God rides

If there's a god, he probably cycles.

The more you think about it, the more it makes sense. Why else make cycles the apotheosis of human movement? Any greater technology requires use of energy not our own. Many older technologies require the exploitation of others (arguably symbiotic, but when I imagine a full-grown Jesus riding a petite donkey, I can't help but feel he would have rather been on a velocipede.)

It informs us why this God never answers your prayers when you want him to - he's usually out riding, and you need to leave a message. He'll get back to you at the next natural pause.

While He's riding, He's a part of the world, which must get rather existential. There's no barrier around a rider; He's just on his way somewhere, being a part of the lives of everyone he passes.

Of course, He knows the value of hard work. Someone who could make an entire universe would do repeats of the Tourmalet just for kicks; if he lives in Heaven, that's a heck of a hill to attack at the end of a day's work.

The wonderful thing about theism is that none of these conjectures can be proven wrong, and the only real "truth" is that which "feels right." In which case, I need to change my opening sentence.

God rides a bicycle.

Amen.

A bigger break

Almost a year of waiting was at an end last week. Not for a win, or a particular race, or any other type of result - but for a race in good weather. Short sleeves and mitts were finally the order of the day at the Dunfermline Road Race - ten and a half laps of a triangular up-across-and-down course with 60 other 3rd and 4th category riders.

Basking for a good hour on a wall outside the library, I could hardly have been more relaxed or content. It had been a rough week, recovering from some sort of low-level virus that had kept me mostly off the bike. Many of the riders had been at Gifford, so idle banter rather than laser-like-focus was the preparation, and a spinning lap was the warm-up.

I had overheard that the race was going to go hard from the off, so I was mindful of gaps as we ascended for the first time. For once, it felt like I was doing some work, and I was glad of it - what was tough for me would be unbearable for others, and once fatigue started to set in, a break could go.

Purely on the basis of pace, I expected the fight to go out of the bunch and the break to get away with somewhere between 5 and 3 laps to go, but I wasn't rigid with how I interpreted this. On lap 3, almost a dozen riders were away off the front as we came across the flat, a stiff breeze slightly behind us. It was enough to encourage me to bridge, but the gap was closed almost as soon as I got across. Not a wasted foray, as I now knew that the top road was far from a good place to attack.

With six to go, I pushed the pace up the hill, for the dual reasons to clawing back another break going nowhere and to start tiring the bunch, in preparation for the final selection.

Four to go, and it was time. A group of 3 got just enough of a gap off the front of the bunch to make it worth it, so I slipped out of the back of the peloton and repositioned myself in the middle of the road to attack on the steepest part of the course.

Almost inevitably, just as we got there, a BMW came the other way, and for once I was praying for the car to accelerate. It seemed to take forever to get past the bunch, and as soon as its tail-light passed my bar, I was away.

Carrying momentum through up the hill, I flew off of the front of the bunch. With no chase left in them, I knocked the pace back slightly and chased onto the leaders by the top of the hill, joined by a few others to make a break of nine, which swiftly became eight.

A lap of sustained pushing was all it took to get safely clear, but it was enough to warn me that I couldn't take the finish for granted. I wasn't the only one working hard, but others did seem to be finding it easier. Nevertheless, I had too much pride to ever skip a turn. It would be good training anyway.

We worked with a good rhythm through the next two laps - not too difficult, but confident that we could stay away and all get points for our troubles. It wasn't until the last third of the last lap that the games started.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I didn't know how to play this. The run-in was along the flat section, with the finish line on top of a small rise which I knew from experience was tough to lead up from the front. Nevertheless, I couldn't seem to soft-pedal enough to fall back. Second wheel as we came into the base of the climb, I was fully off the pedals waiting for the attack. Bad move.

When it came, it was far enough and fast enough that I couldn't catch it, having robbed myself of all momentum. The riders on my wheel were able to continue the jump, but I was out of it, finishing in seventh.

I can't be unhappy with the outcome, today. A great race, in good conditions. Properly difficult. Tactically, I was aware enough, and physically I was fit enough, to bridge to the correct break and guarantee myself some points. Crucially, though, I gained more experience. My failure from the ending set-piece was clear and unambiguous - and regardless of whether I know how to win from a similar situation now, I certainly know one play to avoid if I don't want to lose.

Here's hoping I get many more chances to practice.

