CQ27_FINAL_SPREADS (1)

be and it increases with each
increment of height gain. I am
baffled by it. It is 8.31am on a
Sunday, the clocks have changed
for Christ’s sake. Why aren’t
they in bed? Instead, they have
come here to shout at people
mad enough to do this thing and
watch and get utterly soaked
and they will have to empty
their shoes of water when this
is done.
The first two minutes seem OK.
The gear is good – I chose wisely.
But then it starts to unravel.
The gradient lifts up, notch by
notch, a thumb screw, a steady
trepanning. It isn’t binary, it just
starts to really hurt, and the periphery
gets wobbly. It gets so
hard I want to stop, genuinely,
to climb off, anything but carry
on. I hate the people shouting
and want to be anywhere but
here, where I know I cannot stop
until this is finished, because
of some unseen commitment,
some force of something that
tells you that you cannot stop.
My arms and legs are working
independently, ignoring the
messages in my brain, and I
can’t see.
I’ve done lots of hill climbs and
at every single one I have been
entirely aware of everything and
everyone, the people at the side
of the road, someone I know
with a cowbell, a strange jacket,
a tree, a sheep with a scrawled
farmer’s tag, a whiff of strong
perfume, someone looking angry,
or exhilarated. Here, not so,
it’s just a blur. I think I see Mum
– she is there somewhere. I am
vaguely aware that I think that it
might be Mum and Ian, her partner,
with his camera, maybe, but
I can’t be sure because her voice
isn’t right, it is an octave lower,
or higher at the same time. And
I am making strange noises,
strange reedy noises, pain
noises, because I am not doing
OK and I can’t look up because
it would give it away and I can’t
look at the people looking at me
because I don’t want to because
I can’t see them and I am embarrassed
at how hard this is, how
ragged I look. There is no transcendence,
only a man wielding
a giant kebab in the rain as solid
water slides down with no gap
between the droplets. I glimpse,
through delirium, the finish line
and know that it is about to end,
this privation.
They have catchers. This is a hill
climb thing. They are there for
people who have gone a bit far
and can’t walk afterwards and
they stop you from falling off
the bike. I used to think they
were there for the people who
like drama, people who like the
feeling of being helped, even
though they don’t really need it.
I used to ride through, carry on
for a bit, cool down. I once felt a
bit sick, but no more than that.
Today is very much more than
that.
I prepare to ride through but instead
lean against the catchers,
slump down on the bars and any
vestige of energy disappears in
a moment. I try to move but it is
not possible. I think of all those
dilettantes at previous races,
people I’d seen doing this thing,
and realise this is me. My legs
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