#racereport

Cadwell Park Ducati Cup Rd6

The Lincolnshire circuit with its undulations and mix of corners is one of my favourites. The conditions also suited me. A damp free practice and less than ideal conditions in qualifying meant I was where I needed to be straight away. 

I have been putting the miles in this season and it appears to be paying dividends. Confidence in the bike is high and I feel like I can push that little bit harder knowing I can trust the set-up and tyres. I had a little tumble at a club meeting test day a few weeks back but if I am honest that’s exactly what I needed. I pushed a front tyre to the limit of wear and beyond, down I went. I now have a good idea of how hard I can really go with the front before it lets go. It also meant that I could show the current technicians how to replace a Giamoto rearset and a full set of R&G crash protection on the right hand side of the bike. Positives from Negatives and all that!

Free practice was exactly as it suggests so no pressure to perform. Thankfully I had a set of well worn wet tyres on some rims so chose to use those. The track was pretty wet but a dry line was increasing as the session progressed. I went as hard as I felt was appropriate but with everything to lose and nothing to gain I saw no point in crashing just to be up there on the time sheets. P11 with plenty more left if conditions were similar for qualifying or a race. 

As it turned out the weather played a part in proceedings on Friday and our qualifying session got moved to Saturday morning in place of our warm-up. The right decision to make as the surface water for the Superbikes was terrible and clearly riding in those conditions was unsafe. This meant we finished fairly early on Friday and I had chance to fit a new Lighttech adjustable brake lever and give the bike a good once over. Decisions on gearing, fuel load and suspension all made. All we could do was wait and hope the weather improved by morning. 

The rain continued into the early hours and with our qualifying being the second session on Saturday it was always going to be a tough decision on tyres. I had a walk to look at the track and it was still very wet in places but I knew it would dry fast. My instinct was telling me to put wet tyres in the bike but from experience I knew that the right call was otherwise. Brand new Pirelli Supercorsa dry tyres went in but I stuck with my wet gearing. Conditions were difficult so I took a while to get going, as did most of the other riders. As the track started to dry the lap times came down. My fastest lap came on my penultimate circulation and had it not been for another rider backing out of his lap at an awkward place right in front of me I think my fastest would’ve been my last. P11 yet again and I knew I had more left at race pace on a dry track. 

 Race one and I got a reasonable start and managed to draw up level with my teammate by turn one but it wasn’t quite enough to get by. I made up one place off the start but it didn’t last and at the end of Park straight I got passed by both Cheetham and Couzens in one go. It unsettled me a little and I lost a bit of ground to them both which meant I had a lot of work to do catching them. I could see by my board the gap to the bike behind was growing so I concentrated on catching Dan Couzens. The gap to Dan stabilised to around three seconds in the early laps and it seemed like a huge undertaking to reel him in. By lap ten I was within half a second and I could see back markers coming to us. I knew that I could capitalise if it went wrong for Dan so tried to get as close as I could. We caught Andy Booth through Halls Bends and we both got by between the Hairpin and Barn. By now I was on Dan but couldn’t quite work out where to pass. As it happened he made a mistake exiting the bottom chicane before the Mountain. Wrong gear for him meant a split second for me to get by. I made it stick and and got my head down to get clear. 

I tried to ride defensively onto Park straight to force him to ride around the outside at the end. Even so, he squeezed in on the right in the braking zone but I knew he would have to work hard to haul it up and not run too deep. I waited a little then cut back on the inside before Chris curve. I knew he wouldn’t get another chance before the end of the race so concentrated on hitting all my marks to keep him at bay. P10 after a lot of hard work was rewarding and to get it after catching and scrapping with Dan made it an enjoyable race. 

Sunday was a long day. Our race was the last race of the day so we had been given a warm up. I wanted to try a few things and warm-up was the ideal chance. I had a fairly new (to me) technician so a full gearing change meant he got to see how to change a front sprocket and measure swing arm length. My dry gearing was 14/42 but I wanted to run a slightly shorter swing arm to help with direction changes so a change to 15/45 was required. Same ratio and shift pattern but hopefully slightly more responsive on changes of direction. 

No issues in warm-up except I was unsure of gearing. I still felt like I wasn’t quite riding quick enough to make 14/42 or 15/45 work. It felt a little lazy in places. I had all day to make a call so left it until about an hour before the race. 

Last race of the day is always tricky. Mindset changes slightly over the course of the day. As a team we try and pack up as much as possible prior to the race so the sense that it is all over before we even race often comes through. That said I made the call on gearing and went to 14/43 so was keen to try it and see if I could put in a better lap time. 

We spent a fair while in pitlane prior to our race due to the formalities after the Superbike race. Podiums and winners parade laps in the car all have to take place before we are allowed out. 

Away for the green flag lap and I got the sense my teammate had a bike issue. That was confirmed when he pulled up at the bottom chicane to look down at his bike. Further tinkering on the grid from him had me worried and I could only hope it was nothing too serious. 

Away well again and I held 12th from 12th on the grid. What was promising was keeping the leaders in sight. Middlemas went down on the opening lap at the bottom of the mountain so I crossed the line in 11th and more importantly, in front of Couzens. I could already sense it was going to be a long hard race so I did my best to not make any mistakes. I could see my teammate a little way in front of me so I was relieved his bike issues weren’t too significant. 

My board was telling me Dan was closing me down. Half a second as we crossed the line to start lap five. Exiting Charlies two I made a mistake and got on the throttle a little too early, pushing me wide and heading for the grass, I had to roll the throttle for a split second. That was enough and I knew Dan would pass me. The gap increased to just over a second but again I knew back markers were coming to us so I grafted to get back on his wheel. We caught Booth between Mansfield and the Chicane. Dan committed to going under him into the Chicane but backed out at the last second. This meant both he and Booth were slow on exit whereas I had run in to the Chicane fairly quickly. I went for it and squeezed between them before the bottom of the Mountain. I knew Booth was on my right and getting ready to tip into the corner. Turns out Booth did tip in behind me and almost had Dan off as he followed me through. 

