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James' Weekend
Saturday:
Jon and I were meant to be meeting up with
Martin and Jason at the Fairfield Halls at 7 in the morning, ready to
drive to Checkendon. Being as it was my first ever downhill race, I
figured it would be best to be fresh and ready for it, so I stayed up the
night before drinking beer and playing computer games. By the time Jon
picked me up I felt like death, but I was a dab hand at shooting down Tie
Fighters. An hour or so later, Jon was pointing out the wobbliest railway
bridge in Oxfordshire, while Martin and Jason scavenged the local
supermarket in search of supplies for the afternoon's barbecue. Shortly
afterwards, we arrived at the venue and went to sign on. I was soon to
discover that Somerfield's Danish Cream Pastries were not the breakfast of
champions, in any respect. Oh well. Checkendon, if you've never ridden
there, is a fantastic XC course; some nice tight downhill singletrack,
some short but nasty ascents, and a nice bit of Thetford-like singletrack
at the top of a hill. Unfortunately, it's not much of a downhill course;
or rather, the downhill course is just part of a downhill from the cross
country course. So I'd had five hours sleep, and travelled seventy odd
miles in order to pay 23 quid to ride down something about the same size
as Shirley Hills. Oh well. Still, we made the best of it; most of the
course was familiar from when I rode it as part of the Triple Challenge at
Easter, so I was quite familiar with the gully halfway through, which I
never managed to get through fast enough to avoid stalling at the top and
falling over into a bush. Neither did a good portion of the rest of the
field, so Jason, Shaun and the others stationed themselves there in search
of some good crashes. The rest of us practised until 10.30, although since
everyone was stopping at the gully for a good long look, full of
trepidation, the course was full of queuing downhillers, and nobody got a
clear run at it. I went back to the car to stagger around for a bit, in
search of sugar licks (for by now I was quite faint) and then it was off
to the start for our first proper runs. Jon went off thirty seconds before
me; then the pips went and I trundled down the trail; first a wide bit of
muddy trail, veering into an almost-bermed bit of mulch, past a treestump,
between some trees, over a log, and then rounding the corner, I was almost
deafened by the sounds of the assembled Addiscombe multitude shouting
encouragement. Or laughing as I got to the gully, and fell off. And then
slid down the gully. And then clambered back up the gully. And then slid
down again. Eventually this farago came to an end, and I skidded down the
rest of the trail, avoiding a couple of little jumps before rolling up to
the finish line in the field at the bottom. 1 minute 44. Gobsmackingly,
this wasn't the slowest time: the guy who started immediately after me
took more than 2 minutes to get down. Back to the gully, to watch the
experts go through fast, each one making it up the gully, and then the
start of the second runs. I watched lots of people ride up towards the
gully, then endo off into the bushes, or crash beforehand, or run out of
steam halfway through the gully, but I was sure I'd avoid making the same
mistake twice. So it was that when it came to my second run, I got as far
as the log, heard Jason singing the theme from Steptoe and Son, and then
crashed my bike into the pile of branches just before the gully. Further
hilarity, whilst I clambered back on my bike and climbed through the gully
and down to the end. 1 minute 51. Luckily, the person behind me was more
consistent, and put in another 2 minute time. For the third run, the
Addiscombe contingent moved further down the trail, to where one of the
jumps was. Thus I failed to hear their encouraging catcalls as I stacked
it into the gully again, but on my third run I was going much faster than
before, bouncing over the log and avoiding clenching the brakes. I bottled
the jump, but felt confident enough to wave a hand at the others as I rode
past, and then sprint down the field to the end. 1 minute 29. I'd knocked
15 seconds off my time, and was dead stoked. As it happens, this just
preserved my second-from-last position, as the guy behind me pulled off a
similar improvement for his last run, coming in at 1 minute 30.
Addiscombe's honour had been preserved: Cushtie had avoided coming last.
All that was left was to check the positions, and notice that everyone
else was far faster: Jon came close to getting under a minute, while
Martin and Rik battled their times down to 1:14 and 1:12 respectively. All
that was left was to wander back to the cars, drink a few beers and
barbecue some of Somerfield's best burgers. Most of the others were
staying for the XC on Sunday, but in proper singlespeed style, Jon and I
couldn't be bothered (nor could Jason drum up the enthusiasm to sit in the
woods and watch people ride past without crashing, nor Martin), so we
drove back. Our route involved an impromptu diversion towards Goring,
where we managed to double back on ourselves and drive past the entrance
to the race venue again (sorry guys) and then it was hammer down back to
Croydon, with both Jon and me desperately fighting off fatigue before
getting home. That night I was wrecked: even without any proper full-speed
crashes, my arms and shoulders were totally worn out, so I prepared for
the Sunday ride by getting drunk and wandering home in the rain at
midnight.
