Happy New Year

It is always interesting trying to drag yourself out of bed first thing in the morning on New Year’s day. We were in Newtonmoor, having been at the traditional parade of flaming torches and fireworks display the night before.

We ventured into the next-door camper-van a little later than intended and found the occupants still asleep. Lisa had been feeling unwell for a couple of days but now Euan seemed to have picked up the lurgy too, it looked as though Gina and I would be on our own.

We had some tea and breakfast, and then some more tea, and then looked at the clock. Lisa had assured us that it would only take about 40mins to get to Fort William but we were already pushing it. The remains of the tea were poured into a flask and we hurriedly departed.

Lisa had reckoned without the speed and power of an aging Transit camper van and her 40 minute estimate was way off the mark. Over an hour after leaving we arrived at Aonach Mor, dumped the van and ran into the cafe to sign on, only just in time.

Final instructions before the start

The race itself was supposed to be from the car park at the bottom to the top of the ski lift, a distance of only about 3 miles but with around 2,000ft of climbing, just what you need New Year’s morning. Standing at the bottom and looking up the mountainside the top was invisible in the clouds. Of more concern was the huge amount of wind. This was even noticeable at the base of the hill and they hadn’t even tried to get the gondolas going.

It was therefore decided to amend the race slightly. We would race up the first two thirds of the climb, but then in a break from tradition we would have to race downhill again, back to where we started.

 Me near the front. I wasn't there very long.

Despite the hour of the day and the amount of whiskey which must have been consumed the night before the record 129 runners set off at quite a pace and disappeared off up the hill, me trying to keep up as best I could.

The lower section was mainly in the forest, and I recognised quite a lot of it from the various bike races I have competed in there over the years. The trees sheltered us from a lot of the wind but it really hit us as we emerged from the woods onto the top section of course. We battled upwards into the gale, now able to see the turn. Two marshals were standing, or at least attempting to remain upright, buffeted by the wind, where the trail crossed underneath the gondola.

I could see the leaders heading down as I climbed up the final section, they weren’t too far ahead but I always tend to do better on the uphill sections so I was expecting to lose more ground on the way back down. It never ceases to amaze me just how quickly the top guys can descend, if you have never been to a proper fell-race it really is worth going to see, it’s proper ‘brain out and go for it’ stuff.

Anyway, I went round the marshals, still standing, and launched myself over the top, trying to be clever and take the straight line down through the heather I had seen the leaders take. This would have worked were I as good at descending as they are but I’m not so it didn’t.

Back on the proper trail things levelled out a little and we picked up speed as we headed down the mountain. All the corners, rocks, roots and drops were huge fun to run, almost as much fun as on a bike.
There was a little bridge across the river followed by some very slippery boulders. Very slippery.

I hit them hard on my bottom and right elbow, paused for a moment as I waited for that winded feeling to subside and then picked myself up as the nearby marshal was coming over to check that I was alright. I set off down the hill again having now lost sight of the runners in front.

Me, about 6 feet before I fell.

I soon spotted someone else, his bright yellow top just visible through the trees, I plunged down through the forest after him, trying to keep up as best I could. I knew where I was at this point, I know my way around here pretty well, well enough to realise that this was not the way we had come up. Did the descent go down the same route as the ascent? The guy in front seemed to know where he was going, right up until the point the main track tried to turn right, away from the finish line, and he shouted to me to ask where to go.

Knowing where you are and knowing where the race is supposed to go are not necessarily the same thing, but I lead him left into the forest and down. We emerged very close to the proper route near the end and I just got him in a sprint finish, which was nice. He was followed across the line by the person who had been right behind me at the summit, so I don’t think our little deviation had had much of an effect on the result.

As I was standing at the finish waiting for Gina to cross the line we saw people coming from much further over than we had been so at least we weren’t the only ones.

Much needed tea and soup were provided for us all in the cafe and then it was time to set off on the long drive south.

The local guys and girls pretty much cleaned up in the trophy department, but the best finish was probably for 2nd and 3rd in the women’s race, just two seconds in it.

I finished 38th in the men’s race but was beaten by a couple of girls...


1. Nick Sedgewick       Lochaber AC

2.Tom Smith                 Lochaber AC

3. Peter Henry             Deeside Runners

4. James Espie             Deeside Runners

5. Steve Macdonald    Lochaber AC


38. Andrew Howett     Fife AC


1. Diane Baum             Lochaber AC

2. Sarah MacKenzie    Lochaber AC

3. Christina Rankin      Kilbarchan

4. Edie Hemstock        Lochaber AC

5. Mare Meldrum       Lochaber AC

And finally a huge thank-you to John Oneill for the pictures. 
Actually, looking at where the photograph of me on the bridge was taken from I wonder if it was he who picked me up? Difficult to recognise anyone with coats drawn up against the rain. If so, thanks again John!

Broken Bikes, Bruised Bodies And Bottled Beer

To celebrate the end of the racing season Shergie decided that it would be a very good idea to gather a few people together for a weekend in north Wales with some bikes and some beer. I met up with him and Tom in Warwick, left my van there and piled into his. We paused briefly somewhere near Oswestry to purchase as much beer as we could fit into a shopping trolly, along with a loaf of bread, some porridge oats and some peanut butter.

Most of the journey there was spent discussing van conversions and how best to go about such a project and it was quite late by the time we arrived at the bunkhouse near Dolgellau. Stuart had beaten us there by quite some margin, possibly down to not having a speed limiter on his truck such as we had been having to contend with, but more likely by just being a lot more organised and setting off on time.

He had already started on the beers and it seemed awfully rude not to join him for a couple, so we did. The conversation then moved round to the Transcontinental. There may be a few of you who have not heard of it but in summary it is a race across Europe. The start of next year’s event will be somewhere in Belgium, with three checkpoints to pass through (the summit of Mt. Ventoux, another somewhere in the Italian Alps and one more in Slovenia) before the finish in Istanbul. It is a proper race too, none of the overnight stops or anything like that which you get on the Tour de France, the clock starts in Belgium and stops when you reach the end, over 2,400 miles later. Make your own route (verified by GPS trackers) and look after your own food and sleeping arrangements.

It sounds like a lot of fun, but also quite daunting, and a logistical nightmare to plan. Riders have in the past had to be completely self-sufficient but next year there will be an option to race as a pair, albeit still with no outside assistance at all.

Anyway, the reason we were talking about it, other than the fact that it does sound a lot of fun, is that Stuart and Shergie have applied for a place in next year’s event. Just think about that for a minute. Shergie, the man who could get lost in his own kitchen, attempting to ride over 2,400 miles from one side of a continent to the other. I hope Stuart knows what he’s doing!

After a suitable amount of beer had been drunk we turned in for the night. I was awakened sometime later by some very load thrash metal coming from a speaker 3 inches from my ear, much to the amusement of everyone else. We had some porridge, piled the bikes into the truck and headed off to Coed-y-Brenin.

Rather surprisingly for this time of year in north Wales it wasn’t raining. Rob was already there when we arrived, getting his bike out of the car. Shergie decided that he would like to ride Stuart’s brand new Scott Genius. This was very brave of Stuart, the bike had only been to the shops and back to check that it was working, to all intents and purposes this would be it’s first ride. However, the front brake lever wasn’t quite to Shergie’s liking and so it was removed, the hose rerouted, and then the lever, which was connected to the shifter with a single M4 bolt (remember that detail) reattached.

