Autumn calling: a short story about ‘cross training
jpembroke
Posts: 2,569
It is June and already I can feel its pull. An obsession borne out of necessity - less time to train, no motivation for the long haul – it began last year, last summer to be precise, when I bought the frame and dismantled the old winter trainer to build up the new rig. Burning bridges in the heat of July. The old steel frame, a servant of numerous hard winters and 20 mile commutes, lay dismantled and pillaged, awaiting shipment to the highest bidder. Betrayal. Yet, even its parts are not adequate for this higher purpose and now only shifters and mechs remain. Everything else is stacked high in a blue plastic box to be sold piece by piece. More silver, more guilt. But I need lighter, need better: it has to be race ready and it has to look good on the start line, doesn’t it? Decisions made, money spent, and the deed is done, over budget certainly, but light and strong, and it’s red so it’ll go quick, right?
And so I’m drawn, drawn towards autumn and the season start, towards the rain and the mud and the cold. But it’s June and everywhere is dry and dusty. Everywhere except a couple of places and they never dry out, do they? The circuit is straight forward enough: 13 miles, nothing too technical; but it undulates, it strings you out, and it makes you hang on. To nail this in under an hour is an exercise in suffering, the unavoidable acceptance of pain behind a curtain of eye-stinging sweat. It’s perfect!
Yes, the hard work starts here. I put on my lucky bib shorts, the ones with the stitched-up tear where I impaled myself on a brake lever in a mountain bike crash 3 years previous. Well, I survived didn’t I? And the red, fitted, Italian jersey (to match the bike of course.) - look good, ride well! And the route? Today I chose clockwise. Not that it makes much difference; it hurts both ways.
The first mile is on road and the 35c tyres hum against the tarmac. Brrrrrmmmmmmmmmm. Bike meditates as my arms begin to warm against the cool evening air. Pace yourself: 18mph is enough. Then, bang, the ramp at the bottom of the hill: 14%, always hurts. 34x21. Spin. 9mph. Fine. Round the bend, up to 10mph. Good. Then left, and 200yds of respite before the real work begins. I ride past the main car park where dog walkers and downhill mountain bikers gather in equal measure. I admire them, the downhillers. I think about navigating supersteep singletrack at speed through trees and over rocks, and there it is again: that familiar, sick feeling in my groin, my testicles ascending to safety. No thanks. No need for 6” of travel here. No pun intended. I grimace and ride on.
Next car park and this is it, I resign myself to my hour of need. I unclip my right foot and swing it over the saddle, practising the dismount at speed. I am rusty and there are people around and I pray I don’t f*** this up. My left foot unclips in a fluid motion and I find myself running, bike held high to clear the style and gate. I’m over and immediately remount, not so stylishly but no spectators, and I’m straight on to the tramway. 34x24. 25%, maybe more at the top. It is like riding a shallow half pipe and in places I use the banks, zigzagging across the width of track, freewheeling for a precious second in and out of the central gully. The top comes quickly. It is like the hub of a wheel where all paths meet and walkers and mountain bikers congregate around the grassy clearing, their voices echoing about the quarry walls. I’m not stopping here and charge on to the steep quarry track, riding to the point where the gradient ramps up to an impossible 40%. Again, the dismount is fine – I dread my left foot refusing to budge from its binding - and I hit the rocky slope at a run, bike on shoulder and the studs of my shoes biting in to the dirt as I climb on tip toes. I look up and there is a large group of walkers tentatively coming down towards me. I grin beneath my dark lenses: added impetus to hold the pace. I pass them. They stare at me and comments are made, I offer a dry reply through a taste of copper. They are behind and below me now, I hear only muttering but no movement on the scree. I know they have stopped to watch me as I ascend. Don’t look down; keep going. I shift the bike on my shoulder desperately trying find a position, not of greater comfort but of less pain.
As I make the top I throw the bike down and jump on. The view to the west is stunning. The Severn Vale, The Malverns, Forest of Dean, Black Mountains, and Shropshire Hills: they all jostle for my attention but it’s difficult to focus on anything right now. I take a narrow section of singletrack along the escarpment and then increase speed on the main track. On to the drops – 48x16 – I navigate the steep, downhill section over the tree roots above the top quarry and drop down on to the lane. I shift down. 34x21. It’s steep but it’s tarmac and only 200yds. Stand up and sprint for the top, only takes a minute. Lungs bursting, I pass the tree by the cottage and the little dog that always patrols this stretch of road. I say hello through gritted teeth and then fly on, across the top of the hill, through the farmyard, and down to Seven Springs. No cars! Wow, that’s rare. I race round the roundabout and left on to the Cotswold Way. Just past the gate are deep ruts filled with cloying mud and hemmed by shoulder-high nettles. Take this badly and your front wheel sticks fast as if locked in a vice. If you are lucky you’ll be thrown in to the dirt, if not you’ll be scratching for a week. I plunge in and roll up the other side without incident. It’s fairly dry for a change and so I plough on unscathed, on to the next climb. I hit the bottom fast, over the rocks and cobbles and then take the tree roots on the right as usual, better than the rocks in the ephemeral streambed. It’s steep. 34x28. Staying on the right I brush the nettles and get stung on my knee and thigh. I don’t mind a bit of formic acid, it wakes me up, makes me go faster: natural performance enhancement.