Sunday:
The morning came, and with it a dull grey
sky. I forced myself out of bed, scoffed an apple, and then remembered
that I'd left my helmet and my bike shoes in Ashford. Not wanting to wear
a full face lid all day, I dug a really old Giro out of the back of my
wardrobe, complete with MBUK stickers and an unfeasibly large silver peak.
Then it was a simple matter to take the pedals off my downhill bike and
fit them to my latest love, a brand new Inbred. Although I've been riding
a singlespeed pretty much constantly since last December, this was the
first time I was going to be able to ride a titanium one, and I was
looking forward to it. There's something about the first few times you
ride a new bike; you always try to push it a bit more, to see if by buying
a better bike somehow your body will improve too: getting off a 35 pound
full suspension rig and onto a 21 pound fully rigid bike really does make
a change too, and I was wondering if I was just going to pile straight
into the first tree I saw. Eleven of us left East Croydon that morning, a
good tally for a summer's day (although if it had been raining harder, I'm
sure more of these cycling sado-masochists would have come out... Heaven
knows why people prefer riding in the rain to the sun, but there you go.)
Marco was staying in bed, so I figured I'd lead the group round a few bits
of singletrack we haven't done for a while, then bluff something over to
Keston. Unfortunately, having not ridden those bits of singletrack myself
for a while, I spent some time getting lost, although I figured if I kept
pedalling as quickly as possible, nobody would notice that we'd gone round
in circles for half an hour; on our way I took us down one descent which
was probably about as long as Checkendon, just to make everyone ride up
the hill again... oh, the joys of power, and utter ignorance... 12 Stone
contributed to this, by getting lost in Pinewoods and thus revealing to us
all some fresh singletrack. Then we headed up the hill to Spring Park,
where instead of taking the usual trail down to Threepenny Wood, I made a
diversion, through some pristine singletrack, under a fallen tree, through
some bushes... and back to the usual trail down to Threepenny Wood. The
riders now being somewhat strung out, I figured it best to make some noise
so we could keep each other together. All that came out from my mouth was
a maniacal laugh, as I plunged into the next bit of trail, safe in the
knowledge that the others were right behind. On I ploughed, down past the
Mad Mile and back up into the singletrack, greeting walkers with a cheery
"Morning" and cackling all the way... the good bit was just
coming up. The trail diverged - up the hill, following the contour, or
down a little step off, into a grassy field, and along a near-invisible
trail. Well, ok, an invisible trail, but I'd ridden it with Sylvain back
in May and it had led to much fun that time. This time, I took the indomitable
Addiscombes through a wall of ferns, and then a long brambly
hedge, depositing us finally near the bottom of Gravel Hill, all the time
tormenting them with my cackle. By now I thought that everyone would be
ready to strangle me, for making them ride unknown trails through hedges,
but they were happy to press on, undaunted by the threat of rain or nettle
stings. We rode past the golf course, up the ludicrously steep path that
comes out at the fragrant Addington Municipal Waste Dump, and then along
to Layham's Farm. The long down and up and down again trail was just right
- despite the showers, it wasn't axle deep in mud, and soon we were over
in Keston, enjoying some well-deserved ice-cream. (Joe's probably wasn't
that well-deserved, because he tried to walk off without paying, but a
talent for economy is always a virtue. At least, that's what we told the
ice-cream man.) The usual route back to Croydon followed: trying to
emulate the North Shore riders of Canada (by riding along wooden bridges),
and then a short, rutted downhill down to West Wickham. Finally, we headed
back through Spring Park again, while the heavens opened and rain poured
down upon us. We railed past a woman with an unfeasibly large dog, and
then an invalid carriage, which was making good speed down the muddy
singletrack. Last, a headlong rush back through the trails we'd begun the
day with, ending up in traditional style with some beers at the
Cricketers. Typically, the rain stopped at the same time as we got our
first pints in, so we celebrated that (and Jon buying my old Inbred) with
another pint. As the afternoon drifted along, we made plans for the Track
Bike of Doom, involving an unfeasible number of BMX freewheels, and I
inadvertantly revealed to Jon that the bike he had bought was short quite
a few ball bearings and grease from the headset. Having done so, and
having introduced him to the joys of a fork that really does make you
think you've been beaten up every time you ride it, it seemed best for me
to weave my way home. Shockingly, I even cleaned my bike when I got
back...
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