Of the many trails we picked the longest, called The Beast, which is essentially two smaller ones ridden as one, which should keep us entertained for an afternoon. I was having a huge amount of fun riding my enormous Kona Stinky on the downhill sections, but then struggling as I tried to get it back up as best I could. As long as I was ahead of Tom on his nearly-as-heavy Commencal I was happy. The others were all flying along on their nice light bikes, Rob in particular on his fortnight-old Scott Scale hardtail.

We had a brief pause as Shergie managed to puncture the rear tyre of the Genius but it didn’t take us long to fix and we were soon on our way again. We had another stop for a cup of tea at the little café and made a fuss of the local cats.

Once underway again we decided to swap bikes around a bit. Shergie ended up on my Stinky, which slowed him down quite a bit, and I ended up on the brand-new Genius. It was the brief moment when I wasn’t on the brand-new Genius which caused some concern, Stuart found me sprawled across the rocks next to his new pride and joy, but fortunately no harm was done, either to me or to the bike.

Harm was done to a bike when Shergie climbed aboard Rob’s two week old Scale, he had managed to ride the best part of 25 yards before the hanger was ripped apart and he came to a very sudden halt accompanied by the sound of the chain pinging in the spokes.

We faffed around for a while, trying to build a singlespeed out of it before the lack of any sort of tension in the chain caused us to admit defeat. Shergie decided to scoot/push it back the shortcut way and the rest of us carried on, Rob trying really hard not to look too worried as Shergie was wrapping the chain around the carbon frame.

Shergie doesn’t have to actually be present in order for things to break. Remember the M4 bolt which held the brake lever to the shifter on the Genius? He had ‘tightened’ it, if that’s the right word, earlier that morning. On the very first climb after we had said goodbye to him the bolt decided that it would come out and disappear into the rocks. This left Stuart, who was now finally getting a go on his own new bike, with a brake lever swinging in and out of his front wheel. Rob, Tom, myself and a helpful passer-by walked up and down the last section for a while, searching in vain for the missing bolt, while Stuart tried to find another M4 bolt which wasn’t really doing very much, eventually stealing one from a bottle-cage mount somewhere. I can’t actually remember who’s bike that came from, must check mine when I get home…

The final section of the trail has two route options, we paused briefly to discuss which way to go, selected the one on the right, and then came to a halt again as Rob, who was riding Stuart’s other bike, the SC Tallboy, said a very rude word very loudly when he tried to brake into the first corner and failed to slow down nearly as much as expected.

The source of this profanity was identified as a broken brake calliper mount, the lower one on the fork leg had sheared completely and this had pulled the bolt out of the upper one. Luckily no-one was hurt but there was little we could do about this and so Rob limped back with his damaged bike while the few of us who still had functioning machines rode back to the truck.

Shergie had his own bike with him, a fully rigid carbon XC bike, but even bringing this into service left us with only four bikes to share between five of us. The idea of hiring a Fatbike for the following day was mooted, none of us had ever ridden one in anger and we were all keen to see what the fuss was about.

We spent a while back at the bunkhouse, in the fading light, removing the forks from Rob’s bike and fitting them to Stuart’s SC, trying to work out if the crown races were compatible and if not how easily they could be changed. We eventually got it done and then had a beer before we headed into town, to the curry house run by a local town councillor. The highlight of the walk into town was undoubtedly walking passed Gwydaf Evan’s garage, there’s a name from the past. This caused great excitement amongst our little group, but much less so when I sent Gina, my other half, a text message to tell her where we were, it was almost as if she had never heard of certain mid 1990s British rally champions.

The food was very good, cooked very well by the town councillor, and we had a chat with the town councillor before we left (he told us three times that he was a town councillor, so it must have been an important detail) Nice chap, but he did go on a wee bit. We decided not to head into Dolgellau’s nightclub, but instead to head back to the bunkhouse for some more beers and reminiscences of past races. Shegie nodded off almost immediately, the rest of us were all very well behaved and didn’t draw on him at all, although we would have done had we been able to find a pen.

In the morning we had a lot of porridge, I’m not sure who was cooking but they had clearly misjudged the quantities required. The honey had also disappeared and so we had to have it on it’s own, which was lovely…

On arrival back at Coed-y-Brenin we decided that even though we now had the same number of working bikes as we did people we would still like a go on a fatbike and so decided to hire one. A few laps around the car park had us grinning like lunatics and so off we set.

We had left my Stinky behind as this was noticeably slower than the other bikes on most of the course. No, it wasn’t just me being rubbish, I was flying up the hills as soon as I got on the fattie. This surprised me enormously, it wasn’t nearly as heavy and cumbersome up hill as I had been expecting. It was a lot of fun on the downhills of course, but wasn’t quite as rapid as some of the full sussers in our group.

Shergie was doing a lot better than expected on his rigid bike, but did look like he was having to try a lot harder than the rest of us. However, it was Stuart who had the first crash, on the brand new Genius which luckily escaped unscathed. He lost quite a bit of blood from his shin though.

We kept pausing to faff with the tyres pressures on the fattie, making them lower and lower as we went along, until at one tyre-pressure-adjustment-stop Shergie removed the valve core from the front wheel by mistake. We decided that this had made it quite low enough and left it alone after then.

I had handed over control of the fattie by then and was having a very good time on the SC Tallboy. I’ve ridden a few 29ers in the last few years but this is the first time I’ve actually felt comfortable on one, the first time one has handled like it should rather than leaving me feeling like I’m perched miles above it.  I was having a huge amount of fun on the final descent of the first trail, trying to catch Rob on the Commencal with Stuart on the Scott not far behind me.

Shegie on his little rigid bike was trying desparately to keep up with Tom on the fattie but, unsurprisingly, it turns out that you can’t follow the lines someone on a fattie takes when you have forks like that.

We eventually gave up waiting for them and headed back up the trail to see where they had got to, and met them heading down towards us very slowly. Shergie had performed a frontal dismount further up and now his hand wouldn’t move very much. Barely able to hold the bars it was obvious that he couldn’t ride any more, leaving the rest of us to carry on without him. He was patched up very a very helpful nurse at the café, a bandage and an icepack.

Just because he wasn’t there didn’t mean he would stop breaking things for the rest of us. After the accidental valve-core removal the front tyre of the fatbike had been a little too low and this inevitably punctured. Removing the tyre proved harder than expected, we ended up with the wheel flat on the ground and stamping on the tyre to break the seal. Once we had finally got the tyre off the rim it was nice and easy to fix, although pumping did take a lot longer than usual, and Rob’s gas proved a little inadequate.

The fatbike had been interesting. We had all very much enjoyed riding it, and there was an ex-hire bike, going cheap. However, we all asking pretty much the same question ‘would I actually use it if I had one?’ It was a lot of fun, but was this just because it was a novelty, something new and a bit different? I had actually enjoyed riding the SC more and would certainly use it more if I had one. Good though the fatbike is there isn’t really anywhere other than it’s natural habitat of deep snow or sand, neither of which occur in great quantities where I live, where it will be faster than a conventional bike. And ultimately faster is more fun surely, regardless of which bike you are on?

Having collected Shergie we did a quick tally of the weekend’s damage:
Broken mech and hanger on Rob’s bike – Shergie
Puncture on the Scott – Shergie
Crash on the Scott, no damage – me
Lost bolt from the Scott – Shergie
Crash on the Scott, no damage to the bike - Stuart
Puncture on the fatbike – Shergie
Broken brake tabs on the SC – Rob
Huge blue swollen hand, bandaged – Shergie
Tom didn’t break anything bike related all weekend, although he did manage to block the sink in the bunkhouse with porridge.

