And so it is I find myself lining up with many tens of other cyclists at the start line at Hillingdon criterium circuit - one of my least liked (second only to Tourmalet) cycling venues. About to take part in my first road-race in nearly eight years. And it’s all my own fault.
I started riding again after the Trek Fit Services course finished in Milton Keynes at the end of March (see last blog). The ride we had in Milton Keynes in the lashing wind and driving rain nevertheless reminded me of how much I missed riding - especially with old friends - thanks then to Ned and Jules. So I kept a solid batting average of around six hours a week for most of April and so far most of May. Now these figures might seem limp biscuit to some but actually represent dedicated training to me.
When Konrad joined us a month or so ago he announced that he wanted to race - at CycleFit we are long used to working around staff racing regimes. So I casually remarked that I would possibly like to join Konrad racing at some deliberately vague and unspecified time and date in the future. Maybe? But Konrad doesn't do either vague or unspecified and hence I find myself nervously crouching at the back of an LVRC race surrounded by shaved, oiled legs and well thought through race-plans. I of course am only armed with a dimly stated will to live and chubby hirsute pins. I am being flippant. In truth I am genuinely nervous because I really don’t want to crash - it would be so inconvenient for Jules and the business and Donna with a baby on the way. Eight years ago I never got nervous before a crit - I trusted my speed and bike-handling agility to keep me out of trouble. And for the most part it did until it didn't and I ended up in A&E. I also subscribed to the old rugby-coach maxim that the surest way to get hurt was walk softly into a tackle. I always tried to ride crits from the front and fizzing with confidence and authority.
Confidence and authority were both no-shows as we rolled out on the first lap. Instead I tried in vain to hide in the wheels and stay out of anyone's way - like the new kid in school trying to walk in the shadows. The pace was brisk but just manageable unless someone attacked; this would immediately put me in deficit until the bunch retrieved the situation.
It felt very strange and bewildering to be back in a racing bunch again after such a long time - you forget how fast the bunch rides and how far you lean around the corners. The subtle tidal movements of break, attack, retrieve, consolidate and repeat. A certain predictable fluidity giving the fast circulation amorphous beast a certain structure and order.
I settled into the rhythm if not the pace of the race faster than I thought I would - simply by being smooth, not braking, leaning further and always staying in the right place at the right part of the lap. All that stuff came back after a few minutes. What sadly didn't was the legs, the lungs, the attack spirit and of course the sprint.
In the final analysis I rode around rather than take part. I was very happy to see my wife's car inappropriately parked with one wheel actually on the circuit and small ginger terrier yipping wildly. Very happy not to have crashed and happy to resume the role of husband, father-to-be and business owner. But for that hour and a quarter I was a racer again. And I think I am hooked.
I am writing this a week later in the dreaded Pyrenees on a CycleFit/GPM Etape Recce. I am not riding the Etape because if all goes to plan I will be up to my knees in a birthing pool off my head on gas and air. And I consider that a reprieve from this year’s ill-conceived and ghastly route. I wish you all luck. But tomorrow I have to face my nemesis again and lead a group up the bastard Tourmalet. The weather forecast is fittingly crap, I have the wrong gears and will have climbed two epic Pyrenean monsters before we get there. Sweet joy.
My legs hurt from Hillingdon one week ago. I may have got away with it on the day but the metabolic debt has to be reconciled eventually.
Tomorrow is another day. And why oh why is Tourmalet at the end of it?
I will let you know how I get on.