At the top is a short section of farm track - rutted and stoney, and devoid of puddles for once - which links up with the lane to next hamlet. I increase my speed, taking the gradual incline at 17mph. 48x18. I turn right at the junction, shift up, and fly down the hill, touching 33mph at the barn; slowing for the corners past the rose-clad cottages. Please, no one pull out of driveways, no one come round this corner. I turn right and head off road again, down in to the trees, over rocks and roots, in to the darkness of the pines. Even in high summer it is wet here; the mud thick, it pulls at your wheels, sucking them down to a standstill. A steep ride down in to gloom and a true test of bike handling: take it on the left for the easiest passage through the mire, or on the right, off camber, where the mud is deepest and recent tracks hold your back wheel tight and won’t let go. Roulette on a bike. I chose left.
The mud passed, I am flung forward like a slingshot through the claustrophobic tunnel of pines towards light and emerge blinking in to the cornfield, as if leaving a cinema in the afternoon. The field slopes down towards the road and I can accelerate again. 500yds straight as an arrow between the crops, like a runway. I feel like bird in flight. At 25mph my wrists are battered by the hard packed ground beneath my wheels, every rut and stone jars me but I’m grinning and can’t stop. The road is reached: I turn left and then right on to an old, broken tarmac lane slowly being reclaimed by nature, grass growing up the middle, deep holes that will never be filled. A tree is down – a hurdle – and so another chance to practise my dismount: a satisfying, flowing motion from riding to running to jumping to riding again. Down the lane, it’s left on to singletrack, in to the dip where more mud grasps at my wheel but the tread bites and carries me through to another gate and another dark old lane filled with mud and detritus of spring gales. In front of me a jackdaw appears from the brambles, hopping weakly with a broken wing. He makes it across the track and disappears in to the shadow of a hawthorn.
Ahead is the Cowley lane and the sheep pens at the foot of Shab Hill. Twice I have punctured here for some reason but not today, not with these new tyres. I let the gate close itself and I power on across the hoof prints and grass, chose a rut and stick to it. I push it as hard as possible on this climb; I imagine pulling away from myself up to the gate at the top. My cranks spin out a high cadence and I climb fast, efficiently, above valley pastures, through a perfect landscape of unreal, vivid green. My time is good. I can taste the metal that coats my desiccated mouth. I have no water. A deliberate decision, it’s only an hour after all, and drinking slows you down. The gate! Another climb done, I race across the top in to setting sunlight burning through the gap in the hills beyond. Right turn and down the most jarring descent on the circuit: an old track, cobbled, rock strewn, and deep with ruts. Once used by carts; now horses, walkers, and bikes with suspension. I get funny looks from a mountain biker on his way up. I try to smile but all I can do is bare teeth, an ape’s sign of aggression, or submission, or both. This bit shakes my body so much I can’t help but shout out. I try not to think of blow-outs, wheels buckling, rocks sending me the left instead of right.
I am down, at the main road. No cars here either. Lucky day! Across and past the golf club where men in jumpers are packing their clubs in to spacious boots or heading to the bar to talk a good round over a beer. So, why am I doing this? I ignore that distracting thought and take a right on to the track beside the course. It was quite tough once, before last year’s storms, but now it’s been filled in and rolled out, all its imperfections removed. The limestone hardcore surface glows like a yellow brick road in the late evening sun. Deep breath, fly to the top, breathe out – simple! The last few yards out of the trees, over the cobbles really burns and I am rocking over the bars. I feel sick and my vision narrows slightly, framed by grey. Above and beyond the anaerobic threshold, my heart pounds the bars of my chest screaming for merciful release. But that’s it; I’m at the top and turning right past the cottage. There’s that dog again – he hasn’t moved. He must think I’m an idiot. Certainly looks at me with disdain. Accelerate, 48x11, ride as fast as I can along the tarmac, back through the farmyard and down the hill to the corner and left on to the track.