Dan fought back of course and I think it was the end of that lap he tried to pull the same move into Park Corner on the brakes. Again I anticipated he would run a bit deep so cut back under him. I think he was expecting it on that occasion and he tried to pull it back to block me. Very close racing but great fun. Next challenge was another back marker into Mansfield. This time it was me being indecisive. I went to go under Thrower into Mansfield but felt it was just a little too late to go for it so backed out. Hard on the brakes and down an extra gear to get the drive out of the corner to pass him before the Chicane. I kind of hoped Dan wouldn’t get through so I had a little breathing space but he made it too. He then proceeded to chase me for the whole of the last lap and true to form he dived under me on the brakes into Park. He made it stick and although I thought about pulling a move at the Hairpin after he made a mistake over the Mountain I decided that a top ten for both of us was better than ending up in a heap at the second to last corner. Discretion the better part of valour, as they say. 

A good weekend of racing with Dan and another two top ten finishes to my tally. Tangible progress and to be within 35 seconds of the winner is a big thing for me. I didn’t quite get into the 1:33 lap times but a PB with a low 1:34 was still good. Chipping away getting closer to the front with a bike that is sorted makes a difference. The two technicians that worked on the bike this weekend left nothing to chance and that showed with the results. One hundred percent confidence in the bike means I can focus on what I need to do out on track. 

Assen next and another circuit I like, hopefully keep the momentum and try and get into the top ten in the main championship.  

Seven years ago I discovered Utah.

I don’t mean like Mormon-level-discovered Utah. I just mean, like, I personally discovered it. I somewhat drunkenly convinced my old college roommate Matt to sign up for the now-defunct Slickrock 50 outside Moab. A few months later, as we wound our way over undulating waves of slickrock on the rim of canyons in the middle of expansive, desolate desert, I realized something: I was hooked.

Southern Utah is an alien planet. It’s Mars on Earth. It’s the most endlessly fascinating terrain in North America, and some of its most brutal too. Since my first experience, I return every chance I get. I into big, burly mountains. But I’m totally spellbound by Utah desert.

Matt Gunn, the founder of the Ultra Adventure Grand Circle Trail Series, understood that. It’s been his mission to get more people out to explore this far-flung corner of the country. In 2013 I took him up on the challenge, being so enthused, I signed up for both Zion 100 and Bryce 100 just six weeks apart. Zion was the best race of my life. Bryce was the worst.

At Zion, I ran a fast race all day, finishing in 17:55, a mere three minutes off first place. But, I was so focused on Zion that Bryce ended up an afterthought. I just assumed it’d be a beautiful course, pretty much as “easy” as Zion. And since it was the inaugural year for Bryce, no one knew any different.

What we got instead was one of the most sneakily brutal courses I’ve ever experience. You pay for the occasional mind-blowing viewpoints with a leg-grinding, brain-mushing, oxygen-depriving hell of route. I’ll spare you the details, but the end result was my first and only DNF. I made it 74 miles before I couldn’t breathe, stopped eating and got frozen cold. At that point, the idea of running another marathon was simply impossible to wrap my mind around.

But this year, when I realized I needed a Western States qualifier AND I had to get it before the arrival of our kid, the ole Bryce 100 suddenly seemed more inviting than it ever had. I signed up and decided it was time for revenge.

Cut to race morning. 

Photo by Patrick Sweeney 

About 250 of us are standing around, waiting for this thing to begin. I have a weird feeling. It’s not nerves. It’s more like, I don’t want to be there in the first place. Half an hour before, as we drove to the starting line, Dom, Katie and I had gotten lost. We had no idea where we were going. Inside of me, a little pang of hope said, Maybe I won’t have to actually run this thing.

But, lucky me, we found the start. I’d have to run this thin after all.

“Two minutes till we start!” the RD yells from his perch. I move towards the starting line, and see something I’ve never seen before: Everyone is standing five feet behind the line. Weird. No one wants to toe the line. I thought this was a race? I say to myself and step up to the line. There’s the “10… 9… 8…” and in a blink, we were off. Me, five feet in front of about 249 people.

Photo by Patrick Sweeney

I take off strong but not particularly fast. After a couple miles on dusty, flat dirt roads, the course turns off onto undulating, windy singletrack that screams in and out of draws. I pop a few peeks from the other side of the draws and find that I’m already about four minutes up on numbers 2 and 3.

Thunder Mountain Trail is one of the most magical stretches of trail I’ve ever run, and I have good memories of it from last time—perhaps my only good memories from last time. After careening through the bright red, ponderosa-speckled draws like some kind of dusty rollercoaster you suddenly hit them. Hoodoos. Big, alien pillars of red, pink and white sand. It’s as if Earth spontaneously sprouted its own Easter Island heads.

I go screaming through the hoodoos, stop to take my customary first-10-mile shit off the side of the trail and then carry on, dropping down onto the Grandview Trail.

The vast majority of the race takes places on Grandview, although the trail varies dramatically from wide, rocky ATV trails to barely-there, bushwhacky singletrack. This would be my life for the next day 20 hours or so.

I roll up to the Thunder Mountain Aid Station (mile 10.5) as the volunteers are still unloading a few things and ask for some fruit. Instead, I have to go into the tent and open the food myself. But I guess so are the pains of being the first to the aid stations.

With some very fresh orange slices in my belly, I lope off towards Proctor Canyon, already a few minutes ahead of my splits. The next section is a good kick in the face, dusty drops and climbs as you weave your way along the base of the plateau, snaking over a series of canyons. As I bomb down the stupid-steep singletrack, all I can think is, Shit. I have to run back up all this shit in about 75 miles.

This is the precise moment when I realize that out-and-back is 100% objectively the absolutely worst format for a 100-mile race. I’ve done HURT with it’s five 20-mie jungle loops. I’ve done Big’s Backyard Ultra with 4-mile loops every hour. But 50 miles out and the same 50 miles turned 180 degrees? Woof woof.

I come into the Proctor Canyon Aid Station (mile 19) a bit knackered but overall, feeling good. Dom and Katie are there waiting for me. A welcome sight after running by myself for nearly 20 miles. I’ve gained another five minutes on my splits.

“I’m kind of surprised I’m winning,” I tell them as they stuff fresh gels into my pack. “I don’t feel like I’m running that fast. I’m just running really comfortably. But the weird thing is… that’s as fast as I can run.”

I’m running at the very edge of what I could but I was nowhere near red-lining. The altitude was acting like a governor, keeping my effort comfortable and in check. Whatever works, right? I still can’t believe I’m leading.

And boom, just like that, I’m not leading anymore.

Another runner comes shooting through the aid station and out the other side. The feeling I experience isn’t disappointment. Oddly, it’s relief. Phew. I don’t have to be in the lead anymore. I can just run my own race.

