Not long after I met my boyfriend, I visited his flat and spotted an odd looking bike in the hall...

Me: What’s that?

Him: It’s a cyclo-cross bike.

Me: What’s that?

Him: I ride cyclo-cross races. You ride as many laps of the course as you can in an hour.

Me: I see. But why do you need a special bike?

Him: The course has obstacles on it. Usually they deliberately put in a steep slope or steps that you can’t ride up so you have to carry your bike and run.

Me: What’s the point of that?

Him: It’s fun.

Me: Hmmm.

Him: It’s very popular in Belgium.

Me: [silence]

So that was my introduction to cyclo-cross. In the intervening years since that conversation, I’ve watched a few pro cross races on the internet, but the lure of competing to see who is the best at lugging their bike up a flight of steps has failed to grip me. Until now.

I should have been riding a sportive this weekend, but it’s been cancelled and I find myself with an unexpected free Sunday; one that happens to coincide with a local cross race. I decide I’ve put this off long enough.  It’s time to see what the Belgians are so keen on. 

To ride in the race I need a provisional race licence, which is easy to sort out with a quick phone call to British Cycling. And unlike the last time I got any sort of provisional licence there is no requirement for me to display L plates.  There is also no requirement for me to own a cyclo-cross bike, which is handy because I don’t. So I’m riding the race on my mountain bike with flat pedals and trainers, which when you think about it is the equivalent of displaying L plates.

As we pull into the car park I can’t help but notice that everyone else does have proper cross bikes. Even the kids. None of the accents sound very Belgian though.  

After signing on and eyeing up the cake stall I do a few laps of the course so I know what to expect. I’m told that courses differ from race to race and on this one there is a distinct lack of obstacles to jump over or opportunities to carry your bike up some steps. I’m secretly relieved. The course is all on grass, there are a few short hills and lots and lots of hairpin bends.

Down at the start line the women, veterans and juniors are lining up. Some rules are called out - I can’t really hear them but they include something about not swearing - and then we’re off.  

At this point, if you know what you’re doing, you try to get a fast start off the line. This proves to be easier said than done in a crowded enclosed space, but as we hit the first hill a few hundred metres in, I can see why it’s a good idea. By the time I get there a minor pile-up is occurring and I’m forced to get off and run (I opt for pushing rather than carrying the bike) as there’s no way of riding round the mass of bodies that have come to an abrupt stop in front of me.

After a couple of laps, when I’ve got the hang of the hairpins, I set myself little goals of trying to overtake whoever is directly in front of me. This is quite satisfying for a while, until my gears skip and ping my chain off, forcing me to stop. As I crouch down to put it back on, I watch the three blokes I’ve just worked hard to overtake fly past me. This is somewhat disheartening and there’s a small chance I may have muttered something under my breath that wasn’t entirely in keeping with the race rules.

After a few circuits of the course someone holds up a sign with a number three on it. I’m not sure what this means. Have I done three laps? Are there three more to go? Does that include the last lap after the bell? Are they giving me marks out of 10 for style? I really should have looked into this before now.

I cross the finish line relieved and tired but glad that I gave it a go. I’m not sure cross racing is going to be my thing – I like my rides to come with a bit more scenery – but it’s good fun, pretty accessible and sociable (everyone seems to know each other). I imagine it’s also an excellent way of keeping fit through the winter.

Afterwards we stick around to watch the under 12s race, gamely cheering on the very little kids who finish towards the back, their facial expressions depicting determination, weariness and just a hint of bewilderment. I know how they feel.