Gorrick May 2005

One of the most underrated things about XC racing is the provision for pre-registering. Don’t confuse the issue here – I am not talking about the humdrum administration of actually registering for a certain class. Rather it is the potential to deposit reasons for being crap in the excuses bank. And while my actual racing performance at the Swinley Gorrick meeting was less than stellar, I’m still living off the interest in the excuses account.

In the interest of improving literary standards amongst my reader (or is that readers, thank mum!), I’ll have a stab at a Shakespearian reference: “Alas poor Gorrick, I knew him well”. Except of course I didn’t, with a fledging racing cv including only a yomp around the MBR at the Fat Tyre Festival and wandering about in the dark at the dusk till dawn. The whole XC racing thang proved a steep learning curve with the steep being bad and the curves being good. Anyway before we get into all that, let’s review the excuses account should we? A pre-race diet of six pints of Stella and a novelty sausage followed by a sleep interrupted with unmaskable interrupts from the pelvic slope represented a substantial first deposit. The account then saw a flurry of activity as I added “summer tyres”, “dodgy headset”, “growling freewheel” and “slow puncture”. Topping it up to an all time high was the somewhat bizarre “I’ve ridden the road bike and now my MTB hates me”. So without a crank being, er, cranked, I was already way ahead of the game.

Sadly that’s as good as it got. Never again did the word “ahead” enter my vocabulary except in the phrase “There’s going to be pain ahead”. Pouring myself in Mikes car in a parody of the pouring rain, we navigated our way through pond size puddles and incessant rainstorms arriving finally in a muddy field. Amazingly, other people had looked out of their bedroom windows at the Somme like conditions and done the same thing. Hundreds of them in fact. We felt that the 1XV race team (ha ha) needed to place a marker right away so headed over to the butty van (motto: No menu, just look at my apron to get an idea) for a much needed dead pig inna bun. Our image was further reduced as I whinged my way into the parts tent to buy my fourth crud guard (three being at home protecting the inside of the barn) as the rain and our spirits continued to fall. Riders returning from their practise laps appeared to have been shot blasted with a slick mud compound and my thoughts turned from crud guards to flippers.

Against my better judgement we registered for an epic two laps in the FUN category which I’d assumed stood for Fat Unfit Novices. The start line later mocked my naivety when, on seeing the bikes and riders on display, I desperately searched for a representative TLA to fit “Pot Hunting C*nts”. Still, we felt like proper racers embarking on the practise lap even after seeing very small children squatting almost on the top tube grind out 23 minute laps. We assumed the reason they were wearing shorts was because they had yet to reach an age where long trousers had entered their wardrobe. The first hill brought home the full enormity of my alcoholic crusade the previous evening. As the singlespeed boys gurned up the climb, I was desperately thumbing away looking for a ratio marked “old person needing help”. Eventually I crested the rise only to observe the aforementioned unicoggers had found time to get off, walk up the hill and stop for a chat. This set the tone for the remainder of the lap except for the zero maintenance singlespeeds requiring frequent maintenance as Mikes saddle became the club yo-yo. Up a bit, down a bit, up a bit again. He only just survived the circuit without a ritual disembowelling from his multi-tool.

Even in a state where the only service medical science could offer was embalming, I still enjoyed the course. Well the downhill bits anyway. Two cracking descents stood out being steep, moist and more than adequately rooty. During the race they would become stovepipes with an exposition of the fast growing sport “Free-Mincing” being demonstrated by, well, almost everyone. Fast snaky singletrack linked these descents with some short but steep climbs adding the height for the fun bits. The lap measured only five miles but the trails were muddy enough to make it hard work, especially the final muddy climb which sapped the little energy I had left. Our time could have been measured with a calendar so instead of worrying about that, we stuffed our faces with all things sugary and waited for the off. The other proper racing classes went first with a continuous lycra snake disappearing off at warp speed for one of many laps. Even the vets were doing more laps than us. At least Watty and Mike had an excuse with their lack of gears, but I was left to frantically drop in a couple of late deposits at the bank. I’m not sure that “the rain has stopped, I’m too hot” actually counted but by that time it was that or an alien abduction to justify what was, at best, going to be a credit-less performance.

I positioned myself at the back before the start. No point in suffering the de-motivation of being passed by everyone including the guy on a ’92 hardtail with rigid forks, flat pedals and canti brakes. He didn’t look like he’d missed many meals either but I wasn’t fooled by such sly tactics. Eventually we were off and on the first climb I was off the back, almost last with hardly the energy to turn the cranks. It was only through an effort of will I didn’t get off and walk the first climb - my reward was passing the guy with the 3k S-Works Epic who did exactly that. He may have all the gear but I’d had all the beer.

I don’t know much about racing but still found myself surprised as the bike train came to a shuddering halt before the first descent. The carnage of 50 riders trying to negotiate an obstacle scary only to those with a vivid imagination bolstered my self esteem further, but it was full minute before we were able to actually ride it. I passed riders walking, lying and in one memorable case, body surfing down the descent to put myself about 47th. It was a great feeling which lasted the 10 yards into the next climb before they rode back past my listless form. Watty and Mike had disappeared by this time, riding most stuff and running up the rest. My lap was a confusion of stop/start riding with much frustration on the downhills and much pushing on the ups. Every time I slipped past a slower (and some of them were almost glacial) rider in the singletrack, they effortlessly passed me when the gradient reversed. At one stage a queue of 20+ riders were desperately searching for a way round or through the guy who I’d christened “Dutch Elm disease”, on the narrow singletrack deep in the forest. Even I had to pass the bugger on the next climb although that left me muttering darkly about the lung stealing beasts in the woods.

First lap over, I broke away from the course to steal air from the Mountain Trax tent and change the front tyre from flat to round. Back on the course, I found myself leading again from the back with no sign of the other 1XVrs. But I found a groove of sorts, attached to a group of four who inexorably overhauled some tiring riders. As the field dispersed, the singletrack opened up and we picked off the nervous and unsure. My line down the steepest section saw me overtake three and receive a round of applause from the marshals. If only they’d seen me anywhere else on the lap, it’s have been a slow hand clap.

The Kona is great at Swinley. Lightening quick at changing direction, stable on the steeps and beautifully balanced on an 80mm Fox Fork. It would probably be great on the climbs as well if the pilot could provide any motive power whatsoever. Finally the groovy five dropped down the last singletrack and ground up the closing gloopy climb. There were three close in front of me but nothing short of a Saturn V rocket up my arse would have propelled me past. It was somewhat humbling to be cheered in by the 1XV singlespeed boys who looked like they’d been there a while, helmets off soaking in the rays that had been hidden to me in the forest. They had as well with their times representing a superb 13th and 14th place whereas mine, some five minutes later, was mired deep in mid field. Still started last, finished in the middle - that’s almost as good as winning I decided as we enjoyed a post ride beer in the drying mud. For others it’s energy drinks, pasta and H20. For the 1XV it was Budweiser and Bollox.

So that was Mike’s first ever race, Steve’s return after many years away and a hungover me to complete our novelty trio. A good result for those two especially as they had only two gears but over eighty years between them. But I’ll get the buggers back. My strategy is simple: less weighty bike, less weighty Al, more fitness, more skill and less drunk. As I say, simple yet wildly optimistic. It’s that or the spoke stick for everyone else.

Racing. It’s like excuses. Pointless and yet compelling. Looks like a busy year for the bank account.

Alex Leigh - April 2004