There was to be drug testing. This alarming realisation leaped from the page and stung the senses like kelp to the face in a strong riptide. This was evidently going to be an extremely serious event.
My qualification for the UCI World Amateur Road Race had been somewhat accidental, the result of a frenzied fenland charge through the mass participation madness of mountain bikes and baskets at the Cambridge Gran Fondo back in June.
GB Kit was to be mandatory, a rainbow jersey was to be awarded to the winner and cycling shoes were to be worn on the podium. So, along with the doping control, these were not the type of regulations synonymous with the average Kelmscott-based triathlon. I envisaged a fearful thrashing. I signed up immediately.
The setting for this madness was Aalborg, a delightful part of the world seemingly full of impossibly nice human beings and lovely restaurants, lovely restaurants which were soon overrun with extremely thin men eating exceptionally good dinners in compression socks. The city’s bike lanes teemed with time trialists, practice pelotons poured into the surrounding countryside and the air hummed thick with zipping hubs and the whir of carbon slicing through the breeze.
a far cry from my own preparation which consisted mainly of a pair of sprained wrists following a rather embarrassing solo face plant in Bushy Park
The atmosphere was slick and professional, a far cry from my own preparation which consisted mainly of a pair of sprained wrists following a rather embarrassing solo face plant in Bushy Park and a pre-race practice ride which in no particular sequence comprised three punctures, one too few inner tubes, a taxi, welcome refuge in a Danish church, a kit drenching thunderstorm, £125.00 in a bike shop and a pair of new tyres which I am fairly sure were designed for a tractor.
I had to hope that race day bought some fairer fortune. Dawn thus broke and a booming tannoy sounded through the cobbled streets, lycra was king and a multi lingual buzz of nervous chatter cut through the air. Everyone in the starting pen looked good, so very good. Their calves, seemingly chiselled from polished teak, glinted in the morning and their shrink wrapped spandexed arms hung loosely like spaghetti over their handlebars. The countdown began like a death knoll. A hush descended. Oh hell. This brief but pregnant silence soon shattered as garmins reverberated on stems and the brittle rattle of clipping pedals echoed loudly off the carbon frames. We were off.
https://www.strava.com/activities/386691257