Davide la Locomotive

This is the story of how anger pushed me forward—but how I didn’t become the thing I hated.

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They say revenge is a dish best served cold.
One year? That’s very cold.

But no one says when in the meal it should be served.
Is it the amuse bouche? A spicy little “nibble on this.”
The main course, ladled with gravy and an extra dollop of spite?
Or dessert—cold, sour, and a little sharp. A lemon ice-screem, perhaps?

Personally, I think it belongs at the end. Something to look forward to. The Port.*
Swirled gently in the glass while staring across the room at the one who never saw it coming.

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We’ve all got an origin story about the thing that we’re passionate about, right?
The fuel thrown onto the fire, that pushes us past the hump to get to the good stuff.

You know, we’ve all been there… you’re in the office late, you happen to stumble into the laboratory, get bitten by a radioactive spider, and now you have white stuff squirting out your fingers.
Probably should see a doctor about that. Might be infected.

Anyway, I think people wonder how I became a fast time trialist.
What my origin story is.
Well, here it is…

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When I first started racing, the third time trial I ever did was my first 25-mile TT, an annual race.

I was riding a normal road bike and didn’t really know what I was doing or how to ride it effectively. It was two laps of a course. I overtook a bunch of riders and got overtaken by a bunch of riders.

After the race, I went to the annual dinner and sat at a table with others who had raced.
One guy—M—leaned across the table and asked, “Are you David?”

I wasn’t a great time trialist, but I had won the second road race I did, so I thought maybe he wanted to talk about that.

I said, “Yes.”
“I enjoyed gunning you down,” he said.

The others at the table laughed. I sat there, embarrassed.
It was only the third time trial I’d ever done. I felt like I didn’t belong. I could easily have quit right then.
I didn’t.

He was one of the many riders who had overtaken me.
I later found out he’d been riding in full time trial kit—skinsuit, TT bike, aero wheels, pointy hat, overshoes.
The aero gains from all that are worth about two minutes over 10 miles.
He had it. I didn’t.

This infuriated me.

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I’m not that ashamed to say that I turbo’d my brains out every day for the next year.
When it really started to hurt, I thought about M—and it made it easier.

He was my rage fuel.

I had a turbo trainer that used air resistance. The wheel was connected to a big fan, and it sounded like a jet taking off. I could only turbo outdoors because it was so loud.

For shelter, I ended up turbo’ing in a parking garage.
Years later, someone told me that everyone within a 500-meter radius could hear me grinding away. The jet-engine noise of the fan turbo was amplified by the concrete.

So yeah—everyone heard me turboing away. Night after night. All through winter.

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At the beginning of the next season, I had a bit of an accident while training in Mallorca.
I shattered my collarbone and broke four ribs (that’s a whole other story).

I was worried I wouldn’t be able to ride the 25—that all the training over the past year would be wasted.

I managed to recover in time to do one race beforehand.
It was a 10-mile event, and I beat M by 40 seconds.

He still had all the aero kit from the previous year.
I still had none.

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I spoke to the organiser for the 25 (it rotates each year).
The previous year, it had been M.

This year, it just so happened to be my training partner.

I told her the story—about the “I enjoyed gunning you down” thing, and how I’d spent the last year training like mad.

I said, “If I had one wish, it would be for M to start one minute in front of me at the 25… so I could enjoy gunning him down.”

She told me there were strict rules about starting order. She’d be breaking them if she did that.
Though, she added, in previous years there had been… creative interpretations.

When I got the start sheet for the 25?
M was off one minute in front of me.

Funny how things turn out.

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The 25 was wet that year.
I was still in pain from the broken ribs, but I rode like hell.

I caught and passed M just past halfway.
He really didn’t want to be caught.

Then I put another minute and change into him by the finish.

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I’d signed up for the annual dinner and was planning to stand on a table screaming, “I ENJOYED GUNNING YOU DOWN!”

In the end, I went to the dinner and had a great time.
I thanked the organiser—my training partner—for “following the rules.”

I chatted with my teammates. We had a laugh.
They were the people I wanted to spend time with.

I didn’t stand on the table yelling at M.
Because then, I wouldn’t have beaten him—I would have become him.

Anyway, what do you say to someone you just thrashed by two minutes?
Nothing.
They already know.

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There’s a weird thing about sporting rivalries—they’re often not symmetrical.

In football, England has a great rivalry (in their heads) with Germany.
But Germany doesn’t care—because they always beat England when it matters.

Germany’s rivalry is with Brazil.
Brazil doesn’t care either.
Their rivalry is with Argentina.

Afterwards, I realised beating M didn’t mean much.
He wasn’t even that good.

With all that kit, he should’ve been putting five minutes into me.

Instead, I started thinking about the guys winning events.
They were the ones I wanted to race.
I wanted to be in the Premier League.
M was the “Vanarama National League.”

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Turns out, M was widely disliked.
He was club president — and he disparaged his own riders.
Some left. Some gave up racing.

That’s the thing about bullies: they like to spread out the pain.

It wasn’t personal to me.
He did it to everyone.

That’s what bullies do.

A little ray of misery—like a high-powered laser spinning wildly in all directions.

He didn’t inspire me to train hard.

The anger did.
But the anger was mine.
I chose what to do with it.
I used it to inspire myself.

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The next year I got all the time trial kit (woo, give me 2 minutes per 10 miles) and started winning events.

I realised I’d used M’s words to fuel me—to train harder, to push through the pain.

But the fire was already burning inside me.
I was like a flaming chip pan.
M was the ‘let’s try water’ genius from every kitchen safety PSA — the guy who turns a small fire into a raging inferno.

I wanted revenge.

But when the moment came, I didn’t want to become him—I wanted to be better than that.
I didn’t need to serve revenge.
I was already full.
So, “No Port for me, thanks.”

Over time, I was driven by something else: the thrill of racing.
The feeling of pushing my limits for the sake of it—not for anyone else.

Negativity was the fuel that pushed me to the next level.
But the flame? That was already there.
And racing—that was always mine.

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* I hate Port.

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