NWCCA Round Another - THIS TIME IT'S PERSONAL
After the previous week’s quad numbing hilarity at Rossendale, I was relieved to see that the upcoming Weaver CC course was, essentially, as flat as a tack and looking pretty quick. I suspected that the week priors’ over gearing horror would be replaced by a triumphant return to Australian conditions; a week of decent weather, flat course on hard pack paddock grass, little mud.
Needless to say it hammered down for a full 24 hours before the race.
Once more unto the decidedly muddy breach, then.
It is another curiosity of UK racing that, at least in terms of enjoying the best of the conditions; the highest grade riders get the bummiest of deals. This view was expressed in typically northern fashion by a fellow racer on the warm up lap as we moonwalked sideways up one of the clay bound slopes, as he proclaimed, “This is fucking shit”.
Of course being willing to engage with the locals, I managed to get him to expand said wisdom, including further profane gems, but the gist was thus; why do the “best” riders get the chewed up course everyone else has already raced on?
Who knows. It's how it is. Harden up, probably.
It was another big field on the start, 61 riders in total. The first ten in the league standings were duly called up, then it was out with the elbows to secure something not entirely at the back for the start from everyone else. With the philosopher Paddy Oliver’s words regarding my own start line tactics ringing in my ears, I ended up almost right at the back.
The course was composed largely of long, straight and surprisingly boggy sections split by switchback turns. There were two switchback climbs following straight descents, made technical by the ground conditions, and the final sorting out done by two sections of steep, muddy, descent-into-hell type drops followed by mud pit power action and a “run” up a slippery wall of disintegrated clay.
Out of the first section of switchbacks and onto the switchback climbs, it was immediately apparent that a) I was over geared a little again mainly due to the conditions, compounded by b) my Vittoria XG Pro TNT’s being crap in the mud.
They’re an all conditions tyre, but these conditions weren’t for all.
Out of the second climb and the bunch attempted to squeeze at least 50 of the 61 starters through onto a single track descent covered in a foot thick layer of clag. Since steering wasn’t a priority, as it didn’t make any difference, and braking was just for show, hilarity ensued with the majority of us immediately resorting to running.
Running, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to be able to clip back in with this crap stuck to my soles. Cue much gnashing of teeth and tap dancing of pedals. The course designers were then kind enough to furnish us with a slow, painful, death of a minor ascent back up to the bog-formally-known-as-grass, featuring more switchbacks. Then the second descent into hell.
This one was far, far worse than the first, complete with hairpin left hander at the base of the Un-Brakeable Hill Of Sloptm, before running through a Field Of Actual Bottomless Mud And Nettlestm and finally ascending the Hill That Shouldn’t Be A Hill, But Because Of The Ten Thousand Tonnes Of Shit Moved By Riders Before You, It Is Nowtm (HTSBAHBBOTTTTOSMBRBYIIN for short).
And then more switchbacks.
This race was made even more special than usual for me, being spat out the back as per usual after the first lap, by the presence of my good old Mum and Dad turning up to watch me race for the first time in their lives.
Dad was a bit of a decent roadie in his day, but his day was almost 40 odd years ago.
Still, it was with much enthusiasm that he got stuck into shouting “DIG IN!!!!” on every lap, which would have been helpful, had I not dug in, made flower beds, done the weeding and dug out again sometime before he piped up even the first time.
Mum merely watch in horror.
The bell lap was sweet relief as it always is, and as I looked back to double check how close to last I was, it was with some amusement that I found I was already last. Only I wasn’t. Everyone (ok, the four other blokes) behind me had been pulled on the previous lap. And so it was that I managed to ride the last half of the last lap with the tape being rolled up around me, and took a relatively huge round of applause at the finish from everyone else who had finished at least ten minutes earlier.
I love cyclocross. It’s utterly stupid.
