Dawn broke on an auspicious September morning and a rag tag gang gathered in a field in Oxfordshire with many a question in their heads – How did it come to this? Did I pack my helmet? How did that van get there? (and how’s it going to get out again?) But George’s parking predicaments was not yet the main topic of conversation; nor was it even the discussion of the favourites to win the day because for the first time in many a year the outcome of the yearlong championship rested on the finale.
How did it come to this? Did I pack my helmet? How did that van get there? (and how’s it going to get out again?)
In bygone years the championship has been all but sown up by the end of the summer with a lone sadist just having to complete the course in a respectable time to take home the coveted prize. This year, however, 2 men of great stature and steely-eyed determination have pulled out ahead and set up a winner-takes-all final showdown. the tenacious Chris ‘Monkfish’ Monk, winner of the SwinRun, spent the summer mopping up every single point available and thought he had the advantage going into the final week. But Teo Lopez – yes, THE Teo Lopez from Zwift – having spent the winter on everyone’s nemeses list, had gone onto win the road race and now had one more dastardly evil trick up his sleeve. Sneaking off in the middle of the night on Tuesday he completed a secret tri that put him ahead by just 50 points. All he had to do was beat Monkfish on the day to take home the bacon, well, giant wooden Walrus.
The two rivals looked nervous and avoided each other’s stare as we gathered for the briefing. The transition rules were laid out and promptly forgotten (thank goodness for marshals) but the main message was clear: keep turning left and don’t die.
The apprehensive silent stillness was disturbed as I, White Fang, and 7 pigs were released into the current as the assembled masses of monsters, beasts and seals jeered their appreciation for their prey: mouths salivating at the anticipation of the hunt. In the water the pigs became frantic, and the once temperate Thames became a ferocious tempest of white water as I tried to furiously doggy paddle my way forward.
My fellow Pigs soon pulled away and as the river started to feel a little calmer I began to wonder if I might get caught. It is not a question of if…
…beasts and seals jeered their appreciation for their prey: mouths salivating at the anticipation of the hunt.
Soon I could hear slugs and cucumbers bear down on me and as they start to thunder past effortlessly gliding through the water I seem to be battling against; my only thought is: isn’t that TV’s Dr Oliver Cox?
I began to feel like I was hallucinating as I rounded the bend and saw a rainbow banner flying proudly, ‘go to it!’ my interior monologue screamed, ‘Nothing bad will come of it.’ The last few metres dragged for an age before a strong reassuring hand appeared out of the reeds to seize me and guide me onto solid ground.
First transition was successfully navigated with a brief view of my fellow pigs and a few slugs already disappearing off into the distance. They were led by the mighty Ian Bayley, the only Pig to stay away and not be caught by the marauding hoard.
my only thought is: isn’t that TV’s Dr Oliver Cox?
Onto the road and as my suit dried the loneliness began to seep in. The first few Kilometres go by in splendid isolation, then just as the confidence begins to grow, the headwind hits me like billowing sail that’s escaped it’s reefing. Ploughing through the thick air, I begin to be passed by more riders from the skinnier end of the race. Andy Schwarz was first proving that although he has done nothing – literally nothing – but run for the last year he could still cut through the air like a well-oiled piston through a cylinder. More came past some with words of encouragement, some without.
Pulling onto the Langley Lane provided a double whammy of relief, a smooth blacktop after a treacherous rough single track and finally a tail wind making me feel like I was soaring home. It was not long however that I was easily passed by Teo (from Zwift) calming churning out 2000 watts. No Monkfish I pondered… this race was spicing up nicely.
Then the run. Oh God. The Run. Jelly legs plodded away out of transition 2 and I was soon passed by Alec Leslie, pulchritudinous in pink having done another outfit change in transition – his 8th of the day. He ran like a gazelle on hind legs with the gait of Usain Bolt and the frenetic energy of a man running for the train at Euston station. His greeting was lost in the wind as he soon became a distant spec. Soon came the Monkfish, eyes red, charging like a man possessed.
‘How far ahead’s Teo!?’ He stammered, but didn’t wait for a reply and like so many others disappeared off into the distance.
He ran like a gazelle on hind legs with the gait of Usain Bolt and the frenetic energy of a man running for the train at Euston station.
How does one describe the following 5 kms? A series of images just repeat themselves usually in my nightmares. Mercifully impacted ploughed field followed by the soaring heat of a harvested wheat field. Turning on to the blessedly firm tarmac only to complete the soul destroying unnatural right turn away from the finish line. What relief when the finish line did come, followed by the paradoxical disappointment that it was over for another year.
Most of the biggest results were settled almost immediately; Alec Leslie won the day, rumour has it he carried on running past the finish line and continued to run all the way home, never to be seen again. What of the championship? The broken shell of Chris Monk at the finish line told me that despite his valiant efforts he had not managed to claw back the advantage Teo (from Zwift) had taken out of him in the ride, leaving the big man the overall champion. It was a nervous wait to discover the outcome of my own personal race for White Fang but it was none other than Chris Lloyd, the original architect of the White Fang award who would be taking it home for the first time.
All that remained was the no-small-matter of the dinner; my first and the last at the legendary Yarnton Manor. We were greeted with the traditional bagpipes and champagne and the less traditional lateral flow test. As we mingled outside the front swabbing and swapping stories of the day, casual observers would have no doubt thought we were filming a crossover of Downton, Bridgerton and Hornblower.
…nothing could prepare me for seeing a seal in full red coat attire singing along to ‘The Fields of Athenray’ or the sight of Chapman in a boy scout uniform.
After all the myths, the rumours and the grainy Whatsapp videos, I thought I had done plenty to prepare – learnt some sea shanties, practiced my jigging – but nothing could prepare me for seeing a seal in full red coat attire singing along to ‘The Fields of Athenray’ or the sight of Chapman in a boy scout uniform. The night was long and joyous and as far as I’ve heard, George Dix still sleeps in the library.
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This Year’s Winner of the Race Poetry Prize: ‘Chapman Knott’, by Wetbeak
Chapman Knott
Chapman Knott,
Chapman Knott,
Sprinting down a twisting lane.
Every chance
a turning glance
T’see a ghost – a friend, now slain
Chapman Knott,
Chapman Knott,
Impulsive rage, and boiling blood
The deed is done,
And now you run,
A stealthy blade, a deathly thud.
Oh Chapman Knott,
Chapman Knott,
Not forgiven, not forgot.
1000 years in hell you’ll rot
1000 times I told you not.
Not to do it
It’s not the plot.
Not to stab
Not to gouge
Not to twist and drive and thrust
Not to cut then up and run,
When your filthy deed was done.