Out of Proctor, I wind my way through scrubby meadows and soft pine forests, eventually climbing up to the very top of the plateau. At times the trail is faint, at other times, it clings to the side walls of dusty draws by the skin of its teeth. Finally, there’s one last nut-kicker as you push up to the top of the plateau and the Blubber Creek Aid Station (mile 28).

Another aid station, another time waiting on food. “Do you have any fruit?” “Oh, we can cut some up for you.” “Uhhhhhh… yeah… that’d be great.” So I stand there, again, waiting for them to pull out more oranges and cut them up. A couple minutes later, I shoot off into the forest again.

The top of the rim offers jaw-dropping views for miles and miles. It’s the first time you get a taste of the rugged cliffs you’re running along. Strangely, I have almost zero recollection of this from four year ago. I was basically blacked out the majority of the race. So, this discovery is a rather pleasant one. Oh, it’s really beautiful up here.

Just a few paces out of the aid station, I caught sight of the other runner who had passed me back at Proctor. Not wanting to jump back into first just yet, I trail him for a bit, staying a comfortable pace behind and watching. I can tell he’s starting to falter.

It’s early afternoon, and the day had grown intensely hot. It looks like he’s running with one only bottle. Not smart. Last night right as I was going to bed, in a super-last-minute-OCD change, I threw in a third bottle to carry between Proctor Canyon and Blubber Creek just in case. I can feel my bottles bouncing on my chest. I’ve nearly sucked all three dry. So I know this guy in front of me is in serious trouble.

Right around mile 30, I pass him back on a climb. I’m back in the lead. Damn. Have to remember, I’m running my own race.

At Kanab Creek Aid Station (mile 36) I’m in and out fast. Now, the descent down to Straight Canyon Aid Station at mile 41 and a chance to see my crew again. The sun is blasting full-bore by now, and I actually think to myself, Thank God for AC. I know how to run in the heat. I feel bad for everyone else.

After a few miles later, and I burst out into a clearing to see a massive aid station below me. At Bryce 100, Straight Canyon is the jam. And it’s hopping. After all the quiet miles by myself, it feels good to finally get some big cheers from the crowd. But more importantly, it feels good to cool down.

Dom and Katie go to work immediately. I get ice-cold Moroccan mint tea in my bottles (my new secret weapon), an ice bandana around my neck and a full soak-down compliments of Dom. It’s UH-MAZING. I feel like a NASCAR at a pit stop. And a couple of minutes later, I bound off, feeling pumped up, cooled down, and like I can kick all the asses. By now I’m about 30 under my 22-hour pace. As my dad says, ha cha cha!

Photo by Joel Livesey

I set off for the big climb up to Pink Cliffs Aid Station (mile 46.5) and the highest point of the course, around 9,400 feet. It’s the single most-sustained climb as well. But man, I feel fan-friggin-tastic. After I half-mile, turn off the dusty country road and bound up through a little patch of woods I’ve dubbed Secret Forest. From there, it’s a turn onto another dusty dirt road and climb. Then turn onto doubletrack and climb. And finally bushwhack your way up the last few hundred feet on a sleepy, shaley hillside and climb. I surprise even myself by running nearly every step. In my race plan, I had budgeted 1:50 for these 5.5 miles. Instead I do it in about 50 minutes. At the top of the climb, a volunteer greets me with a “Holy smokes, man! You’re flying!”

More pineapple in my belly compliments of the 10-year at the aid station, and I drop down the—you guessed it—dusty, rocky road towards the turnaround point. Of course, all I think is, Dammit. I have to turn around and run back up this shit.

Down, down, down I go.

Now, this is where the course map gets deceiving. On paper, it looks like you just drop into the turnaround point at Crawford Pass (mile 51.5). No. Not true. You have what amounts to a super gnarly, nearly cross-country slog on overgrown singletrack, over fallen trees and across rocky, chewed up washes. Ah yes, I remember this. I think to myself. How awful.

By now, my ankles are starting to feel pretty beat. Like, baseball-bat-beat.

Imagine you’re an ant, and you’re trying to run across a field of chunky, hunky vomit. All six of your ankles would be wrecked. That’s how I’m starting to keep.

After what seemed like an eternity in the hot sun, I arrive at Crawford Pass.

“I’m definitely a bit knackered,” I announce to Dom and Katie and the loud Australian woman working the aid station. “But I’m waaay happier than the last time I was here.” I flash back to four years ago when I plunked myself down in a red camping chair and tried to (unsuccessfully) wrap my brain around doing everything I just did, but now in reverse. Snapping back to the present moment, I feel tired but excited to still be winning. In fact, I figure, I must have had a pretty good lead at that point.

With another quick patch-up, Dom and I set off for the long return trip to Straight Canyon. I have a pacer now, which is normally nice, but a small bit of dread flashing in my brain as I realize I’ll have to huff and puff and summarize 51.5 miles of the day, all while running back over all that chunky vomit.

Photo by Dom Grossman

On the way out, we pass the second-place guy about 10 minutes from the aid station,. We figured I have about a 23-minute lead. There a bit of a gap and then bam, bam, bam, bam. Four or five other guys all another 5-10 minutes off second place. It’s a little tighter than I thought. It might turn out to be a race after all.

Photo by Dom Grossman

Up and over Pink Cliffs, the sun beats down on us mercilessly. By now, I’ve developed a new technique with my ice bandana: Once it’s mostly melted off but was still nice and wet, I slip it under my hat, letting it dangle over my head to make my own makeshift Marathon Des Sables desert hat. It looks silly, but I’m in Fuck-It Mode at this point.

Photo by Dom Grossman

Coming down the bushwhack/shaley section from Pink Cliff, I really start to feel my ankles. And the feeling is pain. Another mile or two down the long dirt road, and my ankles not-so-politely declare, “No more, thankyouverymuch.”

Every single step on my right foot shoots white-hot pain through my ankle. I slow to a jog. Then to a walk. And finally, I can’t even take another step. I pull out of my body for a instant and see that I’m leading the race, on a nice, juicy downhill, and I can’t even take one step forward.

Dom’s selfie game can be a little over-the-top, but man, it’s good to have him around during a tough race. He orders me to lay on the ground, and we try to drain the blood out of my leg through a series of stretches. After a few minutes on my back in the middle of the road, it does the trick, or at least enough to get me back down to Straight Canyon. I still can’t believe I’m in the lead.

By now, we’re passing a stream of runners headed out to the turnaround point. Their kind words of congratulations lights a nice fire under my ass.

