Too Wet on Two Wheels

"Where are you heading - the Himalayas?"

Twenty miles later, the taste of those words was stuck in my frozen throat.

I had been looking forward to the Brenig Road Race from Denbigh with something like the same enthusiasm that Igor Anton had for stage 19 of last year's Vuelta. Riding in Wales always feels just that extra bit special - the roads, the mountains, the villages; everything just feels 'right'. Pushing the outside pedal down into a corner just doesn't feel the same unless you've just been told to 'ARAF'.

It helped that the event was classed as a regional A. I would be rolling with the Cat 2s, aiming for 7th or above to advance my own category. I had no fear of them. They may have had more experience, but a rider can only get so good on this many races a year, and my legs were feeling fine. I'd keep the pace without question.

Nevertheless, my nerves were extreme. There was a lot that could go wrong, but so much riding on things going right. Jumping a category now could change the shape of my entire season, and a first win in Wales - not an impossibility - would have been the crowning glory of the year, a moment of poetic fortune that I would remember for the rest of my life.

First, though, I would have to weather the storm.

From Tuesday onwards, the forecast was unanimous. "It will rain on Sunday." Soon, that was upgraded to "it will rain hard on Sunday." Then came the warnings - first yellow, then, as race day dawned, amber. Category: severe weather.

The sky was overcast, but still bright as we made our way to Denbigh, and I elected to run without a coat. With all my other gear, I would hopefully be generating enough heat to stay in the game, and I didn't want to be faffing with a coat over my race number coming into the finish.

The overall feeling at HQ as we signed on was one of disbelief. What were we putting ourselves in for? This would be a war of attrition. Of the field of 80, only 54 signed on. Those 26 were the lucky ones.

We trudged to the grandstand two by two, looking like prisoners of war. The rider next to me joked that he didn't care if he looked daft as he put his gilet on outside his coat, looking like a snooker player in a waistcoat but deftly solving the race number issue.

I didn't laugh.

Why the heck didn't I think of that?

We rolled straight out, getting underway so early that we had to stop on the road as stragglers scrambled to get their bikes. The sudden stop nearly put me into the back of the rider in front - still running the stock 105 pads, it took Herculean amounts of force to slow the wheels in this sort of dampness. Why hadn't I switched? I knew it was an issue, and yet here I was. Panicking.

The rider behind me was wearing a bright orange parka, complete with hood. He certainly didn't look like he was part of a bicycle race.

"Where are you heading?" I joked, nervously. "The Himalayas?"

He finished seventh.

He finished.

We rolled out of Denbigh.

The race started.

It ended very shortly thereafter.

I was enjoying myself on the climb. The wind was roughly at our backs, and riders were suffering whilst I wasn't. I rode conservatively and stayed with the lead group. It wasn't exactly easy, but I was leaving a lot in the tank.

Going downhill was a different story. Not trusting my brakes, unable to see for crests and my now opaque glasses, I allowed myself to drop back slightly, knowing that I would catch the group on the climbs. This worked a couple of times. Then I got lazy.

There were a couple of other lads dropped back. I decided I would use them and we could work together to get back up.

We weren't quick enough.

They faded, leaving me with as large a gap to jump as I had started with. Pushing hard on my own into the headwind, my temperature started to drop. My heart rate started to drop. My body started to shut down.

Barely twenty miles in, I went to put in a dig and found I couldn't. My arms were shaking so much I couldn't hold the bike straight, my fingers couldn't find the controls and my legs were jelly. I stopped in the shelter of a small forestry plantation. It was over. The air temperature was 1 degree over freezing, there was sleet in the air and a 20mph headwind. I was done.

Desperately trying to thumb a lift from everyone and anyone, it wasn't until the race doctor got back to me that I could climb in somewhere warm. I transferred to the sag wagon once we crossed paths, and we headed back to HQ, all vehicles full of shivering riders; marshals' cars being drafted in by those in desperate need. Everyone behind that lead group failed to finish. The lone rider who broke away was caught in the first lap of the circuit and, unable to shift and body shutting down, failed to finish.

HQ was full of ashen faces and spilled coffee from trembling hands. We were all glad to be there. We made jokes, noted that there were so few riders left; surely everyone would get points? If only we'd stayed out.

Not one of us could have.

I wrung out my new waterproof gloves. I could have filled a water bottle.

Of the 54 starters, 14 hardy souls finished.

Everybody got home safely.

My most heartfelt thanks to the organisers, marshals, outriders and doctor who made the race happen, and kept it safe despite the most treacherous of situations. It is truly a must-ride race, and I shall hopefully be back next year, in better weather or with better kit.

Good trails!