Wessex CX R11 - "Even the Strong Crumble"

I’m quite sure that the words Jesus and Christ have been whispered by many lips this week in the run up to the big man's birthday. Presents wrapped and under the tree, lights twinkling along every road and cupboards stocked with festive treats with a power-to-weight ratio of at least one million calories per 100 grams. If the neighbours had listened carefully they’d have no doubt heard the odd ‘Christ almighty’ or ‘sweet baby Jesus’ in a louder than normal voice, coming from the Cotty residence, as dawn breaks and I desperately try to make it out of bed with more grace than an OAP come retiree. Some things in life should never be taken for granted. Number one on the list (and quite rightly so) should always be your mum, narrowly edging out a good pair of thermal socks in the battle for world supremacy. Now, I’ll let you into a little Chrimbo secret, next time you’re drawing up your ‘don’t take for granted’ list feel free to slip ‘thoracic cage’ into your top five. It may not be the first thing that comes to mind but, believe me, if you ever have the misfortune to batter yourself on an icy road (as I did little over a week ago) then you’ll certainly feel smug at its inclusion. It’s eye-opening (literally) just how much a defect in this area can hinder the simplest of movements. Take the common ‘twist’ for example, something that is normally performed without so much of a second thought. Factor in some localised abuse to your 8th and 9th ribs and that same movement will swiftly turn into a lesson in pain (or maybe anger) management. What I have now come to realise is that whoever termed these as ‘false ribs’ must’ve seriously overdosed on chocolate coins as there’s no doubt that they’re real, even if I’ve temporarily gained a couple of extra ‘floating ribs’ for the foreseeable future. Anyway, that’s enough anatomy for now, I’m starting to bore myself. The main thing is that hurting on the bike feels infinitely better than hurting in the house (always has and always will do) which means there’s no excuses. Boxing Day ‘cross, bring it on!

With just a couple of slight changes compared to the National Trophy course that we raced on in the middle of November, it was good to be back at the Southampton Sports Centre once again. Considering the amount of rain that had been spilled in recent times the conditions looked to be drier than I’d anticipated, ensuring a fast race was on the cards. You’re never sure who may take to the start the day after Christmas, some opting for a moment of respite from the cyclocross battlefield in preference for another glass of mulled wine and a mince pie. What counts is the quality of the competition and with a strong contingent of Hargroves riders (including Steve James, Stu Bowers and Matt MacDonald) not to mention last week’s victor Mike Simpson all in attendance, it was important to come out swinging like McGuigan on Boxing Day.

As the one hour countdown began I managed to get a clean start, carefully negotiating the first series of bends that can all too easily catch out the over eager. Climbing into the copse I could see that I was being closely followed by Steve James and Matt MacDonald, with Stu Bowers a few bike lengths further back. As one of the stickiest parts of the course I focused on trying to ride this section smoothly, without any mistakes, before pushing the pace when out in the open. By the end of the lap things were still tight at the front. I daren’t take a look back at the chasers, preferring to try and forge a gap wherever possible.

There’s definitely a fine line between riding the slipperiest corners too fast, inevitably losing more time than you hope to gain. On days like this I break the course down into chunks. Parts that you just need to roll through trying not to touch the brakes, and sections where you need to dig deep and ride with 110% effort. It’s very different to a course where it’s all about power or those that favour a bias toward pure technique and skill. After twenty minutes cracks were starting to appear. Sensing that this could be the time for a knock-out punch I put in a fast lap to see what damage it may do. To my delight I was soon away and with good daylight behind, from here on in it was all about keeping each lap consistent until the bell lap when anything goes. As I crossed the line I was reminded just how greedy I’ve now been, six wins in the Wessex league was far from my mind. Two arms in the air, one for every bowl of homemade crumble that had been consumed the day before. Now that’s pig greedy.

I was wondering exactly where I’d got my power from. Now I know. By my calculation a kilogram of crumble is the best part of ten million calories. Mmmmmm. Nice. Let’s just hope it lasts, I’ve got a feeling by the end of the week I’m going to need all of that and more if the below start sheet is anything to go by. That and a plate full of Belgium waffles should just about do it I think. My mouth is already watering at the prospect of a kicking by the world's best. Feel the burn MC, feel the burn.