That said, there’s one woman who takes a look at me and blurts out, “Are you OK?” “Uhh, yeah. I’m fine. Why?” “You’re going the wrong way.” “Oh, no. I’m headed to the finish.” She looks back at me skeptically.

To be far, my makeshift desert bandana probably looks dumb, and I most definitely look like shit.

Photo by Katie Grossman

Back at Straight Canyon, the party has swelled. It’s almost overwhelming. So many people hovering around. I come in and collapse on the ground so Dom can stretch me out again. A very nice volunteer offers to help out by throwing a few ice cubes at my which immediately bounce off my chest and into the grass. I think to myself, This is one of those scenes that makes all the other crews tell their runners, “Yeah, the first-place guy was here 12 minutes ahead of you, but he looked like actual dog shit.” Screw it. I don’t care. I have to patch myself back together. Where’s the fucking duct tape?

I take longer than I would’ve liked, but so be it. My right ankle feels like it’s holding on by a thread. And the left one? Maybe four threads. Dom and I set off. We have a stout climb ahead of us, back to the top of the rim. And in the late-afternoon sun, I start to feel pretty haggard. We pass yet another woman going in the opposite direction who grunts at me, “Where are you going?” as if I’m going in the wrong direction. “To the finish line,” I grunt back.

Photo by Dom Grossman

Up on the rim, things start to deteriorate even more. All day I’ve been right at the edge of my pace, which isn’t more than a comfortable jog. But now, back above 9,000 feet for the fourth time today, my engine was running on fumes. Sixty-plus miles at this altitude have finally caught up to me. I’m just depleted. There’s no other word. Depleted. Oh no, I realize. This is exactly what happened last time. Suddenly the specter of my old DNF is breathing down my neck. Not again. I try to keep my head straight. Last time I was barely surviving. This time, I’m—miraculously—in first place.

But it feels like only a matter of time.

Photo by Dom Grossman

Somewhere around mile 70 or so, as we power hike up a rock-strewn doubletrack, a runner and pacer saunter up behind us. We exchange the customary head nod and “great job, man” and that was it. Swift and painless. I’m out of it.

But then, to add literal injury to insult, things get worse. I start to kick rocks. At the time it doesn’t dawn on my, but in retrospect, my busted-ass right ankle must be causing my foot to rotate externally, just ever so slightly. And by doing so, smack, smack, smack. I catching just about every single rock between mile 70 and the finish with my right big toe.

Every.

Single.

Rock.

The one reprieve from the pain is the amazing sunset we snag, right above Blubber Creek. This is where I dropped, in the middle of the night, four years ago, so it feels like I’m putting some demons to bed.

As we hurtle down off the rim towards Proctor Canyon, my knee joins the symphony of pain because, why not? I don’t remember a whole lot of this section, mostly because I start to go into a fairly dark place (literally and metaphorically). Dom does his best to keep my spirits up, but isn’t able to do too much. “Man,” he quips out loud. “At least, I’m just glad I get to be here to see you feel so shitty. Now I know it can actually happen to you.” Funny. Katie says just about the same thing a few hours later.

Dropping into the Proctor Canyon aid station, I get passed by two (three?) other runners. At this point, I don’t care. I’m deep within the pain cave. I sit down in a car, scarf down a freshly made bowl of ramen noodles, swig a whole can of Coke and then aske Dom and Katie’s permission before I pop two ibuprofens. I know it’s not great idea, but at this point, it feels like the difference between finishing in four hours and finishing in eight.

After a quick squabble between Dom and Katie over Dom spilling soda on Katie’s puffy, Katie and I set off to stalk the finish line. Instantly—thanks to the miracle of ibuprofen—I feel better. Amazingly, I’m also still right at or right under my original 22-hour target pace. So, things aren’t so bad. Or at least at this point they’re not.

Remember all those descents in the morning? Those ones I knew would turn into ascents at night? Yeah. I start to hit them. And there are way more of them than I ever remember. (There always are.) The night becomes a power-hike punctuated by kicked rocks and maybe one or two more runners passing us.

Finally, we arrive at Thunder Mountain, our last aid station, mile 92.5. More soup, more Coke, let’s roll.

This final section of the course is also the first. So, it’s all those super-fun rollers through hoodos and draws from earlier in the day. And in fact, I had been excited about it all day—partly because it’s objectively fun/cool, partly because I wanted Katie to see it and partly because (FOR SOME REASON) I didn’t think it had too many climbs.

I was an idiot.

It is steep. It is so steep. I’m reduced to a painfully slow and painfully painful power hike. At one point, I can feel the exact moment the ibuprofen wore off. A snap of pain floods back into my legs, ankles and feet.

And that’s when I thought the thought. You know, The Thought. Capital T, capital T. The Thought. The Thought where you think it. The Thought that goes, At least it can’t possibly get any worse.

Because you know what always happens next…

We’re power hiking a super steep incline, and suddenly I hear a SQUISH from below me. My right foot slides back in my shoe. What the hell was that? I wonder. And then I know. I know because I feel it. And what I feel is a giant blister that—unbeknownst to me—had been forming under my entire right heel and at this very moment decided to pop. Now, suddenly, every step is excruciating pain. My pacer and all the forest creatures know it because I scream expletives with every step.

This is officially a comedy of errors.

We soldier on. We get passed by yet another runner, solo. He’s fucking flying. How? By now I just want to be done. Unfortunately the course isn’t.

One bright spot is the gaggle of hoodoos. Suddenly, like giants congregating in the night, our headlamps light them up. In the pitch-black night, they’re ghostly. “HOLY SHIT!” Katie starts screaming. “THIS IS SOOOO COOL!” It was the first time she had ever seen hoodoos. Like, ever. And it was blowing her mind. We snapp a few photos and enjoy a brief reprieve from my grim task of kicking every rock I could find. I cherish the moment of levity.

Photo by Katie Grossman

Soon, we start winding in and out of the draws. Turning, climbing, cresting, turning, dropping. Over and over again. By now, we’re counting down the miles. Three miles… two miles… one mile… “The finish line must be right at the Thunder Mountain trailhead!” I said as if I knew. I’d never made it this far.

