Sunday 3 April 2011

64 miles man and boy

At 8.05 on a Sunday morning the rushing wind and the wild yelps of Pixes frontman Frank Black jolt my sleepy head into action. I'm rolling down my street. Change up, change down, look left and right at the junction. "Shit, my sunglasses!" Too late now. 13 miles to Lansdown Race Course to start the Bath 100km and I'm late already.

Forty minutes later my Dad phones asking where I am. Sweat is pouring off me as I climb the mile-long hill on Bath Road one-handed, shouting down the phone so I can be heard over the passing traffic.

I meet Dad at the Race Course and after a quick picture we roll out, heading into Bath. I've warmed up but Dad's just starting so we cruise along the top of the valley for a few miles, finding a rhythm that suits us both. Not too fast but quick enough to make up time on the field - the majority of whom started on time.

We reach the outskirts of Bath and plummet into the old Georgian city. The streets are deserted and traffic-light free. We own these streets. We take twisting corners tight and catch our blurry reflections in shop windows. Our speed looks impressive and for a brief second we feel like early morning city kings.

Outside Bath the climb of Prior Park Road comes. We crawl up it at a snail's pace. We hog the gutters. Gutter snails. Large cars flex their muscles as they pass. Our vulnerable, puny bodies slowly eke out the distance. Metre by metre we ascend. "Is the air thinner up here?" It's so hard to breath.

At the top we catch our breath and also a few of the back markers in the field. We give them a cheery hello. We're both out in the early morning April sunshine, enjoying ourselves. This is our shared secret. This is our diet, our exercise, our mode of travel, our excuse to catch up with friends and family, our escape. This is our reason to be cheery.

Fifteen miles in and we leave the hills of Bath behind for gentle Somerset countryside. The country lanes around Frome become our battleground as we fight others for road space. They have it, we want it. We get there first and it's ours. They have our rear wheels for conciliation. The field seems to be made up of leisure riders who aren't up for the fight. It almost seems unfair that I should be honing in on these unsuspecting victims, yet given the chance they'll swarm all over me too. They want the road as much as I do.

We turn north-east outside Warminster and really start to fly. Must be a tailwind. Or maybe I've found my groove. 23mph on the flat - easy.

We pass the huge white horse on the Westbury hillside and I wonder who put it there. How old is it? I imagine it was marked out by people centuries ago, commemorating the natural wonder that helped shape their land. In years to come, will there also be a giant bicycle or a motor car on these hillsides?

Forty miles in and we come to Box. Its reputation precedes it. I say the words out loud. "Box Hill". But we head down, not up. We hurtle into the village and somehow miss a turn. Not until five miles later do we realise. We're near Bath and we could call it quits. We both know it but no-one dares say the words. We roll on hoping to pick up the course again. It starts to rain heavily and we have a choice of two roads. We vote left and head to St Catherine's, relying on our sodden map print out for navigation. As we weave through tiny gravel-strewn lanes, bordered by lovely houses decked out in Bath stone, we nervously hope we're going the right way.

We come into forest lane and climb, climb, climb. I will Dad on, coaching him up the hills like he did to me years ago. "Turn the pedals, transfer energy through the cleats, sit, stand, short burst to the sign." I'm certain he wishes I'd shut up but I'm cold and need to push hard on the hills to get warm. A grouse wanders around, oblivious to our uphill struggle, and lightens the mood somewhat.

I see the top of the climb and I see riders rolling past at a t-junction. We're back on track, having made a minor detour. We've lost places; we've given the precious road away to other riders. Who cares now. We're 45 miles in and all I care about is seeing that finish line and getting off my bike. My back feels tight and my hands ache. At least the sun makes a brief appearance.

We cross the A420 and round Dyrham - the most northerly point of the course. The beauty of the fanciful estate and the ancient manor house looks in sharp contrast to the carbon fibre and lycra filing past.

Five miles until the finish and I know what's approaching. I rode this way 4 hours ago. Dad's slowing down and his legs are empty. How's he going to make it?

The climb of Prior Park Road starts and he's out the saddle and in his second easiest gear. I offer words of encouragement but they seem to be falling on deaf ears. He has nothing to offer. He doesn't want the road and he gives it to someone else. A ginger-haired women in her 20s slowly climbs past him. He offers a few cheery words but I know it must be hurting him. She gains 5 metres on us, then 10. Don't give up that wheel though. She stays out at 10 metres then slows a little. It's a war of attrition this one. The road steepens and Dad changes up a gear. It's his last and most easiest gear. "Turn your legs faster," I shout. Bit by bit he gains. A steep switchback on the hill catches the women infront unawares and Dad's back in front. Can he hold it to the top? I can feel the pride radiating off him, he fought back and already feels like a winner.

I drag him over the top and shout to keep it going. Keep pushing, a mile to go and there are two people just up ahead. We can catch them. Head down and keep pushing now. Give it everything you have old man. You've won that road and two more places by the time you cross that finish line. Pint and a pub lunch on me.

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