…it’s been a long day, over 100 miles in the legs now, the heat has been phenomenal as the sun has beaten down with horrific intensity and my arms, legs and face are crusted in sweat. Worse, my feet have swollen so much from the heat that they are cramping, crushed within my shoes. At the last feed zone I was reduced to stopping and soaking my feet in cold water to try and persuade the throbbing flesh to contract…
No longer part of the vast peloton that rolled out from the start at 8am, we’re in small group now, sharing the work as best we can, protecting those who are suffering them most, determined to get round together. But the cracks are starting to show. There are less than 10 kilometres to go now and, as the road winds gently round to the right amd we leave another quaint French village behind, the road ramps upwards. In an instant the harmony of our gruppetto is shattered and cameraderie is cast aside. Gaps begin to open up, riders who were grimly clinging to the wheel in front can only watch as it drifts out of reach. Ahead we pick up the shards of another group, riders zig-zagging on the tarmac ahead of us, one stands vomitting at the roadside, clinging to his bike as he leaves the vestige of his strength in the grass verge.
The climb itself is hugely insignificant, a pimple of an incline on a parcours that could at best be described as gentle. But the cumulative effect of the miles, the heat and the nagging winds has magnified the damage inflicted. As we head upwards the gaps solidify, a pair of riders from our group make the gap stick and dive down the other side ahead of us. As we reach the crest I link up with another rider and we too plummet down the ribbon of tarmc and cobbles. The wheel I am following is a good one, a club rider who lived the dream for a brutal season in a French semi-pro team in his late teens. This is a man who can ride a bike quickly and, as we weave through the next village, we distance the chasing few. Down a narrow street, tightly lined with houses, we drift to the left hand gutter as we approach a sharp right hand turn, the road bending back on itself. The roads are closed for the event, so we shouldn’t encounter any traffic, but the head of the race passed through hours ago… Hunch down on the bike, grip the drops of the handlebars, push your weight back, left pedal down and dive into the right hand bend. Clip the apex, from left gutter to right in an instant, the high stone kerb menacing the spokes of your wheel as you lean over, desperately looking ahead and willing the corner to open up. We’ve carried plenty of speed into the bend. Too much, if I were to make a judgement, and inertia pushes us out to the left again, wheels skittering across the loose gravel at the roads edge but we are already out of the saddle – Phil powering out of the junction, me grimly hanging onto his rear wheel. The chase is on, we have clubmates to catch… With a brief flick of the elbow I am called forward to take a turn on the flat road, the proximity of the finish line injecting life into my otherwise useless limbs. The road is shaded by trees now, the leafy canopy offering brief respite from the battering rays of the sun. The two ahead hadn’t gained that much time, or perhaps our fearless descent had clawed it back, within a couple of minutes we have linked up with them and forge ahead as a quartet.
For me the hard work is done and I am content to roll through the next few kilometres to the finish. As we approach a junction to join the main road from our meandering country lane a marshall steps out to stop the traffic and we sail through – with Gallic yelps of encouragement ringing in our ears. But for my companions it just isn’t enough. They greet the smooth tarmac as an excuse to turn up the gas, forcing the pace as we mop up the rememnants of yet another group of riders. For a few hundred metres I raise some energy, my tortured legs hang on as long as possible but, with less than 2 kilometres left to ride, I slowly loose contact. Ahead I see them make the left turn into the narrow, pot-holed track, which leads to the finish. A few moments later I do the same, the bike surging ahead as the road dips. I glance over my shoulder, are my clubmates in sight, no, better not relax now though: I didn’t dig deep on the final climb, risk my skin on the hair-raising descent, or summon up my last ounce of energy to stick with the group as long as possible, just to sit up at this point. Knowing that there are only a few hundred metres to go I grip the handlebars and weave through the riders ahead. Into an innocuous 90 degree left hander but one that hides a crucial difference. A few barriers at the side of the road, a smattering of applause from onlookers and I blast under the finishing flag. It’s over. 187km. Done. Which way to the beer tent?
The glorious comeback to my cycling career has, to date, not really erupted with the vigour I would have liked. Social media updates and email circulars have begun to highlight the start of the season for other riders, but for me the huge layoff has left me with a gaping chasm to cross before I can possibly look to compete again. But, in a misplaced moment of determination, I have once again committed to riding the Ronde Picarde. 4 months to go, and only the minor distraction of my first-born arriving slap bang in the middle of that timespan. What could possibly go wrong?
meandthemountain 