The draws keep coming. With every one we say, “This HAS to be the last one.” And nope, another fucking draw. After the race, Matt Gunn tells me, “Oh yep, those eleven draws, huh?” It would’ve really been nice to know the number eleven going in. Instead, every new turn is a heartbreak. The total mileage ticks 100 miles. Oh c’mon…

Finally, finally, FINALLY, the trail straightens out and we dip down to the trailhead. There’s nothing there. No finish line. No lights. No spectators. Just a pink ribbon to follow. Oh c’mon…

We turn left onto the dusty country road that I breezed along nearly 23 hours ago. “The finish line has to be right around this corner,” we both keep saying. But we take a corner and a corner and another corner, and all we see is a great big expansive of nothing. Pine forest. Dirt. Darkness.

You know when you’re just so over a race and ready to be done? Yeah.

The road seems to stretch on forever, with no indication that we were nearing any sort of civilization. I turn to Katie and only half-jokingly say, “I think I’m gonna drop right here.”

Finally, we see it. Or something. We see lights anyway. We get a little closer, and we see it. It’s the finish line.

You know that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the knights are rushing a castle and it cuts and then it cuts back to them and it doesn’t look like they’ve made it any closer and then it keeps doing that? That’s essentially what happens here. Even when we can see the finish line, it feels out of reach. Once again, I turns to Katie and say, “I think I’m gonna drop here.” I was joking slightly more this time.

And then, we arrive.

Photo by Dom Grossman

I cross the finish line. What a day. What a course. What a relief to be done. “How do you feel?” someone asks. “I’m just glad I don’t have to run this damn race ever again,” I say. And I mean it. Bryce 100 is a brutal race. I thought it four years ago when I DNF’d it. And I think it again today. 23:01, sixth place, and the utter stuffing beat out of me.

After offering me a beer (which I gladly accept), Matt Gunn urges me to go pick out my finisher belt buckle. Each one is handmade and unique. And as I peruse the table in a shell-shocked, sleep-deprived, mind-mushed state I grab the only pink-colored buckle I see. “The happiness of this belt buckle represents the exact opposite of how I feel,” I tell the poor volunteer standing there who has no idea how to respond.

In the light of day, it might be one of my favorite buckles for that very reason.

Utah lives up to its legend. It’s everything I wanted. It’s a land of wonderful brutality. And beautiful wonderality.

I feel like I’ve been baptized into it with the Bryce 100. And even if I never run it again, it will always hold a very special place in my heart.

EPILOGUE

This race took everything out of me. I knew it was a hard race at the time, but in the convening weeks since then, I gained even more respect for it.

For the first week after race day, I just felt like I’d gotten the shit beat out of me. Hour-long epsom salt baths (perhaps accompanied by a viewing of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schimdt) were the norm. All I wanted to do was lounge around. I got my ass properly kicked.

For those counting, 116 hours of recovery time is almost five days.

Beyond the emotional wear-and-tear I was physically brutalized too. Thanks to all those rocks I decided to kick for the last 30 miles, several toenails were full blackened and primed to eject themselves from my foot. So, in a moment of curiosity, I went to a podiatrist to see what official medical intervention could do. (In my all races, this has never occurred to me.) About 25 shots of novocaine to my toe later, all the blood was drained. And I’m happy to report I’m still the proud owner of ten toenails.

Beyond the toenails, my ankles and tesnor/upper IT were wrecked for weeks. Shit, I’m still recovering.

But every time I look down at my bruised toenails or feel a twinge of pain in my hip, I think back to Utah. I think back to the dust and the plateaus and the rocks and the washes and heat and the rocks again, and it reminds me of how brutally beautiful that damn state is. And how I can’t wait to get back.

You know, as soon as all this shit heals up.

2019 Ducati Cup underway. 

Another season started with this amazing group of people. I have handed over the THR instagram to another member of the team so that will free me up a little at the meetings to concentrate on the task in hand. It will also mean that the instagram feed will be a little more real time rather than images being posted retrospectively. You can find it here: 

https://www.instagram.com/trueheroesracing/

It also means I can put a little more time into my tumblr to keep everyone updated. 

The first race meeting of the year is always a bit manic with finishing touches falling into place and everything settling in. Our team is all voluntary so we never know until the weekend starts who we are going to get. This season there are plenty of new faces joining us which is a good thing. A race weekend is a big production so having plenty of hands on deck (team manager is Royal Navy so that’ll keep him happy) is essential. There are quite a few people missing from this team image, they left a little early before the final tear down. It’s always a challenge getting everyone who helps out into a group photo but this will probably be the biggest number we manage to get in one place at one time. 

From a racing point of view it was a mixed bag for myself and the other riders. We ran three bikes at Silverstone for the opening round. Two Ducati 959 Panigales in the Ducati Cup and a GSXR1000 in the Superstock 1000 class. Myself and Dave “Salty” Sellers are pretty much guaranteed a race so our qualifying is more about grid position than actually getting to race. Jim Walker who rides the SSTK1000 bike has a tougher time. The early meetings are always over-subscribed for the amount of grid slots so qualifying is the order of the day. Jim has had bike issues the last couple of outings so never really got up to speed on the new bike. This meant that by the time the niggles were sorted it was his qualifying session. Needless to say, without valuable track time prior to his qualifying he was on the back foot. He didn’t qualify to race but at least the bike issues are solved and we can look forward to the next round at Oulton Park. 

In the Ducati Cup qualifying session I never really got my finger out and only managed to secure 24th on the grid. A good 1.5 seconds off my pace from last year. Salty was up to speed straight away and managed a good solid 9th on the grid. 

Race 1 of the weekend didn’t quite go to plan for me. Having done one outlap and two green flag laps I was all fired up to make a bit of progress and get up to the riders I usually run with. I got a cracking start and passed quite a few riders before turn one. That’s when it all went a bit pear shaped, as I pushed the right handle bar to turn in there was very little resistance and I had to sit up and run wide off the track. Turns out the bar had sheared half way through at the clamp end. With it hanging on by a thread I limped back to the pits and that was my race over. Although it was disappointing I count myself very lucky it happened where it did and how it did. We will never know why the component failed so there is no point dwelling on it. Salty had a better time and ended up finishing 8th which is the best result the team has ever had in a National race. 

