In a recent virtual race, something unexpected happened: while nearing the final climb, I found myself questioning whether I was enjoying the ride. The answer, unfortunately, was no. So, I stopped. This sudden decision to quit mid-race caught me off guard, as it was not something I’d ever done before under such circumstances.
I was riding well enough, positioned in the front group, but I knew I’d likely lose the sprint and finish sixth. Still, the satisfaction was missing. Normally, I’d push through those moments of discomfort, waiting for the race to become enjoyable again or until the finish line arrived. But this time, I didn’t. Instead, I quit.
Naturally, I shared this experience with my friend Bernard, seeking his opinion. His response was simple: “Everyone will assume your connection dropped out. No one will ever know.” To which I replied, “But I’ll know.” His next words surprised me: “You have personal standards? Interesting.”
The idea of quitting, especially when things get tough, unsettles me. I don’t want to be the person who gives up when faced with difficulty. Failure, yes; quitting, no. I often find myself falling off the back of a group on a climb or unable to finish an interval session as planned. But that failure feels acceptable—it’s a result of pushing myself to the limit. Everyone fails at some point.
However, what troubles me is that in those moments of failure, quitting still feels like a conscious decision. It’s not involuntary. My legs don’t give up without me. The last wheel in the group is a length ahead… then two… and at some point, I decide I’m done. I don’t stop riding entirely, but my goal shifts to something less ambitious—just maintaining a pace that might let me catch the group if they ease up.
Similarly, if I bail out of an interval early, promising myself I’ll do better next time, I know deep down that I’ll probably quit even sooner next time. The voice in my head insists that I could’ve pushed harder—that the only thing holding me back is my own lack of commitment. Physically, I know I have more to give, but I always stop just short of absolute exhaustion. If it were life or death, I’m certain I could keep going—but that’s never the case.
This leads me to a bigger concern: does quitting, even for the sake of avoiding frustration, set a dangerous precedent? Am I conditioning myself to quit when the fun stops, when the race gets hard, or when the discomfort becomes overwhelming? Could this become a habit that makes it easier to quit next time—and the time after that?
When I brought this up to Bernard, he offered a perspective I hadn’t considered: “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Quitting is good for you. You only have so much grit and determination in you. If you waste it on little races or pointless sessions, you won’t have it when you need it most. I’m not afraid to quit, because I can see the bigger picture.”
I asked him what that big picture was, but all he did was smile. I suspect he’s trying to conserve his mental energy for something more significant down the line. It seems he’s saving his grit for the long haul, knowing that one day he’ll need it more than I do.
If it works, though, he might just burn out in the process. But I can’t help being curious to see how it plays out—though I’ll be content to stay behind and wait for him to finally crack.
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