Wessex CX R10 - "I'm Screaming"

It’s early, the purest part of the day when the world has yet to wake. Quiet. Unassuming. Calm. The sky is already rich with dreams of the road ahead and as clear as an open mind. I pull the front door shut and take a deep breath, the chill winter air inhaled deep into my lungs. I’m alive. By the end of the driveway I’m already in my world, a bubble of thoughts wrapped in a layer of thermal clothing and intoxicated by the voice of Maxi Jazz “I wanna take a look at the world behind these eyes. Every nook, every cranny reorganise. Realise my face don’t fit the way I feel, what’s real? I need a mirror to check my face is in place. Incase of upheaval, fundamental movement below. What‘s really going on I wanna know. But yo, we don’t show on the outside, so slide. Just below my skin I’m screaming...”

How serenity can be throttled in a heartbeat. I wanna shout aloud what was really going through my mind, but the obscenities would’ve fallen on deaf ears. It wouldn’t have helped the situation. The pain starts to burn hotter and hotter like a freshly lit match. The right hand side of my kit now strewn with what looked like a barrage of bullet holes, ripped open by the abrasive face of the tarmac. I don’t want to see the extent of the damage. My bike looks to be in no better health, bars twisted in a sorry state as if it’ll never be ridden again. Black ice. It’s destructive nature has no concern whatsoever as to who or what may try and challenge it. To date I have never won the battle. Reduced to a lesser man and sent marching to clean my wounds and prepare for another day.....one that would come all too quickly and go by the name of ‘Round 10 of the Wessex League’.

I was hoping that a long, hot, shower would help rinse away the hurt, but reality is seldom like that. External injuries are one thing, scarred knees and hips go hand in hand. Internal trauma is another thing altogether. That effortless deep breath to fill my lungs now all but a memory, replaced by a sharp rib pain, reminding me to focus and man the funk up.

The 3.6km circuit in Wareham forest offered little in the way of a technical challenge, with a vast expanse of open fire-roads and sandy ascents it looked to be a classic powerman’s course from every angle. As we sprinted away from the start a gap quickly formed and by the end of the first lap it was Dan Lewis (RAF CC) and Mike Simpson making up the trio at the head of the race. It was good to share the work in the early stages before Dan slipped off the pace, leaving just myself and Simpson to duke it out. I’ve ridden with Mike in the Alps before and have witnessed first hand the raw power that he possesses. As an ex runner and rower his engine would be top of my Christmas list, it’s just doubtful that Santa could come up with the goods at such short notice.

With only one real descent on the course needing more skills than an hour at threshold on the velodrome, it was important to try and use this to my advantage. Coming at the start of each lap meant that even a couple of precious seconds that were gained here were easily chewed up on the flat again. It was soon evident that barring a mistake it was going to be very difficult to get away, and despite my efforts the attacks were nullified with nothing in it as we take the bell.

I lead into the final lap and try to put more pressure on Mike by riding aggressively on the parts that count. By the summit of the main climb I’ve forged a gap, albeit just a few seconds. I’m now committed, never looking back to asses the situation behind, preferring to focus fully on life ahead. Through the final corners and I can sense that Mike is back on my wheel. Knowing that Mr Claus would never pull through with my number one gift choice I’m hoping that he took the time to 'Amazon One-Click' my second wish. The flag is in sight, just a moment of racing left to give it everything, and I’m beaten on the line. Next year I’m writing “1 x pair of Cavendish SPOTY legs” in bold on that list and personally hand delivering it to (my ex-mate) Santa.

A week on and the question still remains, how long do cracked ribs take to heal? Unfortunately I already know the answer to that one, and it’s not ‘before I head to Belgium for a proper festive kicking’. As if that little escapade wasn’t going to be hard enough. The faithless words of Maxi Jazz resonate once more. Looks like it’ll be a few more weeks that "just below my skin I’m screaming".

