Trophy series 3, by Matt
OK, let me get my excuses in first. I’ve had a cold since mid-week. Shocking sore throat, in fact. Didn’t think I’d make it to Mallory Park, near Leicester, but then realised I’d already paid, so what the hell: in for £18, let’s make that £48 with petrol!
The trouble with making your excuses in advance is that, mentally, you’ve already thrown in the towel. So, I find myself gridded on the front row, for possibly the last time this season in a national vets’ event, not thinking I’ll try to be 3rd or 4th into the first corner, but that I’ll settle for being on the wheel of John Shaw, whom I pipped for 9th place at Ipswich three weeks ago (he got me back in the Inter Area Champs).
The course is a little bit like Lydden, in the sense that it’s set around a motor-racing circuit. Nothing wrong with that: lots of grass banking for off-camber twisty stuff. But - and here come Excuses Revisited - the conditions were shocking: 4ºC and steady rain. The youth race had churned it up nicely, so it was seriously sketchy - especially in the opening sector. I was trying to stay warm in the changing room when Richard Wood brought in some poor lad from VC Deal who’d packed from the youth race after 20 mins, because of a chest infection. Every inch of skin was scarlet and he was shaking uncontrollably. Morale-boosting when the phlegm is already dripping from your nose.
I really didn’t have the legs, it’s true. But thinking I’d ride my own race and maybe work my way through. But that was a mistake. I was maybe 7th into the first corner and run-up. Twenty seconds later, after two people had fallen off in front of me, I was about 17th.
The first couple of laps were sort of fun because the bike-handling was challenging in the conditions. But it made the whole course technical, and it was hard to find a rhythm and get the power down. I only glanced down at the Polar occasionally but my pulse was never that high. [Note to self: make sure you don’t sound like Chris Boardman but without the talent: ‘Well, Phil, I just couldn’t get my heart-rate up…’]
A couple of laps later, I was vaguely duelling with a guy I recognised from Ipswich who rides as a private member. I managed to gap him at one stage, but then on a flat bit of turf before doubling back up the finishing straight, I lost my advantage because I couldn’t get it in the big ring. It wasn’t the mud, though there was plenty. It was my hands: they were so cold, I had no feeling in the fingers whatsoever. I ended up reaching right over the bars so that I could push the lever across with my whole palm. It was that stupid.
After that, I realised how fricking freezing I was and just felt dispirited. Mr Private Member and I got caught by a couple of others, and I screwed up the first sector, fell off and lost touch. I probably limped in about 19th or 20th. Basically, cold or no cold, I rode like a sack of spuds.
So, stuff happens. You just have to suck it up, and do better next time. Highlights of the day? Well, helping my son with his homework assignment (’Why did the Spanish Armada fail?’) certainly made cleaning the bike less tedious. Getting bits of Mallory Park out of various orifices with cotton buds was also oddly satisfying. Er, that’s it.