It's the wrong shoes, Gorrick
So, I'm starting to ride a bit. A lot actually - as much as I can. I had committed, then swithered about the Gorrick Enduro. Yes, definitely. Well, maybe. Ach what's the point? Repeat. Like a magician's illusion cup set. Which one is the answer under and, you know what? I'll choose anyway. Rubbish I know. The pitiful lounge lizard is being drowned in derision. The racer and rider is coming out of his malaise - yes.
Text messages and a certainty that I must get out have me packing my bags on Saturday night, with a racer's meticulous manner. Forecast isn't good so it includes arm/knee warmers, gloves x 3, socks x 3 and race jersey x ... ah, I only have one that I want to wear. Ok. Gore gilet, good. Shoes. Why is the left cleaner than the right? Shrug, stuff in bag. Clothes sorted, I get water, and food, tools and bike ready and go to bed with an excited expectation of what will happen tomorrow. I'd thought (sensibly) that, having only ridden 20 miles hard the weekend before, maybe I should just double that? But seven laps of the 10 mile course is the enduro, and, well ... that's what I do, isn't it? I'm not a whippet; I warm up, ride hard and do ok against my own expectations.

So we arrive in good time at Swinley forest, Lorraine, Deano, Steve-the-Ringer, Charlie, Jenn, Ian, Rob … I fit here. Rory and me have 30 minutes to set up our pit, get into race clothes, test bikes, register and the other stuff. But everyone is chilled. The last minutes are always at least five. It's the cycling way. While changing and gaffing to Rory about this and that, I reached for my shoes ... ah. One is just far too much cleaner than the other. Turn it over. No, I haven't. I couldn't! I have. Look at my watch, back down at the Look cleat starting back from my left road shoe. Look right at my spd’d mountain bike shoe … they are almost identical. It’s 08:10. 20 minutes. Damn! 65 painful pounds later I have cleats in a reasonable semblance to my normal position and I'm in the bunch. 10, 9, 8 ... my commutes would be so much faster if I was in a group ... 7, 6, 5 ... Christ, get on with it, I’m freezing ... 4, 3, 2, 1, go.
The first turn down is singletrack and after a few blunt overtaking maneuvers, I've split myself from Rory, having suggested that he goes harder than it feels sensible from the start and then settle into that pace. I’m making sure Rory is around and pushing the pace. Ah, this looks like I need to go right but too fast … mud, ruts, bars fling left – over I go. Ouch. A fine lead out man, I am. The Gorrick course is a mixture of lung busting and impossible climbs, amazingly bermed descent shoots and sweet singletrack and the first lap is dry and fast. I can’t remember exactly when it started raining, but I arrived back from my first lap, placed 40th and aware it was getting sloppy. The emotional and financial controllers in my head had already had their bored meeting – ‘he’s going to do it anyway?’. Yes. ‘Ah well, release the endorphin equity? Ok’. I can see Rory heading up the hill, if I could ride up to him and wheel about, maybe it’d help? Joolze is there. This is like old times.
Rory is riding the pace I’d advised, just a bit more than I can settle into or match. I blame the stupid bike, but then the stupid bike is my daft choice and … SHUT UP!!! I start to anticipate the climbs with more precision, there are fast tracts of land and wheel sucking mud, position on the bike is everything. The descending demands your full attention, to gain as much speed and adrenaline thrill as possible. The berms are holding up well. I’m trying to remember, is it push the outer bar and keep your wrists bent low or the other way round? Whatever, it seems to be working!
Lap three, Rory has disappeared off my horizon so I’m no longer looking to wheel about and settle into a punishing pace. Hungry? Here, a mouthful of wet Haribo mixed with sand and dirt … I’m doing this for fun?
Fourth lap. Not feeling so good. I can’t use my knowledge to ride any of this faster. There is no more power available I pull levers in an arbitrary fashion and gears change, sort of. Brakes slow me on an unknown contact substance although the most likely is metal on metal. Not being able to push into the higher heart rates is starting to frustrate and freeze me then, without reason, it all becomes quiet and surreal – removed. ‘1410?’. ‘Hi Dad, it’s me, the race I’m doing today? It’s all got very gloopy, wet and hard, not really enjoying this – it’s sandy, not rocky and I have to tell you about my shoes …’. My mind captures and enjoys Dad’s whooping laughter and smiling eyes. Derek Purdy’s telephone exchanges where always a source of great amusement to dad and I like to think my exploits got close to those high echelons. ‘Bye dad, see you soon’. ‘Bye Phil, take care.’
God my knee is sore. If I pull my brake levers I still slow down. Hrm. There really is no glory in this … och; if I stop I’m only going to have to wait for Rory. Coming through on my fifth lap and I’m placed 8th. From 40th!! Blimey. Joolze informs me that the race is being called after six laps, so I have no choice really. The last lap is ghostly, a few whippets skip past but mostly silence, my gears settle into a reasonable state and tap out the last few miles, not really racing, but riding hard enough. I’m glad to finish and astounded/delighted it’s in third place, although finishing third out of three is really coming last. Hey! I’l take the podium, thanks. Lies, damned lies and statistics.

Driving back with Rory, we share some good time. Reflect. Rory had a good feeling on his fourth lap, I had my ephemeral conversation with dad at the same time. Later that night, I share good company with more like-minded souls.These are my people. I don’t understand or want to understand others. Some say ‘it’s mad, your commute!!’. ‘You’re addicted to riding your bike’. These people drive to work in the same commuting time that I can make. Who is mad and who is passionate? Who is addicted and who is committed. I know where I want to be.
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