Photos by Phil Gale (18.12.11)

Wessex CX R9 - "Don't Bank On It"

Winter is a glourious time to embrace the elements, the ever changing conditions day-on-day not only add to the diversity of each ride but can also frequent the everyday cyclist with the ultimate kit bag conundrum. What the hell to wear. I can count on one hand alone the number of rides since October that have required an onslaught of Windstopper fabric to fend off the evils that lay awake beyond the front doorstep. Not that I’m complaining of course, oh no, it’s just that I’ve invested heavily over the seasons in technology that’s as useful to the skinny cyclist as a well cultivated coat of blubber is to the Minky whale after an ‘all you can eat’ swim in the sea-life centre.

Repent, the blue skies of yesterday are no more, replaced by an icy, bone chilling, wind and clouds that look set to burst at any moment. A welcome change to the broadly dry conditions that have proceeded the first eight rounds of the Wessex League so far, and certainly bringing a dynamic to the new circuit in Didcot that would test a rider’s skill even more so than plain old brute force and ignorance. The polar opposite of last week’s flat and fast course, it seems that the organisers took pride in making up for the lack of elevation by sticking round nine on a claggy, flint infested, 45 degree bank, continually climbing and descending with a multitude of off-cambers and hairpin bends. Nice.

Despite finding it hard to stop shivering before the start (a welcome sign that means you have to work doubly hard just to get some warmth back into the limbs) the bikes were carefully primed with the dilemma of the day being to A) run the tubs soft and risk a puncture on the sharp, shark-tooth like, stone or B) go for higher pressures and subsequently less traction. As the rain started to fall, minutes before the start, I opted for the former. Only time would tell if I’d made the right choice. With a number of regular riders missing from the start sheet, opting to take on the battlefield that was always going to be known as Peel Park in Bradford, nonetheless danger men Dan Lewis (RAF CC) and Chris Minter (Pedal On) can never be taken lightly and seldom go down without a fight.

The long, open, headwind start soon established the pecking order, initially led out by Jamie Norfolk (Pedal On) before Dan pushes through to lead as we head into the forest. Instinct takes over on exit and I pass Dan on the inside just before the first slick, tight, right-hander. I’m focused on trying to pick the best line, behind me all I can hear is the distinct tone of bikes and bodies sliding on concrete as the early carnage ensues. Being at the front is the safest place to be. I carefully negotiate the first series of cambers before muscling my way up the main ascent on the course, which was made up of an initial steep pitch followed by a sweeping off-camber and final switchback section to its crest. In terms of cyclocross climbs this is the biggest I’ve seen.

Having the bike squirm around beneath you on the free-fall back down, as if it has a mind of it’s own, is always a smile inducing feeling, albeit one that can come to a painful end after the slightest lapse of concentration. I cross the finish line to complete lap one with a 10 second gap back to Dan. There’s no time to relax, I ponder shifting up into the big chainring but know that on a course that felt not too dissimilar to wading through quicksand the intention would be futile.

Gaining a few seconds on each lap means that it’s possible to keep a consistent pace for the full hour, without the need to raise the tempo to hold a wheel in front, or find more strength to distance those behind. The rain subsides but the wind remains, assisting for a fraction of the time that it was there in hindrance. I try and ride as smoothly as possible to avoid a puncture, knowing that disaster could deflate my chances in a split second. It’s seems to be my lucky day, with no crashes or mechanical problems to contend with. I honestly don’t know what all the fuss is about, government bailouts, financial crisis, the credit crunch. I look up for one last time as the chequered flag comes into view. From what I can see UK banks are rock solid and in great shape.

South of England Champs "Culinary Delight"

Well, they say that everything happens for a reason, and that every action has a reaction. So early into the month of December and my box of Christmas cards was already running low. The credit crunch meant that a cull was in order, but whom can I strike off the list? Closest friends and family have all been disturbingly well behaved this year so no cut backs there I’m afraid. Hmm, this one’s going to need some more thought...

Beaufort County School, the heart of Gloucester, on what can only be described as a day where I was seeing black and white through my contact lenses as opposed to the usual kaleidoscope of colours that we’ve been blessed with this winter. Thick, dark, cloud wrapped around the playing fields like a 600 fill duck-down jacket, helping to keep what little warmth there is from escaping. If the day was anything but inspiring, the course for the South of England Championships/Round 8 of the Wessex League offered no helping hand in lifting spirits. It was evident after one practice lap that it was indeed going to be a flat-out winter crit around the perimeter of the school, the biggest technical challenge of the day being the double flight of stairs to avoid the queue for the only toilet on the ground floor.

