Peel
Park, Bradford. Sound’s like any other venue. It’s not. It’s a combination of
factors. Firstly, Bradford is the epicentre of Yorkshire, the county where they
conceived the sadomasochistic Three Peaks Cyclocross. A race where competitors
compare vibration white finger syndrome post race and spectators choose their
vantage points proportionate to the likelihood of riders doing endos. Secondly it’s
a classic course…..if you went to see The Clash in concert, you’d choose The
Hammersith Odeon over the NEC…..With Bradford, you know what you’re going to
get. Mud, off camber, crashes, partisan spectators (cycling’s a religion in
Yorkshire), apocalyptic pits and a great course.
One
lap on soft mixed setup of FMB/Rhino’s more or less confirmed what was in
store. A classic post overnight rain race where pit crews were undoubtedly
going to be busy, if not frantic. Two more laps and the Addict weighed roughly
25lbs. There was little to be gained by riding more and more practice laps,
other than to see how the conditions were developing. Now was the time for
keeping warm.
As
I went to sign on, a perfectly timed distraction meant that I committed the
schoolboy error of not signing on, an appalling mistake for a qualified
commissaire, and I was lucky to have sufficient time between the UCI com’s
verbal spanking and my name being read out for gridding to rectify the
situation.
Gridded
four rows back next to Paul Lehan, I guessed the uphill tarmac start might see
me struggle, and it came as a surprise to hardly loose any places
at the start. As we rounded the first proper corner, the realisation that
1.4bar might be alright for warming up chatting with my pals. However,
committed riding, with even more committed tyre folding mid bend was going to
end in tears or worse still a 'I've-always-used-your-products-and-I'm-a-fan-of-British-engineering-and-by-the-way-are-those-rims-still-available-as-spares?' letter to our friends in Lancashire sooner or later. Second time through the pits, I grunted a
breathless “BACKSTOOSOFTNEXTTIME” as I went through in a small group. I saw
Dave immediately spring into action sourcing a track pump for my spare bike.
As
I came through the pits next time, I knew I’d had a good half lap as the
elastic had broken as I’d dropped my group, I elected to delay swapping just
for the time being as I consolidated my gap by really trying to get the power
on fast coming out of the slower turns and stay off the brakes. I'd got a good
gap as Steve Bottomley came through, I didn’t need much persuading to latch
onto him, feeling as proud as punch to mix it in good company.
Through
the pits and onto the spare bike with more pressure, it felt fast with a nice
clean front tyre gripping like glue at first. I still had a gap, on a cluster
of three perhaps ten, twelve seconds. I wanted more and saw regaining Steve as
my ticket. As we came down ‘the’ descent I kept my brakes off to carry as much
speed as possible and not compromise steering by silly braking.
After
the crash…..people asked me where it happened. I could tell from their glazed
over expression that they couldn’t even remember the slight kink it all went horribly
wrong for me. I suppose there’s a simple logic. The less the bend, the faster
one’s going when it goes wrong. A simple one to remember, the biggest crashes
happen on the least memorable bends…..
As
my front wheel slid ever so slightly, going really quite fast, I thought I’d
just ride through the tape. When I hit the marker post the slide turned into a
catastrophic, veering loss of control and towards a silver birch......I headed towards doom at
what felt like a hundred miles an hour, probably about twenty. Fast enough. As the 9” wide trunk headed straight
for my front wheel, I knew it was going to hurt/cost lots of money….or perhaps end all my pain. Forever. My mouth made that involuntary noise a split second before I
hit.
I
stopped very suddenly. Much more effective than disc brakes and not subject to recalls.
I
knew it had been a good one because two guys had not adopted the usual
Yorkshire protocol of uncontrollable laughing and had gazelled the course to
see to me. My shoulder and collarbone took the hit. I couldn’t straighten my
middle three fingers on my left hand and I had a dead leg. I could taste blood in my mouth.
I
had a bike race to ride, so back on the bike and away and see what happens as
four went past. If I’d done my collarbone I’d soon work it out, I’d rather make
the decision to abandon on the move than watch the race go by in pain only to
decide to keep going. The next lap was agony.
Slowly
the pain subsided and I found my composure returned as I got mopped up by a
group of two. At the bell, I was comparatively happy and my thoughts turned to
getting those last two places. No fancy plans or tactics this week, just a simple case
of making sure I was technically tidy on the horrible off camber section with right handed remount before
the last grassy bank, to carry as much speed as I could and dismount decisively
for the run.
My
plan worked perfectly as I came out the bank first and buried myself for the
last 200m to the line.
I
finished 26th. Physically wrecked and bloodied. At the time of
writing, I am walking with a limp, I cannot lift my left arm above shoulder
height and looking at the excellent bruise on my collarbone, I’ve come very close to a
premature season end and liquidised Christmas lunch. Nothing that forty mins on
the rollers wont fix….
Probably
my best race of the year on an ace course.
More
crucially the bike’s OK.
Steve
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