You may notice one name cropping up as the culprit more than others. This is slightly worrying as he and Stuart will be attempting to ride to Istanbul in the not too distant future. They have mentioned to me that they are on the hunt for sponsors and I think there could be a very good opportunity for someone here: Anyone who can lend them a bike or other useful gear and have it survive over a week and more than 2,400 miles of Shergie will clearly be able to point to that and tell everyone just how good and strong their bike or other useful gear is, if it can survive that it can survive anything! If anyone thinks that their bike or other useful gear is up to the challenge drop me a line on andythecrasher@yahoo.co.uk  and I’ll put you in touch. (Seriously, they are both veterans of many endurance races and know what they are doing, I promise)

The journey back was largely uneventful, apart from the steering wheel on Shergie’s van coming loose. This may come as news to you Tom, you were asleep and we thought it best not to mention it…

Before and after pictures of Rob's bike. No need to explain which is which.

There would have been more photographs but Shergie has dropped his telephone down the toilet and it no longer works.

Stories From The Summer - National 24hr Time Trial

Another late one I’m afraid, this race took place way back in June. There’s enough races I haven’t yet written about to keep me going all winter, the Manx 100 and the 24hr World Championships being the two biggies.  So anyway, National 24hr Time Trial Championship race report coming up:

This is yet another story of me succumbing to peer pressure and doing something a bit silly because it seemed like a good idea in the pub.

As well as the lovely folks at XCRacer/Scimitar I also ride for a local road club, Sleaford Wheelers. I get the feeling that most of them think I’m a little bit mad doing long distance time trials but I keep nagging them all to come along and join in, safe in the knowledge that none of them ever will. However, at the end of last year Richard Horton called my bluff and decided that he would like to do a 24hr time trial in 2014.

He had prepared very well for it, plenty of long rides, two 12hr time trials the previous year and a 15hr night ride earlier in 2014. I had also done these things, and had won the Lincolnshire Road Racing Associations 12hr trophy in 2013 and, with Richard and Kath’s help, the Team 12hr trophy.

There were only two 24hr TTs to choose from this year, one of which clashed with the Megavalanche and the other was a fortnight after the European 24hr. Neither of them were ideal for me but I certainly wasn’t about to let Richard win the club trophy by default so I found myself heading down to Sussex two weeks after my last 24 wondering just how much this one was going to hurt and whether I would actually manage to keep going. It also turned out that the one Richard had picked for us was the National Championships, not bad for his first attempt.

Richard had managed to acquire some helpers for us, his fiancé Liz and friend Joe. The pit arrangements are very different to those in a 24hr MTB race, where you have a static pit which you pass every hour or so. The course for a long TT will generally consist of several different laps, usually a daytime lap which you will go around a few times, then a night-time lap which you will move onto at dusk before moving on to another daytime lap at dawn and then a ‘finishing circuit’, a much shorter lap which you will be moved onto as the 24hrs approaches so that the timekeepers can keep an eye on you and work out exactly how far you have gone.

All these different laps, which can be quite some distance apart, makes life very difficult for the pit crew, they have to know which lap you are on when and find a suitable meeting point on each. And of course because they will have to move around they must have at least one van and putting up tents and suchlike to make things more comfortable for them isn’t really an option. Feeding two or more riders can be a nightmare if they end up on different circuits

We had arrived in plenty of time and loaded all of the food, tools and spare bikes into Liz’s car. I was unsure as to my choice of bike for the race, my TT bike would undoubtedly be faster but it was unlikely that my back would be able to withstand 24hrs in that position. I had therefore brought along my drop-bar road bike as a back-up and was intending to use this at night, both to ease my back and also because the lights would fit those bars much better than the fancy aero bars of the TT bike. However, I discovered yet another useful adjustment for my Exposure MaxxD and managed to get it onto the aero bars and pointing in the right direction. I would put that on at dusk and see how I went, no need to swap to the other bike unless I had to.

As a back-up I had an Exposure Joystick as a helmet light, plenty bright enough for use on it’s own but not quite the battery life of the impressive MaxxD. I was wearing a conventional helmet, the aero one is fine for anything up to about 50 miles but it does get very warm in there and the visor makes it both very difficult to wipe one’s eyes and also to eat. Similarly I wasn’t wearing the skinsuit favoured by time trialists as I would need pockets for carrying around large amounts of food, and ease of access for pee-breaks.

Richard waiting his turn to start

The start looked pretty normal for a TT, half a dozen people milling about, along with the time keeper and pusher-offer, none of the crowds and noise and excitement I’m used to at a 24, all very calm and collected. With a ‘good luck’ from the time keeper I was away.

24s are very similar to all other time trials in that we all set off at one minute intervals so that there can be no slipstreaming, no helping each other along, we would all be on our own against the clock. I have said it before and I will probably say it again but I find that the longer the race the less I can remember about it. This is especially true of time trials where one piece of tarmac looks very much like another. The battle isn’t against your opponents, the course or even the tiredness in your legs, it is all in your head, being able to push against a target average speed for hour after hour after hour after hour, just the briefest pause to refuel and take on yet more food.

I was number 39 and Richard number 50 so we had set off 11 minutes apart and the gap had been pretty constant in the early part of the race, after about 6hrs we were still within about 10-15 minutes of each other on the road, it was going to be a very close race for our club championship..

We had a little bit of excitement in the evening of the first day. At about 7pm there was a fairly big car crash, a three car pile-up which blocked most of the A26. I was one of the last to pass the site before the accident and so continued round for another lap, Richard arrived shortly after it and was sent off somewhere else entirely, the organisers having to make it up as they went along.

I arrived back at the scene about 45 minutes later and lost a bit of time as I picked my way through the maze of ambulances, fire engines, wrecked cars and, of more immediate concern to me, the broken glass strewn across the carriageway before following Richard and the others onto the new circuit.

Liz and Joe coped admirably with having us 20-odd miles apart for a couple of hours, but it must have been a nightmare for the organisers. They obviously knew the exact length of every circuit and had the marshals positioned at exactly the right spots on them but they had do a bit of ad-hoc marshal-shuffling and then a lot of recalculating to work out exactly how far everyone had travelled on the new diversion.

More annoying for me was that I had lost my point of reference, Liz and Joe had no idea had far either Richard or I had gone and which of us was leading the other. This was important as he was the man I really wanted to beat, my road club had introduced a 24hr trophy for the first time and we were both keen to be the first name on it. The Lincolnshire Road Racing Association don’t currently have an official trophy for 24hrs but there is growing enthusiasm for the introduction of one and it would be nice to be first on that too. Richard had been doing some research into performances in this event by LRRA members and the best one he had found was someone from Bourne, who’s name I have forgotten, who rode a distance I can’t quite recall (three hundred and ninety something miles maybe?) in a year which has temporarily slipped my mind. There was an unofficial record there to be beaten and we both wanted that too. 400 miles was therefore my target.

As darkness fell and we moved onto the night circuit things started to look like they were going my way. I was still making good progress, my speed was good and my refuelling stops reasonably short. I had one slightly longer than normal pause at about midnight to change to some warmer clothes as the temperature really was starting to drop then. Richard was starting to struggle a bit, he appeared to be going more slowly and was certainly taking longer stops but thanks to the diversion we still didn’t know exactly how we were getting on.

