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The SSWC2K+1 (or
Singlespeed World Championships 2001)
With my recent conversion to singlespeed
riding, good weather hitting the UK shores at last and foot and mouth
beginning to thin out, the Singlespeed World Championships seamed like the
ideal way to kick in the racing MTB season, already well opened with the
Gorrick and Eastway series.
The event is completely unofficial, as
singlespeeds are not in any of the UCI's books yet (and not likely to be):
see singlespeed riders are, for the most, not really of the
"competitive type", they're just riding to enjoy themselves, and
would willingly stop at the top of a hard climb for a beer or cigarette.
Think of them as the Hell's Angels of cycling, or as "outcasts"
as their UK fanzine is titled.
So after Minneapolis last year, the
SSWC2k+1 were being held in Afan Argoed, near Port Talbot, South Wales, on
June 3rd. Here I met Will and Allan on Saturday afternoon, they were not
racing but only there as spectators (and for the drinking). After I had a practice
lap we headed for the campsite for some replenishment before the Saturday
night's party. A bit of a non-event really, it found us standing outside,
sipping beer and watching insane bike videos. Later, forced by the biting
cold of the Welsh night and its hordes of midges, we gathered in the music
tent, where we carried on standing in our anoraks and drinking, waiting
for the expected mayhem to happen anytime. People were probably recovering
from the Friday night's party in Bristol (we weren't there), but we
learned the following day from our parking neighbour, that some had had
the energy for a derby-bike session in the campsite later in the night
(that poor guy had been ridden over while sleeping in his tent). By
midnight we'd overcomplied with the mandatory five pints rule, so decided
to call it a night and crawled back to our B&B, which luckily was only
yards away.
At 7 am the following morning I was woken
up by a mind-blowing headache, but none of the dreaded hangover
fortunately. After a full fried breakfast, we went for a bit of
bikespotting before the race, welcomed outside by a radiant sunshine. The
starting line was an interesting mix of proper racers (Lycra, stretching)
and not so proper ones (leopard skin, more beer). The signal was given by
Chipps (the organiser, editor of singletrack and The Outcast) sipping his
last drop of beer then smashing the can on his forehead, which led us to a
Le Mans style start - more of a gymkhana really, the 200-odd bikes being
littered on the ground.
I had a good start but took it easy on the
first climb, a long, painful stretch of fire road, letting a number of
riders pass me. By the top I'd caught up a lot of them, and was looking
forward to the next downhill section, a fast, twisty fire road which had
been narrowed to about 20 inches wide by pixies, who'd made funny little
piles of stones every few meters. This required a lot of concentration,
but was really thrilling - a bit like a video game. The following miles
included another killer climb overcame at walking pace, forest trails with
180 degrees turns, the windy crest of a hill from where you could spot the
sea, more climbing and then the best bit: a purpose built, narrow and
twisty downhill singletrack in the woods - very sweet.
At the bottom most spectators had gathered
near a stream crossing, and I was astounded to hear I was in 4th position.
So much actually that I took the wrong turn, forcing me to put a foot down
(a heresy for any singlespeeder) and walk back to the trail in front of
everyone. Oh well, I pulled my longest wheelie ever to make up for it.
More technical, rooty trail in a pitch-dark pinewood, ups and downs and
lap 1 was over. Back on the first climb, I was caught up by a scaringly
fast lad, whom I'd be playing cat and dog with till the end of the race:
he'd gain terrain on climbs, while I'd be chasing him back on the
technical stuff (a roadie I found out afterwards). Then we caught that
other guy, average climber but very fast downhiller - hey, he had 100mm
travel Psylo forks and I was on rigids. Managed to keep up with him for a
bit but after a long descent he was not to be seen again.
So there we were, in the age of dual
suspension, 27 gears and disc brakes, riding our rigid (for most), one
gear bikes, which had me wondering - even more than usually around
mid-race time - "why am I doing this ?". But now the worst was
over, and knowing I was still in the top five was just amazing. Both the
fast climber and myself had to stop for chainskip, but I eventually
managed to make it to the finish line before him.
As riders would be coming in for the next
couple hours under the cheers of the crowd, on various mounts such as
tandem, cyclo-crosser, or cruiser bike, the award ceremony didn't take
place until much later. Prizes were awarded randomly: the most times being
sick - that was four times, most of it during the race; crappiest/pimpiest
bike, fattest/skinniest guy - surprisingly not won by the previous year's
race winner, whose wafer-thin back was sporting the mandatory winner
tattoo, as well as Freddy Krueger claw-looking marks. This guy had flew
from the States, had his bike delayed so had to build one up in a rush,
then fell off in a practise lap on Friday and had to be taken to hospital.
Still he managed to race one lap for the glory !
Unfortunately no tattooer could be hired
for the day, so we didn't get the thrill of seeing the male and female
winners getting their deserved prize. At the end there was a hand vote for
next year's event location. Mexico and Canada got good response, but
nothing was officially decided. I'll probably be there anyway, having
enjoyed so much this weekend, a reminder of how much fun MTB racing could
be …
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