Forecast was promising, so inevitably it lashed with rain start to finish. I learnt a lesson from last time round: get to the start line early, these things kick off early. I failed to learn the lesson and started at the back of the pen.
The Marshall gave a little speech and laughed heartily about how pleased he was that he wasn’t racing. It was pretty grim now: sideways rain.
The whistle was hypothetically blown (the starter’s actual whistle couldn’t be found), and we were off. The start line was about 100m beforethe hairpin turn, which I reckoned would be a real feature (especially in the rain), so doubly important to start fast and make sure you don’t miss any early moves.
I couldn’t clip in. Not only was this really embarrassing, but I could feel riders already sprinting off ahead. Come on. COME ON.
I’m in. Thank Judas for that. But more bad news. The rider in front of me also couldn’t clip in! Sweet Jesus. And he still wasn’t in, as I was boxed in immediately behind him, soft pedalling waiting for him to engage. Please. Come on mate. ENGAGE. How is this part of this sport? I bet Roglic never has to deal with this. Actually I could really see Roglic having this kind of issue.
When myself and my keeper had finally intertwined ourselves with our respective bikes, we were off. Unfortunately the field was strung out ahead of us, and I could already see a break about half a lap up the road. Nuts.
Riders were strung out in one long line, but gaps were being left all over the place. However, given the more technical nature of the course (compared to the perfect circle of Abingdon), the differing strengths and abilities meant there were plenty of places to
move up, and with some judicious choice of wheels to follow to bridge some small gaps, after a couple of laps I had clawed my way towards the front of the race. Great. This was in the plan. Things were improving.
One guy jumped off the front. That’s not enough I thought. Then another went. That’s still not enough, I wagered. Then one more went. That’s enough. I jumped on his wheel and the two of us bridged up to what was now a group of 4, dangling off the front of the race. I turned around and we seemed to have a small gap. And the field behind looked like it was in pieces.
Hold on a minute. This is it! I’m at the front of the race. In a small break. This was it! This is exactly what I had hoped might happen! Everything was going exceptionally well (other than the driving rain slapping my face).
I allowed myself a small laugh, but then choked on the muddy water spouting off the wheel in front, jetting directing down my throat.
So that seemed to be that. We took turns. Everyone seemed happy to be there. It was great. It was like being at a party, where you just know that youare having the best conversation with your little group out of anyone there at the party.
It was only about 4 laps in though, and we still had a good half an hour to go. And we were riding hard. Blimey. Long way left. Puff of the cheeks.
So things progressed very neatly for a while. The next item of note was when we had just come out of the hairpin turn, and the rider I had thought might have been the strongest in our little break sidled up to me (just me) and said “Take that hairpin really wide.”
Well that was odd. Had he singled me out as someone cornering badly? Was I being reprimanded by a patron of the Cat 4 peloton? He was a hulk of a man, on what looked like it could be the sort of bike you’d see Pilippo Ganna on. He looked serious. Seriously serious. Take that hairpin really wide. Interesting, but won’t you just end up being squeezed outside the bend? I mulled on this for the whole lap, and as we approached the same corner again, I made sure I was behind this character. Let’s see how he takes it, and maybe I can follow his line.
Well he wasn’t playing some kind of trick on me, as he took the corner wide alright. He sort of started in the middle of the track, and then drifted wider and wider. And wider. Until he was right on the white line marking the edge of the track going round the head of the turn. But he didn’t stop there. Wider still he went. Off the course, and into the open field the surrounding the course.
When I came out of the corner, I was riding parallel to him, but he was now a good 15 metres off the track riding through a field of unkempt long grass, on what looked a very posh bike, that wasn’t enjoying itself. He looked over and we exchanged a glance. I think I saw pure bafflement on his face. It’s certainly what he would have seen on mine.
I didn’t see him again. This crit racing was insane.
But needs must when the devil drives and we had to plough on. And plough on the three of us did. One of us in particular, and it wasn’t me.
A rider from Kingston Wheelers (who I later found out was called Jonah) seemed to relish in doing as much work as he could. I just tried to hold his wheel as best I could. The pace was relentless. All the more so as it didn’t seem like there was any group threatening to reel us back in.
I had to start getting on the front to slow us down, so I could get a rest.
We were only 20 minutes into the race, and I’d been on the rivet for pretty much all of it. Jonah passed me to take another massive pull on the front and looked over and screamed “ONLY ANOTHER 25 MINUTES OF THIS. AHAHAHAHAHA!” Christ, he was really enjoying himself. I braced for another wild surge in speed.
But suddenly, the lap markers were starting to count down. 5…..4…..3……2……. The time had really flown, trying to nail each corner better and better with each lap, taking the odd turn to try and show I wasn’t a work-shy freeloader
I had been trying to see if there was any group chasing us, but it was pandemonium on the course, as there were loads of lapped riders and lapped groups. However, it didn’t seem like there was anyone coming for us. The nazis weren’t going to get us! We were free and anyway! I was going to get 3rd plaice; worst case (and also most likely case). I could already taste the sweet British Cycling points. Banzai!!
And then, 1500m to go, bang. I was on the slick freshly-tarmaced deck. I had come through to pass the other rider in the break, and he hadn’t seen me, swerved erratically left, and wiped out my front wheel in an instant. And that was that. Dnf. Bumps on the bum, grazes on the elbow, and bruises on the ego. They do say everyone likes a surprise ending. Not me though. Not one bit.
This was he. This was the man.