Despite the obvious discomfort he was in he nevertheless kept going. Everyone will have a rubbish period at some point in a 24 and one just has to keep going through it before it gets better.

The sun coming up is always the best bit in one of these races, not just because it is really pretty, but because it is an enormous boost to morale. I do start to think in slightly odd ways though, “5am, nearly there”. No, not really there’s still 7 hours of riding to do!

I had my own slow patch about 7am which lasted an hour or so before I was able to pick up the pace again, hoping it hadn’t cost me too much time.
I spend a lot of my time in long time trials doing mental arithmetic, working out what speeds I need to be averaging in order to be able to hit my target distance in the remaining time available. There isn’t nearly as much on the course to pay attention to as there is in an MTB race and it keeps my brain busy during the endless hours of pedalling, gives me something to think about. The maths would be a lot easier if I was properly awake, rather than twenty-odd hours worth of tired, but I think the thing which would do the most to simplify the process would be the decimalisation of time. Anyway, I had managed to work out that it was going to be very close as to whether I would hit my 400 mile target or not, it was possible but not guaranteed.

I had managed to beat my previous best after about 20hrs. I had only ever done one 24hr time-trail before, way back in 2009. That race was my first ever 24 of any kind and I was completely unprepared for it, I had done one 12hr the previous year and nothing else over 6hrs, ever. I really struggled and even fell asleep on the bike at one point, on the main A road into Telford at about 4am. That was quite scary so I had stopped for a proper sleep (ie. Curled up on a car seat rather than on a bike while still in motion) which lasted about 20 minutes. I also remember the relentless rain that day and the general unpleasantness of the whole thing. It didn’t put me off though.

This time things were going a lot more smoothly, for me anyway, Richard was still suffering but was still going, determined to make it to the end. The final stages of a 24 are usually surprisingly fast, the psychological boost one gets as the end approaches does wonders and in the last couple of hours I was back over 20mph again. It may not sound fast to the 10 mile racers amongst you but I was really pleased with that. I had even worked out that it might be enough to get me passed the magic 400 mile mark.

Something else always surprises me about a 24; In the later stages I can be flying, pushing as hard as I would in a short XC race, the last couple of hours absolutely flat out. It really is one of the best feelings, to be that far into a race and still going at that speed, the penultimate lap at Finale earlier in the year for example. However, as soon as I cross the line my brain just decides that it has had enough and shuts everything down, I can’t stand, never mind walk, I just curl up into a heap and don’t move for ages, completely unable to do anything.

Something very similar happened this time, but before the race had even finished. I was hurtling along at about 20mph, and had been for some time, watching the distance on my GPS. At about 23h50m the 400 mile mark ticked over and my brain just said “that’s that done” and stopped.

I knew it was just in the brain but I could not get anything to work properly again, my leg were dead, no power, no strength, no speed, nothing. Staying upright was nearly as much of a challenge as was moving forwards. I limped around, doing single figure speeds until my time was up.

I pulled over and collapsed in a heap at the roadside. I had no idea where I was or how to get back to the venue, my van and some food. Some lovely kind people from Guernsey Road Club found me curled up in the hedge bottom trying to remember who I was and how to stand up. They bundled me into the back of a car and took me back to the headquarters. I then resumed laying a heap for the next hour or so while I tried to work out why my left leg would no longer bend.

Because of the confusion caused by the change of route the official results took a lot longer than usual to be published, it must have been a nightmare for the organisers to work out who had gone which way and how far each route was.

Anyway, Richard had covered 336.22 miles despite the obvious pain he was in, which is pretty impressive for a first attempt. I had just beaten the 400 mile mark with 401.27 miles, which is certainly a new PB and club record and, as far as Richard and I can tell, a new Lincolnshire record. I wait to be corrected by Brian on the latter. I had finished 21st in the National Championship and Richard 38th Also, a quick mention to the other Lincolnshire rider in this event, Pete Holland from Lincoln Wheelers who rode a very impressive 320.71 miles on a trike!


I would like to say a huge thank-you to the usual suspects; Accelerade for keeping me fed and watered, USE/Exposure for lighting the way and Mt Zoom for their assistance in turning a fairly light bike into a very light bike.
However, the biggest thank-yous must go to Liz and Joe for keeping me going through the whole thing and always being in the right place at the right time.

Megavalanche - The Whole Soggy Saga

Because I know everyone reads everything I write on here you will of course all recall that I was posting daily updates here prior to the Megavalanche. This article is a bigger (and hopefully better) version bringing it all together. There are more pictures even you don't fancy reading more words...


As you all must have noticed there is a very big bike race which takes place in France every July, and has done for a number of years. Although technically it does not have the same status as the World Championships or the Olympics it is arguably far more famous and prestigious than either of them and is the one every bike racer wants to try at least once. Before the event there was a lot of hype surrounding the possibility of a British winner, following on from some impressive results from the Brits in the previous couple of years.

When it began all those years ago the event mainly featured French riders but it has since grown into a major event, attracting riders from all over the world. The entry list for this year still read like a who’s who of contemporary bike racing, despite the fact that luminaries such as Sir Bradley Wiggins would not be competing.

So, is it possible for a complete novice, such as myself, to compete in a race like this and hopefully make it to the finish in one piece? I know roughly what I’m doing as far as XC and Endurance mountainbiking goes but this discipline was something almost entirely new to me, well outside my comfort zone. I managed to get myself my entry, a ‘new-to-me’ bike and a ferry ticket and so off I went, wondering just exactly what I was letting myself in for.

The Megavalanche itself took place at Alpe d’Huez on July 13th, Apparently there was also a road race going on somewhere at about that time but I know nothing about that.

I had never done a downhill race before, and had almost exactly no experience of riding DH courses not during races, a few times down the easier ones at Innerleithen was about it. I therefore decided that the best introduction to such things would be to try the biggest and most famous races of them all and see how I got on, what could possibly go wrong?


One thing which does become very obvious very quickly when driving from the ferry port in Dunkirk to Alpe d’Huez is just how big France is, it takes ages to get anywhere. I always think of France and Britain as being fairly similar, the size of population, the size of the economy, things like that, but it appears that the size of the landmass is not something they have in common. The French have about twice as much land to play with and, lucky them, the sunny bit at the bottom is mostly full of mountains.

The journey to the venue took about a day and a half. This would have been a little quicker had one of the windscreen wiper blades on my van not detached itself at 80mph and disappeared over the roof. Luckily they were only on intermittent so I was able to switch them off before the stubby metal arm had punched a hole in the glass. The spray from the lorry in front of me was worse than the rain itself, but as I was on a fast dual carriageway with no hard shoulder I was unable to stop. Slowing down didn’t seem like a great plan either, there were vehicles hurtling passed me and backing off would surely have resulted in a fairly hefty rear-end collision. I tucked in behind the lorry, using his taillights to guide me, peering out as best I could. Eventually I spotted a layby and dived into it.

I removed the wiper blade from the passenger side and attached it to the driver’s side. This was not as successful as I had hoped, they are surprisingly different in terms of both length and curve, but it was the best I could do. I removed the arm from the now redundant passenger side so that I could operate my one functioning wiper without smashing the windscreen to pieces and sat down for a bite to eat.