Race 2 Grid positions go off fastest lap time for race 1 so Salty dropped down to 10th on the grid and I was relegated to 33rd and had a lot of work to do. This time fortune favoured me but Salty went down early on in the race with a high side just before coming onto the Wellington straight. Big hit to his head but he got up and staggered away. I remember seeing his bike and visor lying in the track as I went by so I knew he’d had a knock. Bike was ok(ish) and he was fine. I got a good start again and managed to pass nine riders on the first lap. Things then settled down and the work started to catch the group in front of me. All were riders who I would normally be battling with but they were just out of reach. Prior to the race I knew that if I didn’t get near them early on I would struggle as we are all on the same bikes and running roughly the same lap times. I was mindful that to crash would be a blow to morale so the urge to push was somewhat diminished, especially having seen my team mate go down. Perhaps the wrong mindset to have but a finish was required to set me up for the next meeting. P33 to P19 was ok and although I was .5 second a lap slower than last year I was happy to bring it home. 

Next round is Oulton Park in two weekends time so preparations have already begun. The team vehicles are stored in different locations so depending on where the next meeting is dictates where they are stored. All have gone to the respective locations and once our shop stock and victuals are replenished we should be good to go for a little visit to Chesire. Oulton Park is also the first meeting for our Sidecar so the workload will increase slightly. 

Action shot by Barry Clay. 

Donington Park Ducati Cup Rd3

The national circuit at Donington isn’t unknown territory for me. I’ve been there every year since 2012 when I started racing with NG Road Racing. I’ve won there, crashed there and everything else in between. 

The BSB powers that be decided that the shorter circuit at Donington would be a good enough replacement for Brands Indy. I’m inclined to agree. The slightly longer lap, by 15 seconds or so, seems to suit most. I certainly enjoy it. 

The weekend started on Friday with free practice and as I’d been there two weekends prior to the BSB I was set-up and on (my) pace straight away. I have mentioned before about setting goals for a race weekend and I wanted to achieve a 1:11 lap time and score some points. I finished FP with a 1:13 on old tyres so was happy enough. Thankfully I had no issues with the #22 bike because the technicians were busy with my teammate’s bike after he had a little off. I mention it because it would have repercussions in qualifying for myself. 

Having worked all day to get my teammate’s bike turned around we rolled out for qualifying. Whilst sat waiting at the end of pit lane he mentioned to me that his bike temp had just jumped dramatically. Having been on the receiving end of a bike dumping water onto my own back wheel I urged caution if he saw the temp creeping up. 

Leaving pit lane I was determined to get a good lap in and qualify well so tried to get going straight away. Within two laps Salty, my teammate, had caught me. He passed me going into the Roberts chicane and on the exit I saw water come out of his belly pan. I knew straight away his bike was overheating. I was torn between trying to pass to let him know and staying well away for fear of getting caught up in either a crash or going down on his fluid. I found myself cringing every time he tipped into a corner as I genuinely felt he was going to crash. The marshals had seen it too and little did I know the radio traffic was communicating that a black and orange flag should be deployed to get the offending machine of track. After following Salty for a few laps I made the call to come in and get IN put on his pit board. Race control had beat me to it and I saw the meatball flag at Coppice with my number on it. 

I knew immediately what had happened. I had been confused for the #61 bike and as I rolled down pit lane I was stopped and told my bike was smoking. It wasn’t but I had to go to technical regardless. I insisted that the officials at least flagged Salty too as I knew it was his bike that was spewing fluid out. Following nearly six minutes in pit lane for myself, Salty finally pulled over at Mcleans and I was allowed to resume my session. I never really got going again due to cooled tyres and a bit of traffic and my last lap was my quickest. Only good enough to qualify 19th. At least nobody went down but there was clearly more work on for the team to sort the #61 bike for Race one the following day. Turned out that the water pump had failed but thankfully someone had one in the paddock. It got replaced and he got out for the race, only to crash again and end his weekend completely. 

My weekend also got worse before it got better. Admittedly not as bad as Salty so mustn’t grumble. 

As I headed out for Race one on Saturday I knew I had some work to do if I was to score points. Passing the marshals at the end of pit lane I saw what I thought was the five minute board for pit lane closing. Turns out it was three minutes. I’d already decided that I was going to do two laps before going to the grid and figured I had enough time. I was wrong. I got stopped at the end of pit lane and told I missed the grid and had to start from the back. After a discussion with the officials it turns out that there isn’t a five minute board at all and three minutes can mean two minutes and one second. Go figure. 

No point in arguing and I accepted the challenge. The flag dropped for the sighting lap and I joined on the back of the pack. I had a little scare as I left pit lane. I did a full on race start from pit lane to test my new clutch that had been fitted and didn’t expect the safety car to be there braking for Redgate. Missed it, gave them a wave and cracked on. 

I went from back of the grid, P30, to where I should have been within a lap so it made little difference really. I then got stuck into catching and passing the little group I was on the back of. I was feeling good and progress was tangible. I had already formulated a plan for getting by Lee Devonport, Dan Couzens and one other in one go. I was catching them all out of Coppice and felt I was stronger on the brakes into Roberts chicane. All three on the brakes next lap?, a plan for sure but it didn’t come to fruition. 

Into Redgate right on Lee’s back wheel and I think I was as surprised as he was when he got launched to the moon. Highside for him and some decisions for me. In such a situation deciding where the fallen rider and his machine is going is critical. Another factor to consider is whether riders behind have seen it and reacted. All done in a split second.

I made the call that getting on the gas was the right thing to do. Sounds counter intuitive but I needed to miss Lee and avoid getting collected by Paul Slade and Craig Currie. I squeezed by on the paint but ran out of hardstanding at the top of Hollywood. I just kept it pinned and managed to stay on. All those years on dirt bikes paying off that day. Paul Slade got by but I fought back out of the Old Hairpin just as I saw the yellow flag at Starkeys. I handed the place back going up to Coppice but the reds came out just as I did so. 

Into pit lane and I figured they would call it a result but that wasn’t the case. Quick re-start, once they had scooped Lee up, and a five lap sprint race to decide the result. I also found out at that point Salty had gone down at Redgate early on in the race. I remember seeing the cloud of dust but not much else. He was a bit battered and bruised but ok. Pretty good considering the speed he came off. 

The quick re-start takes grid positions off position when the red flag came out so I was on P14 for the re-start. Much better, and not bad going from the back of the grid. I got a mediocre start when the lights went out but managed to get up into P12 for a couple of laps. I got passed by Craig Currie and Scott Pitchers at the start of lap three and that’s where I finished, P14 and a couple of points. Bike was fine but I think I just need to work on my initial pace rather than building up to it. 

