcoming of limits and conventions, grows the innovation that allows us to leap into possible futures that engineering does not contemplate.
And the free intuition that gives shape to a free man-machine organism always pedals faster than a perfect body in golden chains.
Charlie Tanfield deserves more.
Physics proves it. His story confirms it. Only that day denies it.
His 53.967 km in Konya was not an inadequate performance—it was a human performance crushed by the weight of a system that has forgotten that cycling, before being science, should be art.
Before being optimization, it should be expression.
Before being numbers, it should be performance.