Crossing the Line.

Alistair Donohoe's Man Ride Story.

By Black Sheep Cycling

October 18^th, 2021

After qualifying for Tokyo 2020, Paralympian Alistair Donohoe recounts dealing with the pressure to perform on the worlds largest stage, and devoting his entire headspace to one event, while simultaneously dealing with the recent loss of one of his closest mates to mental illness.

A few weeks ago in early August, I found myself sitting in a tattoo parlour with my left arm shaved, disinfected and on a bench. It had taken me a lot of back and forth negotiating to get this last-minute time slot. It was just announced that Brisbane was in lockdown and I'm about to go into a Tokyo pre-departure covid bubble for a fortnight. I could have easily waited until I got back from the games for this tat. It would have been the smart option, reducing the risk of infection possibly getting in the way of my competition but I had an overwhelming urge that I needed to get this curlew bird on my bicep before I went to the games and not after. It is the same curlew my late friend Will had got on this forearm a year ago.

“I needed to get this curlew bird on my bicep before I went to the games. It's the same curlew my late friend Will had hot on this forearm a year ago.”

The last 12 months leading into these games has been the most fun of my life. I had relocated to Queensland, had a fantastic support team headed by my sports psychologist and was living with some incredible housemates who had become my closest friends. It almost felt too easy. I felt surprisingly relaxed and upbeat which is not at all what I expected to feel before one of the biggest events in my life. One I had been working towards for the last 5 years.

When we landed in Tokyo I felt like I was on a little holiday. The taper had started so training had eased off, our team had a nice hotel to ourselves, and I was doing nightly baths in the Japanese onsens. It was pure bliss.

" I just wanted to hurry up and compete so I could get rid of this debilitating feeling. "

This was all flipped on its head when I walked into the Tokyo velodrome 4 days before my competition and caught a glimpse of my competitors, people I hadn’t seen or had to think about for 18 months. I couldn’t help but watch them as they cut frighteningly fast laps around me. This sowed seeds upon seeds of doubt into my brain about my form.

Had I been too relaxed? Had I done enough? I hadn’t felt this kind of nervousness or pressure for close to two years. This was coupled with the fact that I cared so damn much about this event which made it nearly crippling. For the next 3 days, I barely slept. Every time I opened my eyes I couldn’t stop my brain from slipping back to thinking about the stupid things that I couldn’t control like how fast my competition was going to ride. I just wanted to hurry up and compete so I could get rid of this debilitating feeling.

When race day finally came, I felt emotionally exhausted. I’d had adrenaline pumping through my body for the last 3 days and it felt like I didn’t have any left for my race. I was off in the last heat. I sat there warming up, watching 4 riders before me go under the previous world record. They all rode times I knew I wanted to ride but was unsure of how fast I could go. It was the feeling I didn’t love but needed. The “well you’d better go pretty f***ing fast now Al” feeling. And I did. I lent on the work I had done with my coach and psych and didn’t get sucked into the panic. I controlled myself and lit it up in the last half of my race. I was so relieved to qualify for the gold and silver ride off but, more than anything, I was just relieved that those crippling nerves were finally gone.

“You cannot be f***ing serious,” I said to myself 5 days later, as I stood upon the wet Fuji raceway after crashing the second time in 2 minutes. I felt like I was riding on ice and I couldn’t trust my bike anymore. My bike had slid out from under me in the wet conditions twice in the most ridiculous way. I was ready to hammer throw it across the course and give up. For the second time in my life, I had crashed out of the Paralympic Road Race and my dream of gold was slipping away. I didn’t come here to give up I told myself, I’m here for a reason and I owe it to him to finish this.

“For the second time in my life, I had crashed out of the Paralympic Road Race and my dream of gold was slipping away.”

For the last lap of my road race, I felt what I can only describe as a dam in my chest breaking. As I crossed the finish line in 5th place I looked down at the curlew on my bicep and exploded. I had wanted to win more than anything, and I had wanted to dedicate that win to my good friend Will, but it was at that point that I realised that it didn’t matter whether I had the gold medal around my neck or not. This was still for him, this messy, brutal, unfortunate race was all for him.

“I felt like a robot at times, hating myself for not feeling more for my mate.”

For the last two months, since my close friend and housemate Will Georgeson died by suicide, I had buried so much deep down. As sad as I was, I felt nothing would come out. I’d cried once on the day he had passed away and that’s it. I felt like a robot at times, hating myself for not feeling more for my mate. As I crossed that finish line I realised that I had gotten it all wrong, I wasn’t emotionless or upset, I just hadn’t let myself feel what I needed to feel because this massive event called the Tokyo 2020 had been right in front of me.

I had used the death of my good friend as motivation so many times in training through the previous 8 weeks and now that it was over and I had taken my last pedal stroke, it had all came out. It made so much sense to me then and there why I had felt that stubborn need to get that little curlew tattooed to my arm before the games and not after. Although I had been overwhelmed with emotion and brought to tears, it felt so so so nice to finally be able to let it all out. To dedicate this day to him was special, but to get to the start line after what had happened in the first place was an even bigger achievement. It's a day I’m proud of and one I'll never forget.