Gone fishing

Digging in...

‘It doesn’t matter how good you get at cycling… You’re always gonna be shit. Unless you’re really, REALLY good. But even the REALLY good are gonna be shit when you compare them to Merckx.’  

I may be paraphrasing slightly but an old worthy told me that. Not the most optimistic of words, but sage ones, nonetheless. Having always inhabited the shallow end of the cycling gene pool they weren’t exactly earth shattering words of advice. I have always been very well aware of my own ineptitude and have never had any ambition beyond just trying to get a little better than my present station.

But then it’s all about context, I guess. Even as a duffer you have goals and targets. For me, first it was to cycle more than 50 miles, then a hundred, then a stage of the tour, then 7 stages, then get into the scratch group on the Wednesday night habble, then to hold on up the ministers, then to compete in the sprint into Torrence… Modest ambitions all, but ambitions nonetheless.

When it came to the track, until recently my only ambition was not to fall off and even that had proved to be too to lofty a goal (Blood on the track(s)).

However, at the velodrome yesterday, more by accident than by design, I found myself on the front of the first race of the evening. The front of a bike race is not the place you want to be, unless you are just about to cross the finish line. You expend a great deal more energy at the front of a bunch than you do if you are tucked in behind another wheel. I had hoped that when I swung up and allowed the peleton to slide past me I would be able to nip in behind a wheel and catch my breath. Alas, good will was not forthcoming last night and the only spare wheel was the one in last place. Unfortunately that was piloted by a rather rotund gentleman, who would not have been my first choice of lead out man. So I decided to start my sprint for home 1 lap into a 10 lap race. Not classic track tactics, I'll grant you, and not ones that you will see often practiced, mainly because they never work. There is just too much physics going against you. 20 slavering, sweaty cyclists is opposition enough, trying to take on Einstien and Newton as well, is just too big an ask. With sad inevitability I was swamped with half a lap to go and finished well down the field. The final ignominy being that I was left staring at the hairy arse crack of the aforementioned chubster as he eased passed my heaving and gasping frame on the line. He was barely out of breath.

Despite this set back, when put in context it was a victory of sorts. I had expected to be swamped after three or four laps rather than 9.5. I started to feel a little more confident that I could challenge in the races to come.

The next race up was the elimination race (or the Devil). I normally hate the Devil. It's kinda like musical chairs, and I hate musical chairs too. The person in last place at each lap gets eliminated. The name and number of the eliminated rider is shouted out over the tannoy, just to make sure that maximum ignominy is heaped on the first rider to exit the race. By the way, just incase you were wondering, there isn’t even space for music and there are no chairs.

There are 20 riders in the race, which means 20 laps. Which is obviously longer than 10 laps. Based on the experience of my last race I could see that I would have to re-think my tactics of starting my sprint from 9 laps out. So I went in with a complex set of tactical options. All based around getting the ‘second wheel’ (cycling parlance for being in third place). Unfortunately this seemed to be a popular tactic and even my hardest and most intense stare couldn’t persuade the rider to give me the wheel. So I was left high up on the banking. Looking back the only wheel spare was in last place, again piloted by the corpulent cove of earlier. I was flummoxed.

Not wanting to spend 20 laps eyeballing the sweaty hairy bum cleavage of an overweight middle aged cyclist, I decided that there was only one option open to me. I started my sprint from 19 laps out and just kept going. Given my experience of the last race, I expected that someone would come over the top of me at about lap 9, but it didn’t happen. Then the bell came, signalling one more lap to go, I stood on my pedals and put in one last effort and still no one came past me. I had won my first ever race as a cyclist. All my hard training had paid off. I was (and am) delighted. Inside I was turning somersaults and high fiving the crowd, however in true calvanistic style I didn’t raise so much as a smile, just incase someone thought I was showing off and they kent my faither. Oh, the shame that would bring.

The next race was the points race. Where you get points for your place in the peleton every 5 laps and 10 points if you manage to get a lap up on the field. This results in a hare-em, scare-em rabble of a race within a race. With the pace gradually cranking up over each five lap section and exploding into an all out frenzy, then suddenly slowing down again, before building for the next 5 laps. I had tactics again. I didn’t contest the first sprint. But as soon as the leaders had crossed the line signalling the end of their sprint, that signalled the start of mine. I figured that if I went hard enough for long enough I would catch them cold and would try and gain a lap. I went, no one followed and I won the second sprint by almost half a lap, my legs were giving out then so I decided to cut my losses, go back into the pack, grab a wheel and catch my breath. Alas, again I couldn’t get a wheel apart from my hairy assed friend who was playing the part of lantern rouge again. I was beginning to worry that he would think I was eyeing him up. So I attacked again, again got half a lap up and won the sprint. There are only four sprints in the points race so I figured I had probably done enough to win. I hadn’t a clue who had won the first sprint and I was way too far behind to figure out who had won the last. Unfortunately I tied on points with another rider, but because he won the last sprint, he won the race. However, I was delighted again.

But just before you get the idea that you have some track star in the making. The standard of the Glasgow Wednesday night track league is pretty low and I’m in the lowest league. Perhaps I will get promoted to the dizzy heights of the B race next week, then I'll be back to being shit and back to just trying to survive.

But for one week only I am a big fish in the shallow end of the gene pool. I am revelling in being right at the very top of the bottom of Scottish cycling. I may still be shit, but in my context, it’s a nice place to be.

From the Sir Chris Hoy Velodrome,

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