I wandered over to the nearest wheelie-bin to put the wrapper in it and lifted the lid. I glanced down and saw three wiper blades at the bottom. I took them over to the van. One was about the right size and so this was installed in the time-honoured tradition with a hammer and a zip-tie.

Having spent all this time fixing the wipers I was pretty much guaranteed that the rest of the journey would be dry and sunny, and so it proved to be. I had an overnight stop somewhere between Dijon and Dole, just sleeping in the back of the van at the roadside, and I reached Allemont just after 3 on Sunday afternoon.

As a complete novice at this kind of thing I had purchased lift passes for the whole week, I really would need as much practice as I could get. However, my lift passes could not be collected until Monday morning and so I decided to take the road bike out for a spin instead to see what was what. Leaving Allemont I headed east along the valley floor for a couple of miles before turning and heading up the hill towards Alpe d’Huez. I know next to nothing about road cycling but the name was familiar to me from various friends who enjoy sliding around in the snow, albeit without a bike. I actually quite enjoyed the climb, despite not realising quite how long it was likely to be. I remember riding past a lovely little farmhouse with flowers in the hanging baskets outside shortly after setting off and realising that I was already about as high as the summit of Ben Nevis at that point.


I continued up through Huez Village to Alpe d’Huez and made my way through the town by the usual method of guessing and hoping for the best.  This seemed to work as I soon found myself riding up the road next to one of the tracks which I recognised from the videos of the race, all lovely swoopy sections with lots of nice corners and little jumps, clouds of dust coming up behind the riders as the hurtled down it, I was really looking forward to riding it the next day. I continued further and further on up the hill until I eventually reached the lakes at the top and could go no further, not by road bike anyway. I looked at the clock, the ride from Allemont had taken me 1hr54min. Even at this altitude, 7,000ish feet, it was still very warm, nearly 30 degrees, if the weather stayed like this for the next week it would be fantastic. The ride back was somewhat easier going, made all the more fun by racing a young lady in a Renault Twingo, and it took 25minutes to return to where I had left the van. Unfortunately I do not have disc brakes on my road bike. I know that there has been some debate about how useful they would be but after that hill I can safely say that anyone who says they will be unnecessary is talking absolute rubbish


I found a secluded valley and pitched camp there for the night, cooking my dinner in the warmth of the fading sun. A few spots of rain began to fall as I climbed into bed and fell asleep. I slept soundly, only occasionally woken by the noise of the thunder and lightning echoing around the mountains

When I arose on Monday morning the rain was still falling steadily but eased off as I ate my breakfast. I headed up the mountain road to Alpe d’Huez, the climbing not a lot easier in the van as the ancient diesel engine struggled to pull the weight up the hill. I found what I believed to be one of the coveted camping spots underneath the main lift, DMC, which I had been reliably informed would be the centre of pretty much everything for the coming week. I joined the not insignificant queue to acquire my lift pass but by the time I had it the rain had returned with a vengeance.

I was my usual unprepared self and so had to spend some considerable time sheltering under the awning of the van, doing my best to hide from the weather and keep some feeling in my fingers as I bled my brakes. With hindsight I should probably have done them in the warmth of my garage before I left. After nearly two hours of faffing around in the freezing cold I realised that it was not the rear calliper letting in the air but a small nic in the plastic pipe in the syringe. One I had identified this and fixed it I was able to complete the job in about 10 minutes. I hadn’t missed any of the practice session during this time as the main lift had been shut due to the lightning. It appears that for some reason when there is lightning in the vicinity they won’t let you climb into a metal box suspended 80ft above the ground from a series of steel pylons by steel cables, it’s health and safety gone mad.

The magnificent view from the lift

Eventually the rain eased off enough for the lifts to begin operating and so I suited up and headed for the top. As I mentioned above I have never done a downhill race before. I had only ridden my bike three or four times prior to the event and had only worn a full face helmet and body armour once before. As a complete novice I had decided that it would be best if I just padded everything I could, so in addition to the helmet and goggles I was wearing protection on my shoulders, elbows, forearms, chest, spine, kidneys, knees and shins and some pretty hefty shoes, only my hands protruding from the armour to grip the bars.

The only good thing about the weather being so dire was that there was very little in the way of a queue for the lift and so I soon found myself heading for the top. The main DMC lift had two parts, imaginatively called DMC1 and DMC2. I headed for the top, DMC2, not so much admiring the view as trying to peer through the murk as best I could. We could not proceed beyond DMC2, the lift up to the summit was closed due to the weather, if high winds or fog prevent the rescue helicopter being able to fly then they have to close the upper reaches of the course. I therefore decided that the best thing to do was to have a look at the lower two thirds of the qualifying course.

Leaving the relative warmth of the lift station I was glad of the protection my full face helmet and body armour offered, not from any particular danger, but from the windchill. I had been looking forward to the race for months, ever since I had entered way back in January and I was finally about to ride part of the course. I pulled my goggles down and set off down the hill.

Within two minutes I was laying at the bottom of a jump saying a lot of rude words and trying to work out if I had broken anything. Having survived the rocks at the top of the course and some interesting steep sections I had arrived at the first gap-jump in that horrible no-man’s land between going fast enough to actually clear it and going too fast to be able to stop in time. Not being at all used to having my wheels off the ground I panicked, grabbed the brakes and fell of the end, slamming hard into the back of the landing.

My helmet and copious amounts of armour had done their job well and once I realised that I was only winded I was able to drag myself out of the hole, and out of the way of the other riders hurtling passed. The one bit of me which wasn’t padded was of course my hands, OK two bits, but you know what I mean. My right one had swelled up considerably and seemed to have stopped bending. I was fairly sure nothing was broken though so I counted myself lucky and got back on the bike. The bike itself was completely unscathed by the whole thing, the front end had taken a huge impact with all of my weight behind it and this had had no effect on it all.

Someone else doing it properly

The lower sections of the course were much more to my liking, a lot of fast corners, some slippery traverses and even a couple of climbing sections. Despite the size of my hand and the resulting difficulty in changing gear I arrived back at the bottom of the DMC with a huge grin on my face and a desire to do it all again, so I did.

The second time I knew exactly where the gap-jump was and was very pleased to note the alternative line to the left. Discretion being the better part of valour, and cowardice being the better part of discretion I valiantly wimped out and took the chicken run. The fast section I seen the day before while out on the road bike was as much fun as it looked and, with some feeling starting to return to my hand, I was able to hold onto the bike properly and enjoy it.


Alpe d’Huez was not the finish for qualifying, the route instead passed through the town, a succession of tight corners, tunnels, bridges, drainage channels, steep drops and some small jumps, luckily ones which still have ground on the far side rather than a massive hole. The first time I entered the tunnel was interesting, it’s flat out but as soon as one enters it there is a brief moment of panic where you realise that you are doing just over 20mph and can’t actually see anything, but then you are up to the corner and the light from the exit illuminates your way.

Plunging down through the town the course veered off the road under the lower lift and plunged down the hillside. This reminded me very much of a helter skelter, partly because of the succession of tight corner after tight corner, but mainly because the best way down it was to hang on and hope for the best. There was a final sprint down the road to the finish line in Huez Village by the small lift with the big queue.

Rather than spend an evening basking in the sunshine and drinking beer as I believe is customary for an evening at this event I instead had a hurried dinner, trying to keep the stove alight in the howling wind as best I could, and then an early night, glad to climb into the relative warmth of my van. I took a little consolation from the fact that I wasn’t one of the poor unfortunates staying in a tent, watching the water level rise ever closer to the top of the waterproof bit of the groundsheet.