Sunday turned out to be a completely different story. Wet Wet Wet. Problem was it rained hard just as we were due to go to the grid. I made the call to go to pit lane on dry tyres with my dry helmet on. We were made to do an outlap on the dry tyres to get to the grid where we were allowed time to change. Someone fell off on that outlap at Old Hairpin and I just pottered around with my feet out just to get round. Some riders chose to change to wets before coming to pit lane and they were penalised as I had been the day before. They had to start from the back of the grid. 

I always plan for a wet race if conditions are dodgy so I had my wet helmet and knee sliders good to go in the trolley. Whilst I changed my lid and sliders the team changed the wheels on the grid in good time and I was sat on the bike waiting to go whilst others were still finishing up. That’s the beauty of having a strong team around you to get stuff done and get bikes out there. 

P14 on the grid and I was feeling confident. I like the wet and it’s a bit cliche but it certainly is a leveller. Away we went and I was in amongst it going down Craner for the first time. I like to build up to speed in the wet and feel for the grip. It’s so easy to try too hard early on and end up on your arse. That said, Sam Middlemas came through into Mcleans on lap one and I remember thinking he wasn’t going to last. He did. Actually managing to lead the race at one point from the back of the grid. Perhaps a lesson to be had there that if you want it you’ve got to risk it. On the flip side Cheetham went down with a three second lead at Coppice a few laps later so what do you do?

I chose to keep smooth and try and chase down whoever was in front. Sounds obvious but chipping away seems to work in the wet and often it’s about attrition rate as much as it is going quicker. I was in P12 on lap two but as we came onto the start straight on lap three I returned the favour from the dry race to Couzens and Pitchers. I did them both in one go before Redgate. Couzens had a go back on the exit of Redgate and I heard and saw him on the outside but just kept it pinned. I didn’t see him again. 

Neary came through from the back and I tried to run with him to get up to Shoubridge. It helped initially but by then I was watching my pit board for the gap to Couzens behind. I noticed he had closed me down by .5 on one lap so had to up my pace again to keep him away. The gap to the bikes in front seemed to come down for a time but it was short lived. Neary went down at Old Hairpin with two laps to go and that, along with Salty jumping up and down on pit wall telling me to slow down was all I needed to realise that I had to settle for 7th. I kept pushing to a degree to maintain my concentration but my best finish ever at the British was done. I managed to crack a big wheelie over the line to finish with what was a much needed result for the team following Salty’s woes. 

Snetterton 300 Ducati Cup Rd5

Norfolk, I might as well drive to the continent;

One of the reasons why Snetterton is perhaps my least favourite circuit here in the UK. I only ever go there for the British Superbikes it seemed until this year.

Earlier in the season I raced there with North Gloucester Club, albeit on the shorter 200 circuit and the week before the national meeting I helped out on a two day event instructing for RAF Odiham motorcycle club. Both events went some way to alleviating my dislike for the place but I was still apprehensive going into last weekend.

The circuit itself is very flat and first impressions are that it is a fairly dull circuit. As a rider trying to go fast around there I can categorically confirm that is not the case. It takes a lot of effort and skill to ride Snetterton at pace, hence I’ve struggled in the past. Setting the bike up well is key and last year I found it difficult to make the bike hit apexes.

This year I have had plenty of seat time prior to Snetterton so my confidence in the bike has grown. Working with Andy from Kais since I started at national level is now paying dividends. Between us we can get the bike exactly where it needs to be based on my pace, gearing and conditions. We very rarely deviate much from the solid base set-up I have and I now have plenty of data in my little book for most circuits.

Slightly different format for this meeting. Just free practice on the Friday so used tyres and settings dialled in from previous visits. 1:59 dead was my quickest lap time in 2018 so naturally that was my target, along with at least getting in the top 15.

Forecast was for showers but we got away with it and I went within .5 of my PB and P13. Happy enough with that and I knew what I needed to work on and where.

Fresh rubber, brake pads and oil for qualifying on Saturday meant the bike felt really sharp. It had rained overnight and we were out early so making the call on tyres was key. Having looked at the circuit in various places I genuinely thought I would need wet tyres. Particularly for turn one, Riches and the long right of Coram. As much as I wanted to I resisted and rolled out on brand new Pirelli Supercorsa SC2 drys. The right call.

The only thing I didn’t do was wear my dry helmet. I chose my wet lid with a yellow Pinlock in the visor and that was key to my lap times in qualifying. I also took a last minute click of each setting off on the rear shock to soften the bike. Once I realised that the track was pretty much dry I pushed as hard as I ever have to qualify well. I think a lot of others took it steady initially due to the conditions but I quickly saw P11 on my board. Just as I felt I was falling off the pace Sam Middlemas came out of pitlane in front of me. I felt like I could’ve have passed him early in the lap but knowing how quick he is I chose to sit behind until he got going. I gladly took the tow on the next flying lap and put in a PB. I could see that on my lap timer so chose to come in and check tyre pressures and grab a drink.

Wanting to get back out before the end of session so I could do a practice start I left pitlane with just under two and a half minutes to go. Enough time to do an outlap and a flyer. Towards the end of the outlap Dean Brown caught me and I predicted, quite rightly, I’d get another good tow. He passed me as we crossed the start finish line nearly taking my left bar in the process, but as they say  “rubbing is racing”. I followed him and crossed the line 1/10th quicker than my previous PB. For some reason that lap wasn’t counted though. It didn’t make any difference to the final positions so I ended up P15 with a 1:58.896. Clearly everyone else put in some quicker laps once they realised it wasn’t that damp.

Qualifying and racing in the same day is not the norm for the Ducati Cup so we didn’t have long to wait until we were out again. Fully dry, all that was required was fuel and a fresh rear tyre. I was happy enough with set-up so changed nothing.

P15 for the race I had my lap time goal but also wanted to make a real effort to get somewhere near my team mate, Salty. I have been trying all season to get there but to no avail. Lights out and I got a shocker of a start, traction control kicked in twice and I got passed by Craig Kennelly before turn one. Whilst I was trying to work out how to get by him before the hairpin I saw Jack Thompson put his hand up. I’d heard the noise on the exit of turn one and quickly realised his exhaust had shit itself. Instant thought was “shame, one less to pass!” I got by Kennelly into turn three and set about making some progress. I could see my team mate slowly disappearing and knew I had to get going. I was behind Craig Currie as we crossed the line for the second time but got a good run out of turn one and dived up the inside into the hairpin at Wilsons. I genuinely thought I wasn’t going to make the apex but managed to somehow pull it up and make it stick.