Awkwardness

The bike's running more smoothly than ever, and yet it feels wrong. Awkward. The low front end screams "aerodynamics" - tuck in and hide from the wind - and yet I am propped up, a rucksack bulging off my spine, loose trousers rolled up over my calves. It isn't how this bike was meant to be ridden, but this is the ride to get to the event where I can ride it as it was meant to be ridden.

It's like walking to a festival, or navigating a foreign airport; that frisson of excitement tempered by the slightly uncomfortable awkwardness of it all.

My trainers are in fluttering plastic bags strapped to the side of my rucksack, obstructing my view over my shoulder and making me feel even more vulnerable as I roll with calm determination down the A-road.

It is a sad fact that if I lived somewhere with more predictable weather, I wouldn't need to take half so much kit, but I am racing here because this is the country where I live, and there is no race better than the one you can get to.

That being said, it isn't easy. Thanks to how early the start is, and it being on a Sunday, and since none of my clubmates are racing as well, I needed to catch a train down to Dumfries on Saturday, to stay in a B&B a few miles from the start line, to get up on a sleety, gusty morning and roll across to line up with a few dozen gents and ladies who have travelled from as far afield as Fife for just over an hour of pace and stress with only the most fleeting chance of glory.

There is undoubtedly a better compromise that this unstable, tumourous configuration of rider, bike and bag, but I would not dare (even if it were possible) to desecrate my race bike by attaching anything to its frame or seat post.

A few years ago, I would never have forseen this situation, the apotheosis of a "first-world problem." If a bicycle is primarily for transportation, then surely I should abandon my shallow aesthetics and attach a seatpost rack. With a carbon pin and lightweight wheels comes responsibility, however. To gouge the lacquer; to allow a pannier to swing into the wheel - could be catastrophic.

It is possible that I have found my "n+1" - a steel-framed beauty that can take the loads of a beast of burden, yet still be ridden hard hard for those races where the racing is more critical than the winning (which should, of course, be all races).

It is difficult but to feel that bicycle racing is a technological arms race, and the "zing" that one gets from a properly race-optimized frame is as astonishing as it is welcome. Now that I have access to it, I do not wish to lose it, but can I bring an element of it into something more practical?

Is there one bike that can do it all? I will search, but I also know this: The feeling of release can only come after being pent-up. Things can only feel truly right after you have seen wrong. The most most amazing bike in the world will feel like a tool if it is used as one. So, in a strange way, I can find happiness in my awkwardness.

After winter, comes the spring.

A fair weather race

Here's an interesting question:

What's better, finishing 11th or 21st?

Is there any difference? In a field of 80, neither carries much weight. Neither's much to write home about.

Ok, how about this one:

What's better, finishing in 11th or finishing on the floor?

Hitting the deck can hardly be considered a good thing, but at least it shows you tried. At least it's a story. On the other hand, they do say that discretion is the better part of valour.

Gifford this year was possibly the "twitchiest" race I've ever been in, with barely a moment not requiring coverage of the brakes and full concentration. From the first lap, it was obvious how it was going to end. With a headwind on the climb, the ones and twos making an effort to get away were never going to stay out. It would be a bunch sprint. Moreover, the pack wasn't cycling through, and the pace was low, meaning that hardly anyone was dropped. It was going to be a fifty-or-more-strong bunch finish, where everyone would think that they had a chance.

It was exactly the sort of race where you needed a team-mate or two, and I was unsurprised when two ERC youths took first and second. Without anyone to take me to the front, I had to move early, pulling through as we came to the last climb and trying to slot in third or fourth wheel. It wasn't happening, though, as more and more riders came around. I swiftly found myself, once again, boxed in, in an extremely nervous peloton. Contact was rife, with some riders taking it better than others, and my heart was in my mouth from fear rather than effort. As the sprint began in earnest, someone's spoke snapped and clattered around, the commotion luckily disappearing off my right shoulder. This at least bought a smile to my face as I had just gotten my wheel fully rebuilt by Dales to avoid that exact problem. The riders in front of me faded, and I fought and pushed for any gap going, crossing the line as one of about 20 riders who could-have-maybe-got-7th. Or, as it turned out, 11th.

As a race, it would have provided spectacle and excitement to anyone watching. Racing in it, it merely felt dangerous and slow, through no-one's fault but the overall level of experience of the peloton.

Despite everything, we all came home safely. The ratio of luck to judgement is, however, questionable.