NEWS FOR DECEMBER 2003

| NEWS CENTRE | RESULTS CENTRE | FREE CLASSIFIEDS |

FANCY THAT!

What happens if you decide to give Cyclo-Cross a try and run into Buzz Lightyear and Batman on the start line? Read on!

The plan was that I would give Cyclo-Cross a crack to help fend off the mid winter blues. Things went a bit pear-shaped when I contracted two heavy colds in succession, wiping out three weeks of training in the process.

Faced with the prospect of missing out on the entire season, I finally got my act together and put in a few weeks of reasonably hard effort and targeted a well-known fancy dress race in the North of England on the Sunday before Christmas. What better event in which to make your Cyclo-Cross debut than a “fun” race in the middle of the festive season? Good question!

Entering the race could not have been easier and a lap of the course to familiarise myself with the route went reasonably well.

At the start I was put at the back of the grid as punishment for not wearing fancy dress. No excuses, I was a repressed wimp to opt out of that particular “fun” aspect of the event in deference to the extremely cold weather. Looking at some of the minimalist outfits worn by the other competitors it was clear my concerns were not shared. I marvelled at their ability to fend off the cold as I snuggled down in three layers of gore-tex, lycra and thermal vest.

Off the start I planned to go easy and find my own pace. However, it soon became apparent that the field was neatly divided between those there to race and those there to have a laugh. Not wanting to loose sight of my competitive instincts, I opted to press on and try and get past the stragglers and try to keep in touch with the leading bunch.

The first corner was pretty manic as a few riders with restrictive costumes slipped and slithered their way through the mud. A couple of burley men dressed as women rolled together in the mud and blocked my way and I wasn’t going to argue with them as the wind tore at their red wigs and their lip-gloss glinted in the icy sunshine.

Once clear of Cross-Dresser Corner I made up a couple of places before I encountered Batman slithering about in a distinctly un-superheroic manner. I asked him if I’d need special powers to get round the course. Clearly unamused by my quip this particular caped crusader gave me a sickly grin from under his mask, which was already spattered with mud.

Next a long single straight slightly downhill unrolled in front of me and I gladly clicked up a couple of gears and picked up speed. Ahead of me an astronaut battled to keep control of his bike as his huge silver helmet threatened to lift off at anything above 5mph. His air-supply seemed to be giving him trouble as well as he was rather red in the face. I passed him as he went wide on the next corner – perhaps ground control had forgotten to vector his rockets, or else he simply couldn’t see where he was going.

Actually, although I never saw spaceman again (was he supposed to be Buzz Lightyear?), I was pretty sure he was still in the race because every lap I came across another piece of his costume that had either been thrown away or simply dropped off. First there was a booster rocket lying under a bush. But then gloves and other apparel began to appear as our hero set about an inter-steller strip! Still, the spaceman was comfortably better dressed then some of the other competitors – but more of that later.

My next victim was a fox. This worthy animal was making good progress, but was complaining loudly that he was too hot. You don’t see that much in the countryside do you? Foxes probably do get hot during a hunt, but I’m sure that even in fox-speak they rarely complain about overheating – let’s face it, you don’t get much sympathy from the hounds if you’re a fox and you start moaning about the temperature.

Anyway, the next time I saw him, the fox appeared to be riding along sniffing the air. I guess his elevated muzzle was not raised in an effort to locate the nearest chicken coop, but merely an indication that the inner rider had pushed up his mask and was now looking and breathing through his mouth. I won’t mention which orifice I was breathing through at this stage.

Returning to the race, the laps dragged by and I began to understand what ‘Cross riders go through. A well-know rider once told me that his defining memory of ‘Cross racing is the taste of his own blood. Still, I was enjoying the faster bits of the course and the whole experience of being at speed on slippery grass on what is little more than a road bike. Keeps your mind on the job, that’s for sure.

Having worked my way up the field a little, I was beginning to feel quite good about myself. That evaporated very quickly when the race leader lapped me after about 15 minutes. You know how you always promise yourself that you’ll hold onto a rider’s wheel as he passes you? Well, not even Buzz Lightyear’s booster rockets were going to get me onto this guy’s wheel. He was flying and out of the saddle for good measure. I had adopted a more sedentary commitment to staying seated and was bobbing along more like a hot-air balloon than a rocket.

If that was bad, much worse was to follow. As I approached the start/finish line, a roar went up from the small crowd gathered there and a ghetto blaster coughed into life, churning out the Cheeky Girls’ anthem, the imaginatively worded “We Are The Cheeky Girls”. Simultaneously a pair of wiry males dressed in nothing but gold bikini tops and mini skirts and with flowing black wigs shot past me in a blur of goose flesh and body hair. It was like Pop Idol crossed with Animal Hospital. I’m not sure what I admired the most – their resistance to the cold, their cheek (but certainly not their cheeks) or their apparently unimpaired ability to propel Cyclo-Cross bikes along at a cracking pace.

Mercifully, the bell for the last lap finally sounded and I embarked on a last trudge round the now very muddy course. I had a bit left in the tank and managed to semi-unlap myself by re-passing both the Cheeky Girls just before the line. Looking back on a sporting career which has had more than its fair share of not too glorious moments (six ducks in a row for the local cricket team being one many lowlights), I can’t really remember a more surreal and ridiculous moment than passing the Cheeky Girls merely to un-lap myself. It sort of sums up my personal dedication to sporting mediocrity.

Still, I got my first ‘Cross event out of the way and should I ever venture into the sport again, I’m unlikely to be faced with more space rubbish than the back lot at Cape Canaveral, nor grown men in gold mini-skirts and black wigs, or indeed super-heroes for whom mud and grass have the same effect as Kryptonite.

Oh, and a final piece of advice, if you’re going to any fancy dress event in the near future – don’t go as the David Bedford look-alike runner who advertises the new 118 directory enquiries service. There were enough 118 wearers on the start line to staff an entire Indian call centre. And they kept elbowing each other in the ribs and saying “I’ve got your number!”, then laughing like drains. It was Room 101 material, I promise you!