A Wednesday night. Hot. Sultry. A local club TT. I warmed up the legs on the short spin down to the start feeling strong and wondering what my chances were of a good result. Maybe even a podium.
I’d been out a few times with the Velopunks on their club rides. A nice group of loosely affiliated expat cyclists, run by my friend and colleague JP – who is clean out of his mind. There are some strong riders in there for sure, many of them committed to the long distance racing scene with serious results posted in the TCR and the Race Across America. One guy, in his 60s, tells me at the gathering point that this 15 km TT will take him over 10,000 km for the year so far. But do they have the chops for a short, brutal TT? My confidence was high after a decent effort in a recent Zwift race and I knew that the 250 m of climbing on the short course would play to my strengths.
At the start point, JP’s ten year old son gave the race briefing. The rules were simple: riders set off every minute on the 15 km loop, no drafting, your time would be taken when you returned to the start point and pressed the big red plastic button which emitted a tinny voice saying “That was easy!”. Then the two catches: you are not, under any circumstances, allowed to jump the four traffic lights on the route and you must take a selfie during the ride in order for your time to count. Then this small boy announced, in a disconcertingly grave tone, “and if you get hurt it isn’t our fault!”
I set off towards the back of the 15 person field. First part on the flat- aero hoods, legs pumping, chasing down the others just visible up the road. I passed my minute man after a couple of km and then gobbled up the next. Then, disaster!! A red light! The two competitors i’d burned myself up to catch rolled in besides me and unclipped. The seconds ticked by. I was furious.
Off again, sprinting away, trying to crush them psychologically with one big acceleration. And soon, diving through the pretty village of Cully without giving it even a glance, the climb was upon us. I sat up and watched my heart rate rise alarmingly through 180 bpm – very much in the red zone. Buttery smooth tarmac, developing views of the vineyards and the lake – it all meant nothing. This was where I would make the difference over those heavier rouleurs.
I passed another one or two riders and rejoiced as I slipped through the second light on green. Up ahead I saw that a particularly annoying road works light had stopped a couple of the strongest riders dead. As I approached, what luck! The light turned and I stood out of the saddle to accelerate past them as they clumsily struggled to clip in on the incline.
Now I had a dilemma. I had to take a picture. It was too dangerous on the lake road with the traffic and the precarious tucked position. And soon I would be on a breakneck descent where two hands would be required. So it had to be now. But my vision was tunnelling, my heart rate up at maximum – the thought of taking a selfie was absurd. I fumbled for my phone and flicked it to the camera but the sweaty hands and my blurred vision meant I couldn’t get it to take – then it slid it into time lapse mode, then panorama mode, then out of selfie mode altogether as I fumbled desperately at the screen. In the end I managed some sort of snap of myself grimacing, stuffed the phone in the jersey and kicked for the top of the climb. Just before I got there I caught one more rider and I knew I was leading the race. I couldn’t believe it!
Now, I like descending on a bike as much as the next man. But I don’t like racing descents. It just seems insane. Every year on the local triathlon I lose a bucket of time on the last 5 km due to, what I can only describe as, cowardice. So, with the echoe of Tom Dumoulin publicly mocking Sébastien Reichenbach fluttering around my addled brain, I committed to the descent as best I could, avoiding the temptation to brake. I was travelling at what I considered to be pant-shirting speed when I heard the unmistakable whirr of Greg’s noisy free hubs as he flew past me, sitting on his top tube, at a speed that Strava would later confirm as being upwards of 80 km/h. I found this very demoralising. The effort of gaining time on the climb just obliterated in seconds by someone with better nerve.
At least now I could follow his line. Which I did and by doing so saved my race as i slipped through the final light on amber, a few seconds behind Greg. Moments later I hit the plastic button and stopped the clock.
A tense wait ensued as others rolled in and times were calculated (I say tense – everyone sat around happily drinking icy-cold, on-brand «Punk IPA » and eating bbq sausages). Routes were verified through Strava and photos were submitted. Rumours buzzed around that it was a close call.
The long and short is that I won. Not with the fastest moving time – that would have put me a close second. But with the fastest time. And since that was the game, I took home the spoils (a vinyl record of Panorama by The Cars which i will never listen to). Poor Liam, a Kona triathlete, could only sit and watch as I collected a prize that should have been his were it not for the vagaries of Swiss road works.
The moral of this is that there is absolutely no point in trying to win an event based purely on strength. Zwift has shown me that I will never be the strongest. The last race I won on merit was the 100 m dash in my final year at a very small prep school thanks to an unusually early growth spurt that gave me a hugely unfair advantage. But a race with a strong element of luck? Yes please sir – sign me up immediately.