Tuesday morning was signalled by the display on my watch changing rather than any noticeable brightening of the sky. I opened the curtains and peered out of the van, looked at the weather and went back to sleep. It was still raining hard when I next woke up and looked. After enjoying a rare lie-in for as long as I reasonably could it became apparent that the rain was not going to stop and that I would have little choice but to get up and get wet.

The worst part of this is of course putting wet kit back on. I have many shorts and jerseys but only one set of armour, one full face helmet and one pair of suitable shoes. These had all failed to dry in the van overnight, so I removed the worst of the mud and gritted my teeth as pulled it all back on. I hate wet clothes.

I took the lift up to DMC2, with access to the top of the glacier again restricted due to the weather I went for another look at the qualifying course. The boardwalk section near the top which was doable yesterday was in a bit of a state with all the mud that had now been dragged across it, and grip was pretty much non-existent. It had been fairly tricky yesterday to turn on the upper section to line yourself up for the lower section and the jump at the end, today it was nigh on impossible. I saw one nasty crash, someone lost his rear wheel, overcorrected, and then slide off to the right. He bounced off the first boulder still holding on to his bike, but this then flung him upwards before he came down on the second, arms and legs flailing this time, rolled over another boulder and nearly stopped before going over the ledge. Nearly. He then fell about 10ft, landing heavily on the rocks right next to the crash mat which had been put there to protect those who fell further down the trail. Then his bike landed on him. A couple of us started climbing down towards him as he stood up, but other than a bent brake rotor he was pretty much unscathed.

I had my own little incident further down, losing the back wheel on the slippery traverse below the middle lift station and rolling some considerable distance down the hill. Fortunately it was grass, on ground made soft by the rain and no harm was done.

Despite the sodden and bedraggled state in which I arrived at the lower lift station I climbed aboard again and headed back to the top. I managed to attach myself to couple of other Brits who I met in the lift and set off with them. The Brits were apparently the single largest national group at the race, some 700 of the 2,200 competitors. This was good news for me as it meant that English was the official second language of the race with most communications being in two languages. I can muddle through in Italian and German but speak barely a word of French and managed absolutely fine.


Below the middle lift the main race track crossed the qualifying course. At the time it seemed like a good idea to branch off and follow this, to see what we were in for in the main event. There was a bit of a fireroad climb before we entered the forest, the dense trees at last providing some shelter from the never ending rain.

This section of the course would normally be a lovely swoopy decent through the forests, a succession of singletrack sections with the occasional overtaking opportunity in the wider parts. Instead we encountered a real quagmire, the mud was pretty much indescribable. I will resist using any similes comparing it to the trenches of the Somme, which I believe is the standard form in such cases, although I did notice that we had nearly reached the end before we spotted an American...

At first the mud was just slippery, I am sure you have all seen the videos from the glacier, people standing upright, holding onto the bars of their bike, skiing down on both feet as they attempt to steer. I can confirm that this is a lot less fun on mud than it is on snow, especially with a significant precipice to one's left, but we quickly changed from mud which made us go too fast to mud through which we could barely move at all.

No-one could possibly hurt themselves with
 crash barriers this strong on the track!

Those of you have been riding since the 90s will probably have memories of the mud from way back then. I don’t think that the mud itself was that different to the modern mud, but the lack of clearance on rigid forks and cantilever brakes encouraged it to form enormous clumps around the fork crown, wishbone and bottom bracket, preventing the wheels from turning. I hate to think how many hours I spent digging it out with various sticks. Now imagine the same effect on huge downhill bikes with disc brakes and massive mud-clearance, some of these clumps were over a foot across.


Myself and one of my new companions appeared to be relatively immune to the effects. I don’t know why but we seemed to be collecting much less of it than pretty much everyone else, apart from a German guy on a little hardtail who flew past our group at the bottom of the biggest drop sideways in a shower of earth and Germanic swearwords.  We could still ride, but others around us were making very, very slow progress. The wheels wouldn’t turn because of the mud, and the sheer weight of it was making the bikes nigh on impossible to carry. Progress was woefully slow, and we were all rapidly losing the will to live. When we saw the village of Oz in the valley below us, complete with a lift to return us to the summit, we did the only sensible thing and wimped out, heading down the hill and away from the horror. It may have been even colder and windier at the top but at least the bikes would move.

After one more run down the middle part of the qualifying track it was time to climb into bed and attempt to restore some warmth to my frozen extremities.


With the conditions being as they were on Wednesday morning there was no opportunity to get right up to the summit and practice the glacier and, after Tuesday’s traumatic experiences, little enthusiasm to ride the lower part of the race track again. As a result Wednesday was spent doing more runs down the qualifying course. To be honest this was no bad thing, I was reliably informed that this was much more difficult than the race route and I was finally starting to get the hang of my bike, it appears to be far more capable than I am, the limiting factor was definitely my bravery, or lack thereof, rather than anything do with the bike.

I even managed to find one section where I was the fastest person, rather than the slowest. It was a short sharp climb only about 20 yards long but I’m still going to claim that as a victory.

The main problem with practicing qualifying was getting back up from Huez village. The final section was a lot of fun, so I didn’t really like stopping at the bottom of the main lift and would carry on right down to the finishing line. The lift from there can only take five at a time, well twenty people but only five bikes and no-one seemed keen to leave their bike behind. I am told that normally one would take the opportunity to have a chat and a cup of coffee in the lift queue, enjoy the views and the sunshine, but instead we spent the time huddled under a variety of cobbled together shelters trying to keep the rain and biting wind off as best we could as we waited for the lift cars to re-emerge through the murk.

There was a brief period when the downpour eased to a mere drizzle and so a small group of us decided to ride back to the top, up one of the most famous climbs of the Tour de France, on 40Lb DH bikes. This took a little longer than expected.

That evening my new best friend Sam, who had become such by virtue of parking next to me, and who is not only a lot faster than me on all of the steep techy stuff but also a genius, had a brainwave. It was a proper ‘why didn’t we think of that before’ moment. We upped camp and moved into the underground car park. All of a sudden we had shelter, from the incessant rain and also from the wind. It was possible to leave the van without wearing every single item of clothing I had brought with me. We had electric lights and concrete floors. We could light a gas stove without it instantly being blown out, or occasionally over. We could even spread some wet kit out and attempt to dry it. It was even warm enough in there that we could actually bare to touch metal items such as, for example, bikes. The only slight issue was attempting to coax a Transit with a roof rack under the overhead gantries, signs, and massive gas pipe. “Max height: 2.35m”. The van is about 6’9”ish I think, plus a roof rack which is about 4”, maybe 5, I’m sure it’ll be fine, what could possibly go wrong?


Before                                                 After


There were inevitably rumours circulating that evening as to what would happen to the race itself. Very few people had managed to get up onto the glacier so far, would they actually be able to start the race from there? What would happen if they couldn’t? They must have contingency plans for something like that but let’s be honest here, the glacier is the Mega, it’s the reason why so many come year after year. Could they really hold the race without it? Would they even have a choice?

There wasn’t a lot less sunrise visible from inside the underground car park than there had been from outside, the concrete walls giving much the same impression as the fog had done the previous morning. I arose early, had a quick look outside at the weather and then went back to bed again.