I fly through trees, through puddles and mud. My legs are caked and my backside is soaking. A short cobbled descent, another tricky muddy section and then I am beneath the escarpment with wild flowers all around. The orchids are out now if you look hard enough. A steep bank and a sharp turn on to singletrack then I’m flying down Daisybank, past big houses with enormous views, past the car park with the dog walkers, and downhillers lazing on the grass summoning the energy to push their bikes back to the top of the hill for one last run. Once on to the main road I touch 40mph on the new surface and the speed sign flashes at me to calm down. Over the roundabout I follow a line of cars until my turn. Stand on the pedals, race to the line. Cane it. Down my street I glance at the computer. Wait until I’m level with the front door….wait…wait. Bang, there: time is 56:20. The fastest time yet. I’m beaming from ear to ear as I push my bike down the alley at the side of the house, my time already overwritten as the front wheel continues to turn. Through the back gate, Katy is in the kitchen; I indicate to her my success, an index finger pointing upwards in triumph. She comes to the backdoor and gives me a look: “you’d better get in that shower” she says, “we’re off out in half an hour.” Reality. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted and I’ll probably do it all again tomorrow. And again and again, drawn towards autumn.
And so I’m drawn, drawn towards autumn and the season start, towards the rain and the mud and the cold. But it’s June and everywhere is dry and dusty. Everywhere except a couple of places and they never dry out, do they? The circuit is straight forward enough: 13 miles, nothing too technical; but it undulates, it strings you out, and it makes you hang on. To nail this in under an hour is an exercise in suffering, the unavoidable acceptance of pain behind a curtain of eye-stinging sweat. It’s perfect!
Yes, the hard work starts here. I put on my lucky bib shorts, the ones with the stitched-up tear where I impaled myself on a brake lever in a mountain bike crash 3 years previous. Well, I survived didn’t I? And the red, fitted, Italian jersey (to match the bike of course.) - look good, ride well! And the route? Today I chose clockwise. Not that it makes much difference; it hurts both ways.
The first mile is on road and the 35c tyres hum against the tarmac. Brrrrrmmmmmmmmmm. Bike meditates as my arms begin to warm against the cool evening air. Pace yourself: 18mph is enough. Then, bang, the ramp at the bottom of the hill: 14%, always hurts. 34x21. Spin. 9mph. Fine. Round the bend, up to 10mph. Good. Then left, and 200yds of respite before the real work begins. I ride past the main car park where dog walkers and downhill mountain bikers gather in equal measure. I admire them, the downhillers. I think about navigating supersteep singletrack at speed through trees and over rocks, and there it is again: that familiar, sick feeling in my groin, my testicles ascending to safety. No thanks. No need for 6” of travel here. No pun intended. I grimace and ride on.
Next car park and this is it, I resign myself to my hour of need. I unclip my right foot and swing it over the saddle, practising the dismount at speed. I am rusty and there are people around and I pray I don’t f*** this up. My left foot unclips in a fluid motion and I find myself running, bike held high to clear the style and gate. I’m over and immediately remount, not so stylishly but no spectators, and I’m straight on to the tramway. 34x24. 25%, maybe more at the top. It is like riding a shallow half pipe and in places I use the banks, zigzagging across the width of track, freewheeling for a precious second in and out of the central gully. The top comes quickly. It is like the hub of a wheel where all paths meet and walkers and mountain bikers congregate around the grassy clearing, their voices echoing about the quarry walls. I’m not stopping here and charge on to the steep quarry track, riding to the point where the gradient ramps up to an impossible 40%. Again, the dismount is fine – I dread my left foot refusing to budge from its binding - and I hit the rocky slope at a run, bike on shoulder and the studs of my shoes biting in to the dirt as I climb on tip toes. I look up and there is a large group of walkers tentatively coming down towards me. I grin beneath my dark lenses: added impetus to hold the pace. I pass them. They stare at me and comments are made, I offer a dry reply through a taste of copper. They are behind and below me now, I hear only muttering but no movement on the scree. I know they have stopped to watch me as I ascend. Don’t look down; keep going. I shift the bike on my shoulder desperately trying find a position, not of greater comfort but of less pain.