Fortunately it’s not the course that makes the race but the riders in it, and with some of the hottest legs in the country lining up at the start it was always going to be sixty minutes at full-throttle. Current U23 National Trophy Series leader, Steve James (Hargroves Cycles) made his intentions clear on the whistle, immediately taking on the early pace and separating the pack into more bite-size friendly pieces. With Steve leading, I’d slotted into third place on the wheel of Motorpoint Pro Cycling’s Will Bjergfelt, closely followed by Crispin Doyle (Swindon RC), Ben Sumner (Beeline Bicycles) and Nick Jones (Corley Cycles).

By the third lap it was time for the movers and shakers to have their time, initially Bjergfelt led the charge before Sumner found himself at the head of affairs after what he described as “an accidental attack”. By now the speed was fluctuating somewhat. Big injections of pace followed by a regrouping, before another attack. I like this type of racing, the tactical approach to cyclocross. With little shelter, or places to hide, the course didn’t lend itself to a solo breakaway but more to a gradual wearing down process. With just over half an hour on the watch I hit the front to do my turn, conscious not to light the whole box of matches all in one lucky strike. The group is now down to just four - James, Bjergfelt and Doyle. I’m feeling comfortable, but as the laps pass my attention begins to turn to how we can thin the group further. Crispin puts in what looks to be a serious attack but is quickly closed down. He slides to the back of the pack and looks to be paying for his efforts, finding it hard to keep in contact with the accelerations out of each bend.
Two laps to go and it’s starting to get very serious indeed, all will be decided in a matter of minutes. A sense of urgency can be felt in the air with every hard pressed pedal stroke. I’m determined not to make any late mistakes and remain well positioned as we take the bell. I’d been playing this final lap over and over in my head for what seemed like days. A glance back and the gap has opened up behind to Bjergfelt and Doyle. It’s now a two horse race. On the only uphill drag, halfway around, I’m focussed on passing James but can’t get by before the sharp left at the top of the climb. Deep breath, “come on MC, it’s not over yet”. Through the switchbacks and along the back edge of the course, I can feel the adrenaline building with every heartbeat. I try desperately hard not to pass Steve too early but know I have to lead into the last left-hander to stand any chance. Now is my time to go, I commit and pass on the inside line, setting myself up to take the final two ditches from the front. On exit I’m already on the drops and trying to get back up to speed. The finish line is a long way out. I can hear the crowd screaming with excitement. I wanted to win this race so bad, but Steve is too strong, passing me in the final metres to be crowned the South of England Champion. I cross the line and wish that I was all alone so that I can shout aloud the words that feel like they’re going to detonate my mind and split my skull in two. Gutted.

The Gloucester course proved to be host to the most exciting day of racing this season (and one of the most closely fought races I can remember). Chapeau to the organisers for making this happen under less than ideal circumstances when the original venue was cancelled at short notice. The reason? Bristol City Council spitting their toys out of the pram and demanding £5000 should any damage be made to the grass (hmm, isn’t that the wonderful thing about the ever-green plant, it grows back?) Let’s not forget that Bristol was chosen to be England’s first ‘Cycling City’, receiving £11M from the Department of Transport to transform cycling. Oh, and that’s the same Bristol ‘Cycling City’ that has received a further £40M to promote cycling as a means of transport and exercise, and the same good ol’ Bristol ‘Cycling City’ that, according to their website, ensures ‘cycling is central to our vision of the future’. Well, with vision like that I’d prefer to take my chances and ride with my eyes shut. Decision made, cull complete, no Christmas card for you Bristol ‘Cycling City’, maybe next year if you decide not to be such jokers.

Photos by Deborah Malin (04.12.11)

Wessex CX R7 - "New World Disorder"

The school grounds are already chock-a-block, rammed full of laboured bike-rack wielding vehicles from across the south. Apparently, I’d heard the course could <i>easily</i> take 180 riders without bursting its seams. Huh, funny. I think someone may have been a little over zealous in their spacial awareness when making that estimation. At least I’d come well equipped should it turn into a park and ride affair. Another unfamiliar face gives a sense of acute paranoia, like the new boy walking into class on the first day of term. Come on, whoever is in charge here, call the register. Surely it’s time to put the nerves to rest and get the show on the off-road.

