“What have I gotten myself into” This is what I’m thinking as lab assistants duct tape my feet to the pedals of a stationary
bike, block my nasal cavity with a nose plug and force a breathing tube inside my mouth. Strapped in, I realize there is no turning back. I am at York University, where I am about to undergo the dreaded VO2 max test as part of the standardized fitness evaluation that all potential NHL draftees are subjected to at the league’s draft combine Friday and Saturday. While a player’s physical sacrifice might lead to a professional contract, I am told there are two ways in which this day will end for me: either in tears or hunched over a bucket. My rumbling stomach tells me I should prepare for the latter. The VO2 test measures a person’s aerobic capacity by having him or her pedal to complete respiratory and cardiovascular exhaustion. I’m told to keep my speed at about 80 revolutions per minute as the tension gradually increases. I start off coasting, but before long I’m desperately trying to drag the bike up a virtual mountain of sand. My legs are screaming in agony. It feels like I have been punched in the stomach. And I’m making sounds that I have not heard since my wife was in labour.
I want off this torturous bike. But a voice inside my head keeps telling me to pedal harder and faster. Or rather, four voices urge me to continue.