Simon Brooke
November 18th 07, 09:08 PM
Well, the info I had said Gatehouse. Sign in at the Murray Arms in
Gatehouse, I was told. Oh, goodie, I thought, how civilised. A race
headquartered in a (good) pub, with hot coffee and soup and even (perish
the thought) beer.
I should be so lucky.
I duly rolled up at the Murray Arms and asked where the mad cyclists were,
and was given a grubby photocopied map. One glance told me what I needed
to know: Carstramon Wood. Not that I've got anything against Carstramon,
or anywhere else up the Fleet water; it's an exceedingly bonnie glen, even
on a damp day in autumn. But sadly lacking in hot coffee, soup, and even
(perish the thought) beer.
Arriving at Carstramon, the first person I met was Ian Fenwick. What size,
he asked, were my feet?
Ryan had forgotten his shoes. Fortunately, mine fitted. Unfortunately, he
uses a different cleat system, so it was a mad change of pedals. And, of
course, as the reason for changing was he'd forgotten his shoes, it meant
I rode my scouting lap of the course in his trainers... not clipped in.
And that course was evil. Two hundred metres of fairly level muddy track
led into the wood. Into, let's be specific here, an old sand quarry in the
wood. Sharp left, bike on shoulder, climb. And that climb was one awful
bitch: steep, over loose sand with head-sized pebbles randomly placed in
it. At the top, hard right and follow a narrow path between a fence and
the crumbling edge of said quarry (I immediately decided that my strategy
would be to run that path - getting it wrong when tired would not have
been comfy). Then hard left across a wet but mainly level field, up a
steep brae, across the side of a steep brae, across a sudden dip, over
another steep little brae, down the most horrible steep, greasy, guttery
sluice through a gate where the only thing to do was point the bike, let
go of the brakes, hang on and pray that you didn't hit any boulders;
through a flooded section of water meadow, up onto a level tarmac road,
wind up onto the big ring for 250 metres, sharp left for an entirely
gratuitous jink through the wood, and then into another muddy flooded
field for the obligatory lift-over boards. Then back onto tarmac and
sprint for the finish... and the next evil lap.
I missed the start of the under-16s, because I was still out on my scouting
lap, but I got back in time to photograph them coming through for their
second lap. Having taken some photos in the wood it was up to the quarry
for more dramatic shots, and to encourage the lads as they came up what
was undoubtedly the nastiest bit of the course.
It quickly became apparent that the taller lads, and those with proper
cross bikes, had a real advantage on the climb over the smaller lads with
mountain bikes. The cross bikes were just much easier to shoulder. Some of
the taller lads were able, more awkwardly, to shoulder their mountain
bikes. But the smaller lads, including our Ross and Ryan, couldn't
effectively do this and had to push up, which was obviously much harder
work. Nevertheless Ryan in particular was making an excellent race. It was
also good to see a lad down from the Discovery club in Dundee, who'd come
a very long way to race.
Right, so, onto the main event.
I've got good photos of the Under 16s event. I've got good photos of the
Under 12s. I don't have any photos of the adult's race. Why not? I was
racing.
Greg, now. Greg's about my age. He's a lot fitter, of course, being an
outdoor education bod, but he's about my age. He'd said he'd see me there,
so I thought I'd have him to race against. Well, I did see him there.
Marshalling in comfort from the driver's seat of his new jeep. Bob, then.
Bob's older than me. Bob was there, watching his son race. Ride himself?
Nooo, not he. John Sturgeon? He's ten years younger, of course, and could
ride rings round me with one leg tied behind his back... He was
marshalling at the top of the quarry.
Which made the hero of the day undoubtedly Ian Barr. Ian is not a cyclist.
He's a local government official who's been, in his work capacity,
responsible for organising the Galloway finishes and the Dumfries start of
the Tour of Britain. He's done a few fun runs... and this year he bought
himself a second hand cross bike to get some exercise on. He trundled up a
little while before the start, signed in, and pinned on his number.
Respect, that man.
I've no illusions about my strength. I'm not very strong. This was a
national-level cross race, and, apart from Ian, I was at least twenty
years older than anyone else taking part. So I formed up on the back of
the grid; one might as well start as one means to go on. The klaxon
sounded, and we were into the first lap.
