Vet Racing. Coffee'n'Cake

I'm not an ageist, sexist, racist, fascist, nationalist or masochist ... well, maybe the last one is true. But standing in the eerie gloom of misty Goodwood, I'm eying up the grey haired brigade. My competition. This is my first race as a Vet. My first race since ... Raasay Rumble? Can't be surely. The Goodwood Spring Challenge is a low key, indeed grass roots, cross country race and with five miles to drive before arriving, I start to feel the pre-race sensations, perhaps a little refined over the years – my four score having instilled some decorum. Arriving, I'm directed to my parking slot, one youth, one adult. It always amazes and delights me – the willing enthusiasm of volunteers at these kinds of event, in fact all events. Without that human quality it would be impossible. One of my most memorable 24 hour events was a sunny Sleepless in the Saddle, not so much for the course, but for the young TA girls belting out 'is this the way to amarillo' - all through the night!
I've prepared properly, hydrating the night before and early to bed after packing the clothes bag, sorting the tool kit (including track/shock pump) and tweaking the irritating rub of the front disc rotor. Claire and the kids were due to come with me, but a sleepover scuppered that plan. No bad thing as the weather looks pretty nasty. Next door to me, a mum, dad and three kids are fussing about their people carrier. The young daughter (Aimee's age) is totally up for it - anything, running about, riding her bike, wanting daddy to win. Two sullen sons (either teen or close to it) have a different agenda. One is determined to get as much mud on the back seats as possible; the other to decapitate mum with the frisbee. Dad snaps, 'oh for Christ's sake!!'. I feel for him, but secretly thank the big man upstairs for sending Kitty and Bea to us for a sleepover. The phone rings just as I see Nigel's Bongo appear out of the thickening mist. Phew.

We have both neglected to bring arm warmers, embrocation, waterproofs even but head out on a practice lap, it's soon apparent that this is not a problem – out of the wind, it's warm and slightly damp. Perfect. As our 08:00 plan for leaving didn't work out, we have to scope the course in the parent and kid 'race'. I'm not sure that competition is such a good idea for this group - why not just have controlled, event village fun stuff: 'best spokey dokey formation'. Inclusion is the main issue. It's not a technical course by any means, but there is a four foot drop followed by a sharp right and left onto squiggly lines. One poor wee soul has clearly hit the same tree root that I nearly did and gone over his bars, sobbing gently at the side of the track with a worried and guilty looking dad. We rattle on using the slow pace to check out a piece of lovely, tree lined, descending singletrack. Given the chance, we pass the competitive dad/boy clusters and open the taps to skoot on through some forest trail and hit a series of well-bermed turns. No traffic, so I check out the lines at race pace. The course also boasts some comical grass descents - faster, faster, off cambre 180 deg turn coming up nowwwwww - oops. Straight on.
Soon enough, I'm standing on the start line. The surprise of turning to my left and seeing Paul smiling back is amazing but not unexpected. Like chatting to Mike on the startline of Mayhem ... two? three? years ago. Maybe. Like so many other occasions where I've been in the same place and time as like minded souls. This is what it's about. Five, four, three, two, one - Go! My gearing is perfect and we're off, sprinting from a middle position, I take the lead. Ah. Ok. I'll keep this if I can! Careering into the drop, my speed launches and takes me further than my practice potter did but correcting, I heave the bike into an immediate right turn then snap it back left to enter the squiggly singletrack. This is good. I'm feeling strong. Everything is perfect, the trail is dampened and grippy, I know the turns and twists, the tight singletrack trail riding faster and faster, Paul's breathing almost on my neck. Faster and faster; then the tricky double tree-gate looms. At five miles per hour, this posed no problem. At probably 20-25, it's a different story. I brake, correct, try to pedal out of the negative camber before mounting one tree and starting to pin ball the chain of tree trunks, finally throwing my chain, spinning at 300rpm, stuck to a tree. Pride destroyed!
First priority: clear my carnage off the trail.
Second: get chain back on.
Third, get back on the trail – all the grinning greyies flit past and I curse my stupidity, see the gap and flick back in.
The race is on, eeking every ounce of traction from the course; hitting the singletrack hard and with conviction, powering into every climb and screaming through the second section of tree-lined singletrack. Where is everyone? Crossing the Goodwood tarmac hillclimb, I start the grassy giggles – gently heading way out left and more gently flicking right, 30 foot higher than the apex of the grassy off camber descent. The second lap is hard. My energy and conviction are draining as the sun bursts through the trees. Why dad? I asked you to take me instead? [shut up shut up shut up] A group of three riders are ahead - one I know as being 'tasty'. Slap on the launch control and head down. I merge with the group on the first grassy descent – they have all taken the far left line. I like this. They all flick carefully right to pre-empt the apex. Yes. Roadie style, I trust and sit on a wheel (it turns out, belongs to Andy). His conviction is obvious. We wheel about, chase into the tight descending turns and ride hard through the singletrack. Andy is clearly the stronger rider and I start compensating ('he's got a scandium hardtail, i've got this stupid 130m full suss - god I hate the cockpit length on this bike ...'). Crossing the line, I was surprised to find that I'd made the top 10 – just. It hurt but pain was good.

Later that afternoon, I took the kids to the park. At ages seven and (coming on) six, you can simply open the gate and make sure neither of them have hurdled the fence - let them get on with it. I always wonder what to do – as a parent. The balance of discipline and love, encouragement and rapprochement ... how do you get it right with each perfectly formed individual? Ben interrupts by howling that Aimee is about to be thrown off the vortex blue disk-thing, so I casually save her plunge into sand and we head to the cafe. Ben tells me, enthusiastically, all about Poptropica, drums and Captain Underpants while Aimee carefully details the complex nature of how Grace and Shirley and her had arranged to sit together at lunch [stern looks to make sure I understand the nuances and complexities] and ... yes. Perfectly formed individuals.
God, Hove park do good coffee and cake.
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