Crashing out and in

I wonder if there's ever been a time where I'd have been happy with 8th.

Probably not.

The South West Scotland Cycling Project's 4th race of the season took place this weekend, down around Dalbeattie, which, in common with all SWSCP races, is virtually impossible to get to via public transport. I was grateful, then, of the lift from Jim, one of the five club members to make the trip, making it our most gregarious race ever. Since we all finished, I suppose it was also our most successful, and the race could certainly be painted in a positive light. Then again, with crashes involving two of us, and riders getting dropped, it could also be painted in colours more closely attributed to Munch's 'Scream'. Indeed, it was a tale of two races. Here they are.

Race One: A dark day in Hell.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. The rain and clouds should have moved away in the early morning, leaving clean, sticky roads. They weren't supposed to linger, to smother the dank dolmens of Galloway and oppress the steel sea, as riders rolled eyes and wheels in an industrial car park, wondering if we were going to get any dry races this season.

The roll-out, when it came, was blisteringly quick, only hurrying the descent into carnage. Taking my customary position near the centre of the road, I let myself drift too far back, wary as I was of crossing the centreline on such an unknown route, and with dire warnings from the commissaires. In such a position, I could see the pack compress and swerve as rider after rider stopped dead, even on descents, parting the spandex sea with a raised fist of frustration as another sharp splintered through a tread.

The first crash was uphill, on a straight. After checking that Jim was alright, enough was enough and jumped hard, a lead group of about 20 forming out of the debris. It was another mile before the second crash, on flat road with good visibility. As the riders at the front of the pack binned it, the rider in front of me drifted to the right, into the fray. Yelling with dismay, as I realised the deceleration had put me into overlap, I had no choice but to go with him until he hit the verge and took me down.

Bloodied down my left side, I was back on my bike in a handful of seconds, and regretting it in a couple of seconds more as I wrenched my left shifter back into position and found the lever jammed like a compound fracture forty five degrees off the vertical. Rear brake control was still possible, but only from the hoods. At least I was stuck in the big ring.

The descent took far too long, but it allowed a small group of four to form - myself, my club mate Graham, and two Classic Racing Team riders. The pack were in view, but pegging them back would take some work.

We worked.

To my dismay, whenever the first CRT  rider came by, though, we slowed, and his team-mate left him too long before taking up the pace. A few miles down the road, we had no choice but to drop him, and Graham. We needed to make it to the back of the cars.

Three private vehicles were caught behind the comissaire's car, and with a massive burst of effort I was finally able to latch onto the recirculation zone of the last of them. At last, a chance to relax, get my breath back before working our way up.

Not a chance.

The car drove with all the smooth purpose of a man deciding whether to chop off his own arm or foot, dropping back, then booting towards the queue again. I sprinted almost into the rear bumper time and time again, before finally having the breath to jump around the outside.

Race Two: An instinct for speed.

The comissaire pulled out and let us through on the inside, where we were welcomed back into the bosom of the pack and invited to rest. A break had already gone up the road, and I was in no condition to pin it back, so I let what happen unfold.

There were periods where no-one spoke at all; where the sun broke through and the roads claimed no further victims. We worked, we rode quickly, but we were past fighting, and I had nothing to prove. The bloody streak on my elbow showed that.

As we entered our final lap, Edinburgh Road Club tried to put a few riders up the road, and worried that they might be strong enough to get away, I made the jump. As soon as I completed my first turn, though, it was clear that we weren't going anywhere, and I relaxed as the pack reeled us back in. They launched a counter-attack that was more faint than feint, and I settled in for the minor sprint. For all I knew, Andy could have still be up the road.

Coming over the hill for the final time, I began to become anxious. Knowing the strength of the rider I had bridged back to the group with, I stuck his wheel as he brought himself to the front.

A mile to go, riders popping off the front and getting pegged back. I'm not panicking, just watching. A rider in blue comes past - not fast enough to get away, just fast enough that he wants to be in the front 3 riders as we see the line. That's fine. I follow him up and sit, middle of the road, second wheel back, as we enter the final kilometre.

Last corner now. It's a draggy left-hander. I know the finish line, three hundred metres down a slight slope. It's early to go, but no-one can see the line. No-one's ready.

I sprint.

Slightly over the centre-line, I allow myself to drift back into lane as the music of dismayed shouts echoes behind my wheel. I have just ruined ten riders' day.

A hundred metres to go, and I start to get worried. The commissaire's car is on the line. On it. I'm sprinting towards it. If he doesn't move, I'm going to hit it.

The hesitation is enough to let a rider slip round on my right. I lunge five metres too early, and roll over the line virtually collapsing from the effort.

I reflect on the best sprint I have ever performed; my growing instinct for positioning, for timing. I am happy with my determination - my stubborness in telling myself "you haven't suffered this much just to give up now" as we chased on, as I prepared and sprinted and picked up 3 regional points.

The cost of the race was high. Jim broke his Garmin. I repaired my shifter with resin, my shorts and jersey with needle and thread, and my mitts were beyond repair. I can't even remember the issue that Andy had.

Was it worth it? I can't say. The race happened as it did. It cannot have happened any other way. Am I happy with the way I raced? Yes. Not conceitedly so, and I know I still need to improve my descending, and I could have been more forgiving when working to get back to the cars, but, overall, yes. Am I happy with the way some other riders raced? No. But in crashing and recovering, I found myself working with other riders in a way that far exceeded the one-eye-one-the-prize cynicism of a breakaway.

Do I still love racing? That's the only question that needs to be asked. The answer?

Well, sometimes, I think, one needs to draw a line.

Because I want to be first over it.