I don't know how much he could read of me through my mirrored glasses, but the question; the intonation; the eagerness for an affirmative must have given number 62, the powerful veteran in blue, all the context he needed.
"Yup". We were going away. Til the end.
It was the second time that day that I'd showed up somewhere uninvited and felt perfectly welcomed. It wasn't until late the previous evening that I'd realised that there was even a chance of a race. Initially intending to go out to Fenwick to support club mates Andy and Ray in the APR, I browsed over the Braveheart fund forums to check what groups they were in.
"Huh," I mused, deliberately, offhandedly towards Fiona; deliberately indeliberate. "There's only two reserves left.
"... I might take the CAAD."
With what I took to be at least a half-approving smile, "I knew you were going to say that" was the prescient answer.
Ray and Andy, having been on the reserves until the night before, had made other plans. Their loss was my gain, and I was put into group 3 of 4, with a time gap of 6 minutes on a 33 mile course.
Two laps around a fairly simple loop, the Fenwick APR would take us into the wind along the A77, before bringing us back on the lumpy Dodside road. I took a look through the profile, scanned through my memory of those roads, and picked the point at which the race would blow apart. I had barely an inkling then that I would be a part of what instigated such a detonation.
The spot was easy to pick - the climb up to White Loch - a spikey, on/off series of micro-climbs that raised us a hundred metres in about two miles. It was ideal parcours for me, and, on the second lap, was the obvious point at which chain-gang cooperation would cease to be in most riders' interest. Most of all, myself and number 62.
Though not exactly small, I had clocked the man in blue - a vet from L.A.B R.A.T CC called Hamish Maclean - as one to watch almost from the off. His form on the bike was just too good to ignore, and he confidently took control of his patch. Everything about him marked him out as a danger-man - not least his lack of a club showing. Like me, if he went away, he'd need to make it stick. There'd be no-one left in the pack to pick up the sprint for the team.
Also to watch were the boys in green - the VC Glasgow South lads. At the counterpart to this APR a fortnight ago - the Drumclog APR - their control of the group speed, drive to split the pack and subsequent train to the line had given them near total control over the race and earned them a rightful victory, demoting me to a cheeky third-place after holding their wheels to the final kilometre. Unlike last time, though, I failed to overhear their strategy as they discussed it at the head of the group. I would just have to watch for the signs, and play things by ear.
It was because I was marking the two most dangerous-looking VCGS lads at the front of the pack that I was in the right place to jump across to Hamish when he went. Dangerous as they were, they were too tired to make the jump themselves after allowing themselves to drive the head of the pack for a mile or two. Knowing my man, and that the game was afoot, I was away before they had time to wind back up again.
As alert as I had been to the players of the game, though, I was missing some vital information, and had picked up misinformation along the way. The second time along the A77, we had passed group after dropped group of starters from the first two time brackets, and the fastest of us made some attempt to drop our own group size to just the most capable by losing them among all the cracked. With a rotating group of about a dozen, I overheard that "that was the last of them." We were away and free.
I think both Hamish and I knew that that was wishful thinking. There was no way that we'd gone hard enough to get everybody within twenty-five miles. Sure enough, as pull came to push came to flying sprints in the breakaway, we began to pass riders.
To say we weren't hanging around would be an instance of litotes bordering on the ridiculous. We were caning it. As the gradient swooped upwards, it was possible to feel the saddle bending under you as the whole bike strained to change the direction of your momentum from forward to up. It was a rollercoaster without the safety harness and we were giving it everything.
One or two of the ones and twos that we passed grabbed on, number 11 - Gary Davidson of VC Astar Anderside - particularly coming to mind as helping us maintain speed. There was no choice. Here we were, riders without anybody in the bunch to control things, and no representatives of other, chasing clubs with us - we had no option but to stay away, and the bunch had no choice but to catch us.
As we turned toward the finish, though, there was a change in the group. Hamish and Gary were tiring, a number of other caught riders were fighting at the same speed, and it was getting too easy to pop off the front. The chase had gone out of the group, and they were preparing for the sprint.
So should I.
As I sat second wheel, it wasn't until the final mile that I realised the danger we were in. Not from behind - although the lethal-looking scratch group caught the remnants of group 3 at the base of the final climb - but from the front. A motorcycle outrider gave us the bad news.
"Thirty seconds".
What?
There were riders still out there. A whole bunch in front - mostly from group two, as it turned out. I had had no idea. And now we had no time to catch them.
I looked left, right, span my legs and looked for the response. Nothing. No-one was going anywhere. They weren't just holding back for the sprint. They were bushed.
Maybe so was I.
Thirty seconds would have been too much, surely, for any man to make up over that distance.
I should have gone anyway.
As the yellow flags came into view, Hamish went. Scott [Newman, Inverclyde Velo] went. I went.
In slow motion, I rolled past them, looking at nothing but those riders now dismounting on the shady roadside the other side of the line.
How many were there?
It was a sprint won at eighteen miles an hour, spinning exasperation past a field of exhausted legs.
It was a sprint for eighth.
It was enough for prize money - enough to recoup my entry fee - but it was hard not to feel that it was a waste of what, for me, was an almost ideal course.
Don't misunderstand me - it was a great race, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I mixed it up in my first breakaway, I maintained control and I won a sprint. With my monitoring of danger-men and successful positioning, I felt like in many ways I'd played the game, and won.
Sadly, though, that won't be what's written down, and unlike the hard men in the scratch group who have a string of palmares under them regardless of whether they catch the rest of us, it matters to me. It's probably already cost me races.
There are so few points scoring opportunities for a Cat 4 racer in Scotland - especially when I want to jump to Cat 3 by the British University Championships. My only shot this month was the Dunfermline road race, and I haven't gotten into that. My next shot might not come until May.
Cat 3 differentiates the would-be racers from the have-a-go racers. If you want to get into points-scoring races as a Cat 4 - best already have points. Or at least results.
I know that I'm good enough for Cat 3.
I need to be given a chance.
Photo courtesy Ian "LeesLang" (http://www.flickr.com/photos/ianmh247/7011870259/) all rights reserved
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