CQ27_FINAL_SPREADS (1)

But then I get very wet and very
cold. I have to hide in the car and
try and get changed in the front
seat and not scare the juniors and
women walking past outside as
I peel my skinsuit away from my
cold limbs and rain-shrunken penis,
which has somehow almost
disappeared inside my groin.
give way, and I am helped to
the grass, laid out like a corpse.
My bike stands silently some distance
away, embarrassed. I can
hear the commentator and he’s
talking about my book. That’s
nice. Later, at the HQ, others recount
similar experiences – “Oh
yes, I definitely lost my sense of
where I was. I didn’t realise hill
climbs actually went up to 11
until today” – and I feel a little
bit relieved. Mum appears after
a few minutes. She has a giant
cowbell she found on the internet.
I realise mums never stop
being proud of their children,
even when their children are
45 years old and should know
better.
I walk back down, pushing my
bike, because my legs appear
to have been glued on upside
down. And because I have no
braking surface. I get very,
very cold and everyone wants
to speak to me because I am
the idiot who did it on a Bob
Jackson Vigorelli and it somehow
speaks about how cycling
should be and this feels warm
and comforting, to them and to
me. And suddenly I must speak
to absolutely everyone because
now the blood has rushed back
into my brain and the endorphin
spike brings out a crazed, full
gas gibbering. But then I get
very wet and very cold. I have to
hide in the car and try and get
changed in the front seat and
not scare the juniors and women
walking past outside as I peel
my skinsuit away from my cold
limbs and rain-shrunken penis,
which has somehow almost disappeared
inside my groin.
My fragmented mess of a ride,
ascending Winnats but descending
into the depths of oxygen
debt, is immediately put into
relief by the artisans. Andrew
Feather and Andy Nichols hurtle
uphill, faces fixed, the narrow
tunnel a hindrance and a help.
Tom Bell floats like a dandelion
seed on a thermal uplift,
efficient, fast, incredible. Mary
Wilkinson on her gorgeous Cannondale
threads a yellow stitch
through time. Bithja Jones turns
the pedals in a visibly different
cadence, somehow outside of
time and physics, balancing
on a gossamer thread of total
commitment and total failure,
accompanied by a rippling
noise rolling up the mountain,
of cowbells and shouting and
rain. Sodden dogs look away
unimpressed, horrified to be
here. This isn’t the walk they
were promised. This is noise and
madness and wet rain. This is no
place for dogs.
Bithja finishes and we know
immediately that she has won
because it flashes up on the
screen and we can see the split
timing. I think of Mary Wilkinson,
and how she has now come
second many times and how
amazing she is, and I know it will
hurt. I know that each of them
will come back and do this thing
again because they are impelled
to do it. The race is over, and
spectators begin streaming
down the pass, pushed along by
the filthy torrent at the side of
the road. Shoes are emptied of
water, car heaters set on full. In
time they will talk about this day
in hushed tones. Right now, they
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