by Mark Champion age 44 & 11 months
As a small boy, before the advent of mountain bikes and well before indexed gears I heard tale of a sport called cyclocross. A sport where racing bikes were ridden off-road and the riders got off and carried their bikes. My reaction was one of considerable amusement, it made no more sense than girls or beer…
It took me rather longer to find cyclocross but in October at the tender age of 44 & 11 months I raced my first SCX race in Irvine on the South West coast of Scotland.
It was the first truly competitive race I’d entered since the 1983 Junior Army Cross Country Championship… I was nervous.
You turn up to a hive of activity, lots of people carrying out well-versed preparation rituals. You quickly work out that they know what they’re doing and copy them
Registration found and entry fee paid you go and ride the course. Practice laps – learn the course, watch the pros. Already you’re riding sections you didn’t think possible, is that good?
Practice over it’s food, liquid and warmth until the mass of bikes and riders begin to roll towards the assembly point.
Then to the start line… inevitably you cast your eye across the ‘competition’. Confirmation of worst fears as everyone is faster and more confident than you… fight or flight reflex in flight overdrive… beam me up Scotty!
They talk of tyre pressure and knowingly agree on a number, a number that you didn’t read on your pump this morning… game’s a bogey maybe you should call it now.
But wait, the Commissars (weren’t they the ones who ordered the shooting of retreating Russian soldiers? – better stay put) are calling people forward by name… not you, just the players.
30 seconds later and the gun makes you a bike racer, get you!
The start is frenetic, all you can do is worry about your own line and keep going… still upright you start to grin… then there’s lactic, gallons of lactic… you start to grimace.
The first two laps are an adrenaline fuelled pain fest, pray for a mechanical, break damn you! The bike hates you, it’s not going to break, it’ll do that later when you’re starting to enjoy it. For now you must gasp for breath through all available orifices.
People overtake you, you overtake others… this feels good, slightly less suffering for you, slightly more for them. You wish them more, but only because you wish yourself less.
Physical and mental weakness mean that the technical sections that were straightforward in practice now become monumental tasks, all the places you thought you be able to recover become the only places you can maintain any speed; recovery is a myth.
Then the world slows down a bit, the pain subsides, you recognise this part of the course and you start to think about how to ride it.
You find yourself in your own group, a meaningful race… you could beat these people, or they could beat you.
This is good. Cyclocross is really good.
You look at your watch, over half way, what have you been doing? Time to put some effort in. Legs aren’t so sure, muted screaming is still screaming… why didn’t you train harder?!
The leaders are passing you, while your pedal strokes drive you deeper in to the mud, theirs create lift: they are, quite literally, flying.
Loss of concentration and one of your mini group passes you, last time you lost concentration you crashed, that was better at least you didn’t lose a place then.
Hold their wheel, make sure they know you’re there, decide where to reclaim your place. Execute the move and it’s yours… the racer races!
People are cheering, they’re saying nice things. They’re saying nice things specifically about you… you should try harder; for them.
In the distance you hear the bell so someone is starting their last lap, soon you’ll be doing the same. Legs and lungs feel little relief but the head is just getting the hang of it, come on hold this position… no idea what position you are, might be last… take one place: to not be last…
The bell, your bell, one more lap. Not a nice one like the middle section. The adrenaline is back and so is the lactic, but there’s less than one lap to go, you will finish this race!
And finish you do, finding strength to ride the last few yards like you did the first. There they are again those cheering people, impressed by your performance and thankful for your efforts on their behalf.
You ride in to the assembled throng of finishers, the heart of your new home, among the crossers, you are a crosser for everyone to see.
Legs aren’t tired, could have gone faster! Starting to buzz… feels like discovering beer… and girls. This is brilliant, did you see what we just did? It was brilliant!
Let’s do it again! Now! Or next week!
Need to talk about it. How did you cope with that off-camber? Those steps were a killer! What about the sand?! Any crashes? Mechanicals? Shall we do it again?
The elation starts to fade but now but it’s Thursday and only 3 days until the next race… can’t wait.
Cyclocross: almost as good as beer and girls….