Of course the climb spread the field. It winded me, and I ran the path
round the rim of the quarry not so much because of the narrowness as
because I hadn't got my heart rate down enough to want to mount up. Then
out across the field, and the two short braes. I made a tactical blunder
here on the first few laps. Cycling across rough grass over soft ground is
hard work and it's very hard to get any speed up. So the first brae was
definitely a run up - right decision. Then back on the bike and lurch
rapidly and insecurely across the face of a slope, down into a dip and
sharply up the other side. The first few laps I made a tactical decision
to dismount early and run it. Later in the race I found that it was
possible to carry enough pace from the downhill, and to get enough
traction on the uphill, that I could just about ride it...
Every time I dismounted I lost time on the remounts. I was also losing time
on the flat across grass, because it took more strength than I had; and I
was losing time on fast slippery corners through lack of courage and
technique. So halfway through the first lap I'd lost touch with the back
of the field - which had it's benefits because it meant I could set my own
pace and got a clear view of obstacles.
Then the guttery glissade. It was horrid. Point the bike at it, right back
out of the saddle, no brakes, try to avoid any large chunks of rock that
showed up in other riders' tracks. Nasty, but fast; on later laps I was
able to stay with much faster riders down that descent. Off that and
immediately onto waterlogged and flooded meadowland, across which I could
carry very little speed. Most other riders were able to ride the very
short ramp up onto the tarmac but I could not and thus lost more time.
Once on the tarmac, however, I was able to accelerate rapidly...
As I say, I lost touch with the pack on the first lap. Coming down the
guttery glissade the second time, the leader, a young whippet riding in
Scottish Cycling strip, came past me for the first time, and from them on
my ride was punctuated by faster riders coming by.
And so it went, lap after lap. I was lapping in about eight minutes and I
knew we had an hour to race, so I reckoned I'd probably get seven laps in.
After about four, however, I began to lose track, and the line crew didn't
help by at that point shoving up a sign which said 'five laps to go'.
OK, let's hear it for the spectators. I was humbled by the amount of
cheering I got, and it really lifted me. There were a bunch of our lads at
the top of the quarry, who were urging me on with all the things I
normally shout at them - teasing me a bit, I think, but very good
naturedly. But all around the course were people from other clubs, some
known to me, most not, who cheered and called encouragement. Thank you
all; I really appreciated it.
I'd completely lost touch with Ian Barr. He'd got ahead of me on the first
lap and then I hadn't seen him at all, and began to worry he'd dropped
out. But finally on my penultimate lap he passed me on the field after the
quarry, the last person to lap me. We exchanged a greeting as he went by,
but despite trying I couldn't stay with him. However, as I came through
the Obligatory Stepovers, the leader came by for the fourth time, just as
I hit the tarmac.
Right. This I can do. I grabbed his wheel and was able to hang on, holding
him right through to the slippery turn back into the wood, and carrying
that momentum I was able to catch, and even pass one off, a group of back
markers (they were all a lap up on me, but...). Up the quarry climb one
last time, my heart pounding, across the field, up the second brae, and a
couple of other fast riders came by. Again I held them, coming down into
the guttery glissade. One of them hit a rock and lost his line badly,
careering through the plastic tape marking the course - but by skill and
luck staying on his bike. I was beginning to feel a lot better. I might be
the oldest. I might be the slowest. But my pace hadn't dropped, and I
wasn't yet making mistakes of fatigue.
But then we hit the flooded field and they just powered away from me. Never
mind, only half a lap to go, and most of it tarmac. Coming through the
stepovers again there were wheels behind me, but I accelerated hard and
just held him off to the line. Not that I wasn't last, of course; I was a
lap down on everyone else, and several laps down on most of them. But I
wasn't last man home.
After I'd got rid of my helmet, pulled on a jersey and found my camera, it
was time for the little kids race - the Under 12s. That was a remarkably
good event. The star was easily our Adam, who was probably the smallest
child taking part and who led from start to finish, gradually increasing
his lead through the race. But close on his wheels was a girl in the
colours of the Dundee based Discovery club. Behind her, our Jenna engaged
in a long tussle with a lad called Hamish who I think is from Dumfries
way, before pulling away from him decisively in the last two laps. One
other rider completed the race (several others had started); a chubby
little lad in plain blue jersey and trousers on a heavy jump bike. He
wasn't keeping with the others - everyone but Hamish lapped him, and I
think Adam lapped him twice. But he kept on sturdily to the end. So
respect to him, too, from one back marker to another.