It was still raining the next time I arose and as it showed no sign of stopping I made breakfast in the relative warmth and then suited up, pulling on my not-quite-as-wet-as-it-had-been kit and heading outside. I had heard that the top part of the qualifying track was finally open and so this became the objective for the day. It was a bit of mission to get to. From the main lift station in Alpe d’Huez we went up two levels to DMC2 and then changed lifts to head down the other side of the mountain on the big lift to Oz. There was the option of riding this stage of course, but after yesterday no-one seemed especially keen on the idea. In Oz there was a short ride across the village to the other lift which took us up towards Alpette Rousses.

There was a group of about 20 of waiting for the final lift as it came into view. This was not quite like the other lifts, it was more like a monorail train, it had a driver and everything. It also had a robotic platform which folded away when the carriage was ready to move, it all looked a little rickety. I’m sure it’s safe though, they must check these contraptions surely?

We were slightly concerned when the driver got out and beckoned us over with the words ‘Helmets On!’ Those of us who hadn’t kept them on to ward off the cold nervously complied.

The fog cleared! Very briefly.
Normally when the clouds parted it wasn’t even for long enough for my camera to switch itself on
I’m sure those lift cables will be strong enough...

 The only good thing about taking a lift up through the fog is that it hides the massive drops below our feet. We eventually reached the summit, where the lift deposited us out into a small wooden hut before turning around and heading back down the hill. It felt very much like we had been dumped on an alien world by a spaceship which had then just left us there and gone home again. The land around us was barren rock, no sign of any vegetation of any kind anywhere, just patches of snow dotted around. Visibility was minimal, 20 yards at most, when the wind blew a bit stronger and monetarily cleared some of the fog and it was noticeably colder here than it had been even at the bottom of this final lift.

More magnificent views, this time from the top of the qualifying course


A couple of guys who clearly knew where they were going (we hoped!) took off down the hill to our right and the rest of us followed. There were no course marking in sight and tyre tracks were quickly being covered again by the wind and snow, this was not a place to get left behind.
Once clear of the peak the mist thinned enough for us to be able to see the landscape. Not the surrounding mountains, they were still hidden by the clouds and rain, but the area we were riding through. This was truly spectacular, it looked as though it was composed of one giant rock, eroded into a multitude of interesting shapes giving lots of choice for lines to ride. This was all covered in patches of snow of various sizes, from about the size of a pool table to the size of a football pitch.

An area of bare rock that size, devoid of any vegetation at all and with patches of snow dotted around gave an impression of riding through the set of a sci-fi film. It was a huge amount of fun, picking lines down through the levels of rock, trying to work out where the grip would be in the snow. We eventually emerged from this across some sizable rolling rocks and onto a vehicle track. I’m not really sure what to call it, fireroad is obviously the wrong name, there is clearly no chance of a fire up there so little need of a firebreak


Rounding a corner I spotted two people standing by the side of the track and stopped to see if they were OK. We got talking as, like every Dutchman, they spoke perfect English. They said that they had heard on the grapevine that the start of qualifying had been changed due to the weather conditions, there would be no chance of getting the rescue helicopter up to the top and so qualifying would start just above DMC2 instead. This would be a real shame, the top section had been great fun to ride. I had loved every minute of it, so much so in fact that when I reached Alpe d’Huez I immediately climbed back into the lift and headed for the top again. I knew it wouldn’t be used but there was no harm in having another go at it.

The lifts had been quite a hassle, and slightly nerve-wracking despite wearing a helmet in the final one and so I decided to take what I thought would be the easy option and push the bike back up from DMC2 to the top. After an hour or so of carrying it through the snow and lifting it over the boulders I could see the summit emerging through the fog, it hadn’t been the easy option at all and I was knackered. However, I didn’t stop to admire the view and have a rest, partly because there wasn’t one, just dense fog, but mostly because it was so cold, mainly down to the quite impressive amounts of windchill.

I was the only person up there the second time, and it really was a bleak and lonely place, with pretty much zero chance of being found before I froze to death if anything went wrong on the way back down, but it didn’t so that was fine.

I went to check on the situation when I next got to the bottom and it was indeed confirmed that the qualifying would start on the fireroad above DMC2. Whether they would be able to start the race itself from the glacier on Pic Blanc would depend on the weather. It was not looking good.

Friday was qualifying day. It was warm and sunny when we emerged from the car park and, even more unusually, not raining. We then went back inside in order to check that we were indeed awake and not dreaming. No, we were right, it had actually stopped raining!

Qualifying itself would consist of 15 heats, each of 130 riders. The top 23 from each would go into the main event, 24th down to 46th places into the ‘Challengers’ race and 47th to 69th into the ‘Amateurs’. Anyone finishing 70th or lower would not be able to compete but would be allowed to ride the course after the races. The ladies would have separate heats of their own and would race on the Saturday, followed by the Challengers, with the main race and the Amateurs racing on Sunday morning.

As replacement start-lines go this isn’t too bad

I have no idea how the numbers had been allocated, as far as we could tell it was more or less done at random. However, I was not complaining, I had been given Number 210 and this meant a front row spot in the second heat.

The decision to move the start of the qualifying had been taken on the Thursday. Looking at the weather conditions up there on Friday morning I think that it would have been possible to start it from the top, but it would have been pretty near impossible to get everything set up the night before, and of course the weather could not have been guaranteed.

I headed up to the top nice and early and was in plenty of time to watch the first heat assemble and then depart. The atmosphere up there was electric, I don’t know how many races I have done over the years, literally hundreds, but this was something special.

The second heat were called forward a row at a time to take their positions, I got a spot over on the right hand side, being on one side in any race is always the favoured position, too much can go wrong starting in the centre. The only downside with being over there was that I was starting on quite a lose surface, I used the wait between the heats to clear a few of the larger rocks out of my way and got ready for the off.

Blue skies and spectators.
I'm not sure which causes which but they seem to occur together.

I am sure that you will all know exactly what I am talking about when I refer to that music, we have heard it so many times before. However, hearing it standing on the top of the mountain, on the front row of the grid with 129 riders behind you all fired up and ready to go is a feeling which is very hard to describe, and so I won’t. If you haven’t been there and done it you should.

The music peaked, the tape lifted and we all shot off like the proverbial from the shovel. Well, not quite all of us. I wasted my front row advantage in a hail of stones and wheelspin. This actually turned out to be rather a good thing. Those who had got a better start all barrelled into the first turn at quite a significant speed and immediately collected each other in a tangle of flailing limbs and cartwheeling bikes. I was far enough back to see this happening and take avoiding action around the right hand side.

Those of us who had survived the first corner unscathed encountered another bottleneck a little further along, someone got it wrong in the snow and everyone else behind them came to a stop, I leapt off and ran before remounting and sprinting down the hill towards the lift station.


The track narrowed significantly as we plunged down the mountainside and we were into the techy rocky singletrack which is so much fun. There was another bottleneck at the boardwalk section, which I expected. A number of people had been struggling here in practice, the lack of grip on the wooden sections causing all kinds of problems, and so it was no surprise to see so many having difficulties in the race. I had foreseen this and planned my lines accordingly. I rounded the turn and dived left into the drainage channel, sliding down over the rocks. This missed out the top section of the boardwalk where braking to line oneself up for the second section had been such a problem, and meant that I joined it on the little flat bit between the two sections. There was some shouting behind me as I obviously got in someone’s way doing this, but then I was down, off the jump at the end, landing nicely on the downward slope and leaning into the next corner, the tyres biting into the dirt, absolutely perfect.