Well, you’d have thought it would’ve been that simple eh? Evidently not. Doubling up the seventh round of the Wessex League with the Central League was always going to have the top brass scratching their heads at the start order. It might have made more sense had they actually brought the latest Wessex rankings with them. I’d assumed that since the number of students passing with five A to C grades has steadily risen year on year, homework was a necessity for success. It seems standards have slipped. I never got away with skipping my homework and find myself bailing out the big boys, minutes before the flag is about to drop, by scrawling down the top 20 in the Wessex onto the back of an envelope so that all hell doesn’t break loose in a rugby style scrum.

I glance back as I prepare for the final countdown. That’s a whole lot of riders behind. One wrong move and it’d be like being trampled by wild buffalo trying to escape from starving wolves in the peak of winter. The signal comes and we’re off and sprinting towards the first right-hander and along the perimeter of the playing fields. I make up for last week’s ‘false start’ and tuck into second place as we prepare to face the strong northerly wind that's delivering its anger by making sections far harder than they otherwise should be. It feels like the pace has slowed too much so I hit the front to try and keep things rolling along and limit anyone passing from behind. By the furthest point of the course I’ve pulled out a few metres on third and fourth place, with Nick Jones (Corley Cycles) on my wheel. As we head over the hurdles for the first time I’m still leading. The pace is reasonable so I don’t feel an immediate need to inject more into it, happy for Nick to sit with me as we head into the woods. On exit the wind is behind us, a beautiful sweeping left past the pits as we cross the line to begin the second lap. I flick my elbow to signify that it’s time to share the work and Nick glides through to the front. Although you don’t get the same drafting effects as on the road, on a windy day like this there’s definite gains to be made by being sat behind someone. Immediately I feel the difference from being in tow, taking a deep breath and shifting up a gear to take a moment of pressure from the legs.

Tactics are a wonderful thing. I often visualise what I want to do in a race, how I’d like things to go, or eventually pan out. Then we start and everything is completely different. As we approach the far side of the course for the second time, I feel the urge to build the burn inside into something more meaningful. I shift down a gear and sprint past Nick, through the fallen leaves on his left, and into the wind. It’s still early in the race, logic would dictate to work together for a few laps before duking it out at the end. I’ve never been one to race on logic though, preferring to go on instinct summoned by the demons within.

By the hurdles I have a few seconds to myself, there’s no point looking back now, the course ahead is as clear as the sky so it’s time to make the most of it and do exactly what I came here to do. Just ride. There’s little technical on each lap so my concentration turns to keeping the speed consistent whilst trying to limit any errors. Freedom doesn’t last long and I’m soon having to negotiate lapped riders. With Seniors, Vets, Women and Juniors all rolled into one melting pot for the day, it adds another dimension to the race that’s seldom a factor. Riders seeming to bounce around between the marker tape in a similar fashion to a bowling ball being kept on the straight and narrow by the gutter bumpers.

As I start my final lap I have no real idea of the state of play behind. By now I have the course dialled, knowing precisely what gear I need to be in, where to dab the brakes and where to go full speed. After what seemed like a long hour the flag comes into view and I no longer have to hit the same power curve that I’ve become accustomed to. Unbelievable, we’re now approaching the end of November and it’s still so mild. The extent of having to clean the bike post race is as simple as flicking a worm off of the bottom bracket shell.

We amble over to the presentation and it soon becomes apparent that the organisers are having all sorts of problems working out the results. I guess a handshake and a lengthy mid afternoon wait is as good as it gets today. “We’ll post you your prize”, I’m told. Maybe I didn’t hang around long enough to hear them say "when" they’ll actually send it. A week on and still no sign. I can only grade that effort with a stern but fair D minus.

Within the hour I’m back on the bike and spinning the legs out on my way home. Peace with every pedal stroke, some things I can’t afford to miss. The sun dips for the final time. Deep breath. Back in my world again, order restored once more.