CQ27_FINAL_SPREADS (1)

People said I would explode, my
knees would shatter into shards
of bone and matted sinew, something
inside would prolapse and
end up outside, my arms would
snap from rotational torque, I
would die – or worse – I would
walk.
front. I was mocked mercilessly
on the internet last week when
I mentioned my gear choice.
People said I would explode, my
knees would shatter into shards
of bone and matted sinew,
something inside would prolapse
and end up outside, my
arms would snap from rotational
torque, I would die – or worse
– I would walk. In my stubborn,
ridiculous way, I stuck with it and
now ignore everyone, because
that is what riders used to use
back then. It’s the ‘Winnats
gear’. If my head explodes like
a character in Scanners then so
be it. That is the price of future
shock. It will make a good photograph
for someone’s feed.
The gear feels alright at 7.28am,
riding up the hill for the first
time. I turn the pedals carefully
and it seems steep but presents
no obstacle. I see Tom Bell
riding up, determined, smooth,
immaculate. I go back to the car
and do my customary warm-up –
on this occasion, sitting with the
heating on and a thick jacket,
prolonging the going outside bit
for as long as possible, before
emerging, already damp, into
the wet and windy landscape.
There is something eerie and
overwhelming about the start
line for a hill climb. It’s the
calm combined with a formless
tension at what comes next. Hill
climbs are horrid, painful affairs,
featuring an explosive ramp up
to maximum heart rate, a pitiful
attempt at pacing, a wall of
crowd noise juxtaposed with a
gradual depletion of oxygen and
strength. All of this awaits the
rider. My monologue is mostly
justification. “There won’t be anyone
here, it’s wet and early . .
. just ride up, you know you can
do that.” I am shivering uncontrollably,
a rotational landslide
of cold rippling down through
my torso. I remember that being
cold at the start of a five-minute
race is not a good look or good
strategy. I remember that I don’t
really want to be here, or perhaps
I really do, but I don’t want
to do what is coming next.
But then I remember that Chris
and Nick had been working towards
this point for three years.
That the local council had given
them a unanimous ‘no’ when
they first requested a road closure.
That they went away and
answered every single concern
and went back again, that they
compromised, did the work,
amassed the support, and then
went back again, and that the
result was this moment in time.
And I feel a vague sense of obligation
to complete the event.
There is a countdown from ten.
I can see a river of brown flood
water rippling through the gazebo.
I resist the urge to chat to
the marshal.
Then the clamour is gone,
and only the bike and forward
motion remain. I hear snippets
of noise, people saying things.
Someone asks, “Is that fixed?”
and I say “Yes”, and it is the last
thing I say that makes any sense
for about 15 minutes. I ride up
and feel OK and there are lots
more people than I want there
to be and they are making much
more noise than I want there to
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