I stopped briefly to put my chain back on and then set off again.


The fireroad and little rocky climb up to the lower lift were both fine. Ever better the traverse below it had dried out considerably, so much so that it was now possible to steer on it, a big improvement over the previous few days.

 You may notice that I am not in my usual XCRacer/Scimitar team kit. These are instead the colours of Team Romeo Racing, worn in tribute to Kane Vandenberg who was tragically killed shortly before the 2013 24hr World Championship

The one section of the track which I seemed able to do better than most I also struggled on today as my chain came off again on the preceding descent, forcing me to run up the climb and over the little bridge. I paused at the top to put it back on again and resumed my chase of those in front.


Not me!

The section along the side of the road had also dried out and was rolling pretty fast, there were a lot of spectators here as it was quite simple to get to.

We plunged down through the town of Alpe d’Huez, a lovely little section riding through drainage channels, tunnels, bridges and jumps, people out in force here to cheer us on.


The helter-skelter section caused a few interesting moments, the very bottom had been changed slightly from practice; in order to slow us we entered the last tunnel two new chicanes had been added. These took us all by surprise as we hurtled into these new corners far too fast and outbraked ourselves. The guy behind me had obviously seen what I was doing and had a little more warning, he emerged from the tunnel right on my wheel, heading for the final drop-off. I went left, he went right. Our handlebars touched in mid-air, we landed together, bumped shoulders again and both sprinted for the corner. He just got it, and I sprinted down the road after him and across the finish line.

As mentioned above, only the 69 fastest riders from each heat would actually get to race. I knew my time, but not my position. It was a long wait to find out if I had done enough. There were also rumours circulating that the forecast for the following day was looking a bit grim to say the least. It was therefore looking likely that the ladies, the Challengers, and half of the non-qualifiers would not get to start on the glacier at all. Sunday’s starts were by no means guaranteed either, we wouldn’t find out until at least tomorrow.


After I’d had a bite to eat the results were posted. 65th, I was in a race. Job done. But would I actually get to do it on the glacier? To repeat myself, the glacier really is the Mega, the reason for being here, it was a long way to come not to do it. I had done my bit, it was now up to the weather gods.

We didn’t entirely trust these gods and so upped camp and moved down the valley to Allemont, being several thousand feet lower down would hopefully make quite a difference to the ambient temperature and we would be in the perfect position to watch the end of the Saturday races.

After a brief respite from the atrocious conditions for Friday qualifying normal service had been resumed for Saturday. We had moved camp down to Allemont but even this much lower down it was still cold and miserable. I eventually dragged myself from my bed and out into the cold and went to watch the finish of the women’s race, Melanie Pugin (France) taking the win from Meggie Bichard (New Zealand) and Manon Carpenter (UK). I then headed into town for breakfast, mainly so that I could sit in a bakery and try to get warm again.

When I returned there were a lot more people there, and what a sorry sight they looked. There was mud everywhere, everyone was a uniform shade of brown from head to toe, making it rather difficult to tell who was who. The bikes which were coming across the line were so clogged with mud that the wheels would barely turn. There was a huge queue for the bike wash and the stream was full of people trying to get rid of the worst of it from themselves. A significant number of people were arriving with parts missing from their bikes, mainly chains and rear mech, but also spokes, tyres and various other bits.


This bike belongs to a New Zealander, who’s name I have forgotten.
Look carefully, there is a rear mech and chain in there, just not where you might expect to find them. Several spokes are broken and there is no air in the tyre

I decided to wander up the track to see exactly what I was in for tomorrow. I crossed a river and then headed up the hill. This turned out to be quite a major undertaking, it was pretty much impossible to stand on it, never mind walk, and I ended up in the undergrowth on the left dragging myself up with my hands. I saw a huge crash here, someone came barrelling into the top section at about Warp Speed 3, lost the back end of the bike and veered off the track to his left, my right. Myself and another guy were about 50 yards from him but clearly heard the sound of helmet on tree. He didn’t move. We somehow found some extra speed and headed for him as fast as we could. He was still conscious and, although quite dazed, seemed to be unhurt. He was still also clipped into his bike, which we managed to remove from him. He got to his feet very unsteadily looking a little like a drunk trying to stand and then, once we had reminded him which way he was supposed to be going, slid off down the hill towards the finish.


I continued up the hill. The next big crash I saw the person concerned remarkably got away with it. A steep right hand turn lead into a steep left, dropping down over some tree roots, polished smooth by the riders who had already been across them. He made the right turn OK, but lost his back wheel on the roots which sent him left and over the edge of the cliff. I am not exaggerating here, the cliff must have been 30-40ft high. It’s difficult to be precise as the bottom was largely hidden by the trees and undergrowth. These appear to have saved him from serious injury, slowing his fall as he crashed through them.

Myself and another spectator ran over to the top and peered over the edge. We could see nothing through the foliage, so we shouted. A faint voice came back in a Dutch accent:
“I’m OK”
“How do I get back?”
He got to here, turned left and disappeared

This was a very good question. We could see the broken undergrowth where he had gone, but nothing beyond that, as far as we could tell it was pretty much vertical, practically impossible to climb at the best of times, never mind in full armour and carrying a 40lb DH bike. A discussion ensued of the likely options, but in the absence of a rope they were all abandoned. We could just about see the river behind him so directed him to go that way and then wade along it to his right until he crossed the track further down. I’m sure he wouldn’t be penalised for missing part of the course in the circumstances. As he was unhurt we just left him to it, we could hear him for quite some time fighting his was through the ferns and brambles. We remained there a while longer, shouting encouragement and a warning as the last of the non-qualifiers made their way down one by one in various bedraggled states and with their bikes in various states of disrepair.


The official announcement as to what would happen on Sunday would be made at 7:30. Would I actually get to ride the glacier? The notice went up in the main arena in Alpe d’Huez. The start of both races would be one hour later than scheduled. The main race would start on the glacier and finish in Allemont. The Amateurs (me) would start from the glacier, but would finish in Alpe d’Huez, as would the non-qualifiers who rode the course after us. All subject to a final weather check in the morning of course.  Perfect, I get to do all the fun bit, without the horrible muddy section below the town.

The news we were all waiting for

Much to everyone’s surprise Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny, or at least less bad than of late. I took the main lift up to DMC2 at 8:30, and then the cable-car from there up to the summit of Pic Blanc, at 10,800ft.

The first time I ever saw the glacier was when I took my position at the back of the grid. Talking to those around me I gathered that almost all were in the same boat, most of us had been unable to get up to the summit during practice. There was a sea of 400 odd riders, some odder than others, stretching out in front of me beyond which I could see the ice just disappearing over the crest and into the fog. I had no idea what lay beyond. I was about to ride down the glacier blind and with 400 other nutters, what could possibly go wrong?

This really is as much as I had seen of the glacier before I rode it.

The music was playing, it reached it’s peak, the tape lifted and amid much shouting and bravado we hurled ourselves into the unknown.

I would like to say a very big thank-you to loads of people, far too many to list, but I will mention Sam Acland for helping out so many times during the week and especially for being the genius who thought of the underground car park. All of the lightweight Mt Zoom bits on my bike somehow survived a week of DH racing by a complete novice, not at all what they were designed for, but they all proved more than strong enough. Accelerade kept me fed and watered throughout.