As I make the top I throw the bike down and jump on. The view to the west is stunning. The Severn Vale, The Malverns, Forest of Dean, Black Mountains, and Shropshire Hills: they all jostle for my attention but it’s difficult to focus on anything right now. I take a narrow section of singletrack along the escarpment and then increase speed on the main track. On to the drops – 48x16 – I navigate the steep, downhill section over the tree roots above the top quarry and drop down on to the lane. I shift down. 34x21. It’s steep but it’s tarmac and only 200yds. Stand up and sprint for the top, only takes a minute. Lungs bursting, I pass the tree by the cottage and the little dog that always patrols this stretch of road. I say hello through gritted teeth and then fly on, across the top of the hill, through the farmyard, and down to Seven Springs. No cars! Wow, that’s rare. I race round the roundabout and left on to the Cotswold Way. Just past the gate are deep ruts filled with cloying mud and hemmed by shoulder-high nettles. Take this badly and your front wheel sticks fast as if locked in a vice. If you are lucky you’ll be thrown in to the dirt, if not you’ll be scratching for a week. I plunge in and roll up the other side without incident. It’s fairly dry for a change and so I plough on unscathed, on to the next climb. I hit the bottom fast, over the rocks and cobbles and then take the tree roots on the right as usual, better than the rocks in the ephemeral streambed. It’s steep. 34x28. Staying on the right I brush the nettles and get stung on my knee and thigh. I don’t mind a bit of formic acid, it wakes me up, makes me go faster: natural performance enhancement.
At the top is a short section of farm track - rutted and stoney, and devoid of puddles for once - which links up with the lane to next hamlet. I increase my speed, taking the gradual incline at 17mph. 48x18. I turn right at the junction, shift up, and fly down the hill, touching 33mph at the barn; slowing for the corners past the rose-clad cottages. Please, no one pull out of driveways, no one come round this corner. I turn right and head off road again, down in to the trees, over rocks and roots, in to the darkness of the pines. Even in high summer it is wet here; the mud thick, it pulls at your wheels, sucking them down to a standstill. A steep ride down in to gloom and a true test of bike handling: take it on the left for the easiest passage through the mire, or on the right, off camber, where the mud is deepest and recent tracks hold your back wheel tight and won’t let go. Roulette on a bike. I chose left.
The mud passed, I am flung forward like a slingshot through the claustrophobic tunnel of pines towards light and emerge blinking in to the cornfield, as if leaving a cinema in the afternoon. The field slopes down towards the road and I can accelerate again. 500yds straight as an arrow between the crops, like a runway. I feel like bird in flight. At 25mph my wrists are battered by the hard packed ground beneath my wheels, every rut and stone jars me but I’m grinning and can’t stop. The road is reached: I turn left and then right on to an old, broken tarmac lane slowly being reclaimed by nature, grass growing up the middle, deep holes that will never be filled. A tree is down – a hurdle – and so another chance to practise my dismount: a satisfying, flowing motion from riding to running to jumping to riding again. Down the lane, it’s left on to singletrack, in to the dip where more mud grasps at my wheel but the tread bites and carries me through to another gate and another dark old lane filled with mud and detritus of spring gales. In front of me a jackdaw appears from the brambles, hopping weakly with a broken wing. He makes it across the track and disappears in to the shadow of a hawthorn.
Ahead is the Cowley lane and the sheep pens at the foot of Shab Hill. Twice I have punctured here for some reason but not today, not with these new tyres. I let the gate close itself and I power on across the hoof prints and grass, chose a rut and stick to it. I push it as hard as possible on this climb; I imagine pulling away from myself up to the gate at the top. My cranks spin out a high cadence and I climb fast, efficiently, above valley pastures, through a perfect landscape of unreal, vivid green. My time is good. I can taste the metal that coats my desiccated mouth. I have no water. A deliberate decision, it’s only an hour after all, and drinking slows you down. The gate! Another climb done, I race across the top in to setting sunlight burning through the gap in the hills beyond. Right turn and down the most jarring descent on the circuit: an old track, cobbled, rock strewn, and deep with ruts. Once used by carts; now horses, walkers, and bikes with suspension. I get funny looks from a mountain biker on his way up. I try to smile but all I can do is bare teeth, an ape’s sign of aggression, or submission, or both. This bit shakes my body so much I can’t help but shout out. I try not to think of blow-outs, wheels buckling, rocks sending me the left instead of right.
I am down, at the main road. No cars here either. Lucky day! Across and past the golf club where men in jumpers are packing their clubs in to spacious boots or heading to the bar to talk a good round over a beer. So, why am I doing this? I ignore that distracting thought and take a right on to the track beside the course. It was quite tough once, before last year’s storms, but now it’s been filled in and rolled out, all its imperfections removed. The limestone hardcore surface glows like a yellow brick road in the late evening sun. Deep breath, fly to the top, breathe out – simple! The last few yards out of the trees, over the cobbles really burns and I am rocking over the bars. I feel sick and my vision narrows slightly, framed by grey. Above and beyond the anaerobic threshold, my heart pounds the bars of my chest screaming for merciful release. But that’s it; I’m at the top and turning right past the cottage. There’s that dog again – he hasn’t moved. He must think I’m an idiot. Certainly looks at me with disdain. Accelerate, 48x11, ride as fast as I can along the tarmac, back through the farmyard and down the hill to the corner and left on to the track.