My pictures here:
http://www.jasmine.org.uk/~simon/album/cross_in_carstramon/
--
(Simon Brooke) http://www.jasmine.org.uk/~simon/
;; I put the 'sexy' in 'dyslexia'
Gatehouse, I was told. Oh, goodie, I thought, how civilised. A race
headquartered in a (good) pub, with hot coffee and soup and even (perish
the thought) beer.
I should be so lucky.
I duly rolled up at the Murray Arms and asked where the mad cyclists were,
and was given a grubby photocopied map. One glance told me what I needed
to know: Carstramon Wood. Not that I've got anything against Carstramon,
or anywhere else up the Fleet water; it's an exceedingly bonnie glen, even
on a damp day in autumn. But sadly lacking in hot coffee, soup, and even
(perish the thought) beer.
Arriving at Carstramon, the first person I met was Ian Fenwick. What size,
he asked, were my feet?
Ryan had forgotten his shoes. Fortunately, mine fitted. Unfortunately, he
uses a different cleat system, so it was a mad change of pedals. And, of
course, as the reason for changing was he'd forgotten his shoes, it meant
I rode my scouting lap of the course in his trainers... not clipped in.
And that course was evil. Two hundred metres of fairly level muddy track
led into the wood. Into, let's be specific here, an old sand quarry in the
wood. Sharp left, bike on shoulder, climb. And that climb was one awful
bitch: steep, over loose sand with head-sized pebbles randomly placed in
it. At the top, hard right and follow a narrow path between a fence and
the crumbling edge of said quarry (I immediately decided that my strategy
would be to run that path - getting it wrong when tired would not have
been comfy). Then hard left across a wet but mainly level field, up a
steep brae, across the side of a steep brae, across a sudden dip, over
another steep little brae, down the most horrible steep, greasy, guttery
sluice through a gate where the only thing to do was point the bike, let
go of the brakes, hang on and pray that you didn't hit any boulders;
through a flooded section of water meadow, up onto a level tarmac road,
wind up onto the big ring for 250 metres, sharp left for an entirely
gratuitous jink through the wood, and then into another muddy flooded
field for the obligatory lift-over boards. Then back onto tarmac and
sprint for the finish... and the next evil lap.
I missed the start of the under-16s, because I was still out on my scouting
lap, but I got back in time to photograph them coming through for their
second lap. Having taken some photos in the wood it was up to the quarry
for more dramatic shots, and to encourage the lads as they came up what
was undoubtedly the nastiest bit of the course.
It quickly became apparent that the taller lads, and those with proper
cross bikes, had a real advantage on the climb over the smaller lads with
mountain bikes. The cross bikes were just much easier to shoulder. Some of
the taller lads were able, more awkwardly, to shoulder their mountain
bikes. But the smaller lads, including our Ross and Ryan, couldn't
effectively do this and had to push up, which was obviously much harder
work. Nevertheless Ryan in particular was making an excellent race. It was
also good to see a lad down from the Discovery club in Dundee, who'd come
a very long way to race.
Right, so, onto the main event.
I've got good photos of the Under 16s event. I've got good photos of the
Under 12s. I don't have any photos of the adult's race. Why not? I was
racing.
Greg, now. Greg's about my age. He's a lot fitter, of course, being an
outdoor education bod, but he's about my age. He'd said he'd see me there,
so I thought I'd have him to race against. Well, I did see him there.
Marshalling in comfort from the driver's seat of his new jeep. Bob, then.
Bob's older than me. Bob was there, watching his son race. Ride himself?
Nooo, not he. John Sturgeon? He's ten years younger, of course, and could
ride rings round me with one leg tied behind his back... He was
marshalling at the top of the quarry.
Which made the hero of the day undoubtedly Ian Barr. Ian is not a cyclist.
He's a local government official who's been, in his work capacity,
responsible for organising the Galloway finishes and the Dumfries start of
the Tour of Britain. He's done a few fun runs... and this year he bought
himself a second hand cross bike to get some exercise on. He trundled up a
little while before the start, signed in, and pinned on his number.
Respect, that man.
I've no illusions about my strength. I'm not very strong. This was a
national-level cross race, and, apart from Ian, I was at least twenty
years older than anyone else taking part. So I formed up on the back of
the grid; one might as well start as one means to go on. The klaxon
sounded, and we were into the first lap.