I fly through trees, through puddles and mud. My legs are caked and my backside is soaking. A short cobbled descent, another tricky muddy section and then I am beneath the escarpment with wild flowers all around. The orchids are out now if you look hard enough. A steep bank and a sharp turn on to singletrack then I’m flying down Daisybank, past big houses with enormous views, past the car park with the dog walkers, and downhillers lazing on the grass summoning the energy to push their bikes back to the top of the hill for one last run. Once on to the main road I touch 40mph on the new surface and the speed sign flashes at me to calm down. Over the roundabout I follow a line of cars until my turn. Stand on the pedals, race to the line. Cane it. Down my street I glance at the computer. Wait until I’m level with the front door….wait…wait. Bang, there: time is 56:20. The fastest time yet. I’m beaming from ear to ear as I push my bike down the alley at the side of the house, my time already overwritten as the front wheel continues to turn. Through the back gate, Katy is in the kitchen; I indicate to her my success, an index finger pointing upwards in triumph. She comes to the backdoor and gives me a look: “you’d better get in that shower” she says, “we’re off out in half an hour.” Reality. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted and I’ll probably do it all again tomorrow. And again and again, drawn towards autumn.
I'm only concerned with looking concerned
0
Comments
-
Training for the coming season already? Sad to say, I haven't even rebuilt my 'cross bike yet! :oops:
David"It is not enough merely to win; others must lose." - Gore Vidal0 -
great piece of writing. I enjoyed that. Maybe you should keep a blog....0
-
Thanks. Appreciate the comment. Maybe I will keep a blog of training and races this year. I was already thinking about offering to set up a website for our regional league (get a bit frustrated by lack of race info, photos, reports etc).
And yes, training in June is a tad early I admit, just couldn't resist. It's worth it for the weird looks I get from mountain bikers.
I'm only concerned with looking concerned0 -
P.S. Have our paths crossed in the not-too-distant past? The name rings a bell, and when I've ridden West Midlands League 'cross events near Dudley there's often one or two Cheltenham & County CC guys there (I suppose it's an easy journey via the M5).
David"It is not enough merely to win; others must lose." - Gore Vidal0 -
No, sorry. I race in the Western League (Bristol, Gloucester, Stroud etc) and currently do not ride for a club but may do this season if I manage to get round to it. Perhaps I'll come and give your league a go and get a right good old fashioned pasting. I'm only concerned with looking concerned0
-
I just stumbled across this whilst searching for 'mud tires'
It's an excellent piece of writing...did you ever do the blog?
David Belcher - I guess you race in the Wessex Cyclocross league?0 -
100% wrote:I just stumbled across this whilst searching for 'mud tires'
It's an excellent piece of writing...did you ever do the blog?
David Belcher - I guess you race in the Wessex Cyclocross league?
Should do in theory, but due to work and other commitments am unlikely to this Autumn - more likely to see me in the West Midlands league when off visiting my parents.
David"It is not enough merely to win; others must lose." - Gore Vidal0 -
100% wrote:I just stumbled across this whilst searching for 'mud tires'
It's an excellent piece of writing...did you ever do the blog?
David Belcher - I guess you race in the Wessex Cyclocross league?
Thanks for the compliment 100%. Sadly no, haven't had time for any blogging, much as I'd like to. Haven't actually had time for training on the bike for the past few months anyway. We had a new baby this year so been concentrating on hill running as it fits in better with my life at the moment. Still, I did do a 'cross race last week for the hell of it - first one of the season - and came 10th. Very tough but loved it.
Will hopefully throw myself in to it more next season and will do a blog then.I'm only concerned with looking concerned0 -
I'm quite jealous of the fact you can come 10th with so little on-bike training!
Still if you have the experience and the base fitness, the hill running is probably almost as good!
I'm very new to the sport so I'm just pleased to finish and not be last. Today was very tough, very Belgian style apparently. Two boggy fields liked by a good, muddy, wooded section. One of the fields had been ploughed recently too, which was interesting! Still have I lost almost 3 stone in the 6 - 7 months I've had a cross bike so I'm pleased with that. Just need to keep building the fitness and the experience.0