Of course the climb spread the field. It winded me, and I ran the path
round the rim of the quarry not so much because of the narrowness as
because I hadn't got my heart rate down enough to want to mount up. Then
out across the field, and the two short braes. I made a tactical blunder
here on the first few laps. Cycling across rough grass over soft ground is
hard work and it's very hard to get any speed up. So the first brae was
definitely a run up - right decision. Then back on the bike and lurch
rapidly and insecurely across the face of a slope, down into a dip and
sharply up the other side. The first few laps I made a tactical decision
to dismount early and run it. Later in the race I found that it was
possible to carry enough pace from the downhill, and to get enough
traction on the uphill, that I could just about ride it...
Every time I dismounted I lost time on the remounts. I was also losing time
on the flat across grass, because it took more strength than I had; and I
was losing time on fast slippery corners through lack of courage and
technique. So halfway through the first lap I'd lost touch with the back
of the field - which had it's benefits because it meant I could set my own
pace and got a clear view of obstacles.
Then the guttery glissade. It was horrid. Point the bike at it, right back
out of the saddle, no brakes, try to avoid any large chunks of rock that
showed up in other riders' tracks. Nasty, but fast; on later laps I was
able to stay with much faster riders down that descent. Off that and
immediately onto waterlogged and flooded meadowland, across which I could
carry very little speed. Most other riders were able to ride the very
short ramp up onto the tarmac but I could not and thus lost more time.
Once on the tarmac, however, I was able to accelerate rapidly...
As I say, I lost touch with the pack on the first lap. Coming down the
guttery glissade the second time, the leader, a young whippet riding in
Scottish Cycling strip, came past me for the first time, and from them on
my ride was punctuated by faster riders coming by.
And so it went, lap after lap. I was lapping in about eight minutes and I
knew we had an hour to race, so I reckoned I'd probably get seven laps in.
After about four, however, I began to lose track, and the line crew didn't
help by at that point shoving up a sign which said 'five laps to go'.
OK, let's hear it for the spectators. I was humbled by the amount of
cheering I got, and it really lifted me. There were a bunch of our lads at
the top of the quarry, who were urging me on with all the things I
normally shout at them - teasing me a bit, I think, but very good
naturedly. But all around the course were people from other clubs, some
known to me, most not, who cheered and called encouragement. Thank you
all; I really appreciated it.
I'd completely lost touch with Ian Barr. He'd got ahead of me on the first
lap and then I hadn't seen him at all, and began to worry he'd dropped
out. But finally on my penultimate lap he passed me on the field after the
quarry, the last person to lap me. We exchanged a greeting as he went by,
but despite trying I couldn't stay with him. However, as I came through
the Obligatory Stepovers, the leader came by for the fourth time, just as
I hit the tarmac.
Right. This I can do. I grabbed his wheel and was able to hang on, holding
him right through to the slippery turn back into the wood, and carrying
that momentum I was able to catch, and even pass one off, a group of back
markers (they were all a lap up on me, but...). Up the quarry climb one
last time, my heart pounding, across the field, up the second brae, and a
couple of other fast riders came by. Again I held them, coming down into
the guttery glissade. One of them hit a rock and lost his line badly,
careering through the plastic tape marking the course - but by skill and
luck staying on his bike. I was beginning to feel a lot better. I might be
the oldest. I might be the slowest. But my pace hadn't dropped, and I
wasn't yet making mistakes of fatigue.
But then we hit the flooded field and they just powered away from me. Never
mind, only half a lap to go, and most of it tarmac. Coming through the
stepovers again there were wheels behind me, but I accelerated hard and
just held him off to the line. Not that I wasn't last, of course; I was a
lap down on everyone else, and several laps down on most of them. But I
wasn't last man home.
After I'd got rid of my helmet, pulled on a jersey and found my camera, it
was time for the little kids race - the Under 12s. That was a remarkably
good event. The star was easily our Adam, who was probably the smallest
child taking part and who led from start to finish, gradually increasing
his lead through the race. But close on his wheels was a girl in the
colours of the Dundee based Discovery club. Behind her, our Jenna engaged
in a long tussle with a lad called Hamish who I think is from Dumfries
way, before pulling away from him decisively in the last two laps. One
other rider completed the race (several others had started); a chubby
little lad in plain blue jersey and trousers on a heavy jump bike. He
wasn't keeping with the others - everyone but Hamish lapped him, and I
think Adam lapped him twice. But he kept on sturdily to the end. So
respect to him, too, from one back marker to another.
My pictures here:
http://www.jasmine.org.uk/~simon/album/cross_in_carstramon/
--
(Simon Brooke) http://www.jasmine.org.uk/~simon/
;; I put the 'sexy' in 'dyslexia'