By now I could see Salty getting held up with Scott Pitchers and Dan Couzens. I pulled a similar move on Pitchers into the hairpin as he ran a bit wide. I didn’t expect him not to come back at me but his pace dropped off a bit and I didn’t see him again. I was really trying hard to catch the two in front. I was behind Salty for the remainder of the race. I did have slight concerns from lap five onwards about my bike. I got multiple whiffs of oil over the course of two laps but then I discounted my machine as I figured I wouldn’t be able to smell it myself. Early in lap nine I caught Shoubridge touring out of Palmer. As I passed him I realised I was on for a top ten finish and figured it was his bike I had been smelling. I was wrong, shortly after passing him the red flags came out for Sam Middlemas after his machine blew up at the end of the Bentley straight. Guessing that’s what I could smell. The race went back a lap to lap eight so a result was declared and I had my first top ten in the dry. Appreciate it was at the expense of others but I was riding hard and achieved another PB so I’ll take it. I also managed to keep Salty in sight which boosted my confidence somewhat.

Sunday came and after a little discussion with Salty we both decided to go up  a tooth on the gearing at the rear. We both felt we were lacking a bit of initial drive out of Wilsons towards Palmer.

I managed a better start for the second race, no traction control intervention and away well. I got up to almost level with Salty by turn one but he had a slightly better line for entry so I thought better of diving up the inside. That left me behind Craig Currie again from the outset but I could tell this time he was going to be harder to pass. I got up to him on the first lap and tried my hardest to stay on his back wheel. After a good exit from Murrays onto the start straight I decided to have a go early on. I left my braking as late as I dared into turn one and went under him only to run slightly wide which left him room to cut back under me. That was the one and only chance I got as he was clearly stronger in the second race. I didn’t feel like the gearing was the right choice but I was gapping Pitchers behind me according to my board so I just kept at it. I didn’t feel like I was making mistakes but I could see the gap to Currie growing slightly every lap. I hate doing it but settling for a position is sometimes the better option, rather than pushing and falling. I did just that.

A lonely race to finish P11 but yet another PB with a good few 1:57 laps and Salty not a million miles in front.

All in all a very successful weekend personally and for the team. Good points in the Ducati Cup for both riders and a couple of podium finishes in the R&G shield secondary championship that is running this season.

As always a huge thanks to all the sponsors and supporters of the team. Also thanks to Nathan and Colin who both got stuck in spannering again on the #22 bike.

On to Cadwell next and hopefully more PBs and solid points.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to ride an old Honda CB500-4 (1972) thanks to Mr Pete from Guernsey. The bike was originally built for sprints and hill climbs on the Channel Islands but Pete wants to see it compete on short circuits with a view to possibly running it at the Classic TT. 

Realistically the weekend with CRMC was a shakeout to see whether the bike was up to being thrashed around at race pace with similar machines. Thankfully I had crew chief Sam and technician Calvin along with me to help out. With limited knowledge of the old bike we were in blind and relying on corporate knowledge within the classic paddock to get us by.

  The bike certainly looks the part. After struggling to start it on Friday we fitted a new set of plugs and it fired up. It seemed to run ok for practice and the first qualifying session so we changed nothing apart from gearing. The first race of the weekend was the 500 GP class so a mixture of Hondas, BSA and Matchless machines were on the grid. 

Starting from P37 the Honda launched well and seemed to be running ok. I made up quite a few places in the early laps and settled in getting used to the bike. At two thirds race distance, about 6 laps, the bike started to mis-behave a little and felt like it was either running on three cylinders or running out of fuel. The problem was occurring after the long left of Starkeys up to Mcleans and after the right at Coppice onto the Dunlop straight. I rode around it and finished 21st which was actually third in class for myself. 

  To try and solve the issues we planned on running a higher fuel load and we checked all the electrical systems to make sure everything was good. We also removed the restrictive baffles from the open mega exhausts as there was no noise limit imposed. Saturday morning came and after missing practice I managed to tag onto the back of the Landsdowne race for the green flag lap to check the bike was good. All seemed well so we waited for the next 500 Grand Prix race. 

Once again I was 37 on the grid due to an average lap time on the Friday. Again I got a good launch and this time I made up quite a few places in the first couple of corners. Once I realised the bike was running how it should I started to make progress. I was passing riders every lap and my lap times felt considerably quicker than the previous day. I made up 25 places over the course of the nine lap race and finished in a respectable 12th position and another podium in class (2nd) I had gone a full five seconds a lap quicker. 

Having changed nothing on the bike I was feeling confident for the afternoon races. That soon changed when I got out to the grid for the ACU 500 race and the bike just wouldn't run on four cylinders. I managed the green flag lap plus one full race lap before deciding to pull in. 

We had a few hours to try and sort the issue so proceeded to check plugs, leads and the whole ignition system. Having covered every possible eventuality the only option was to go and try and run the bike in the 500 Grand Prix race. I should have started 14th on the grid but I elected to start from the back again because of my concerns with the bike. That turned out to be the right decision and I struggled to get the bike off the line due to lack of power. I chose to keep going for a few laps to see if the issue cleared. I spent most of the three laps trying to get the bike to fire on the number four cylinder. Old bikes have the advantage that you can pull HT leads on and off whilst going down Craner Curves to try and coax a spark. 

I had no joy with clearing the fault and mindful the leaders would be catching I looked back half way down the Dunlop straight to see them exiting Coppice. I chose to pull in and get out of the way. From that point until about 9pm we worked meticulously through trying to find the fault. We even checked the rockers for tightness. In the end we spoke to Clive at Davies Motorsport and he helped us try and find the fault. The conclusion was that it could be mechanical, a tight valve or something similar. 

I decided that on the Sunday I would head out to the grid for my last race, do the green flag lap to see if the fault cleared and if not then I'd park it for the weekend. As it was the bike seemed to be running OK as I headed up to the grid but unfortunately another fault developed in the form of a sticky float in the number one carburettor and the fuel leak was too great to risk running the bike.

  Overall a successful weekend. We proved the bike wasn't quite ready but when it did run well it was clearly competitive. I look forward to working with Pete the owner to get the bike tweaked and to a state where we know it won't let us down. It's not far off in truth but just needs some fine tuning to be able to run at such a pace for prolonged periods. I've learned a lot in the three days I spent with the bike and in the classic paddock. I'll try and do a lot of the work myself prior to the final engine work being done at a workshop with a dyno to run the bike. 

A huge thanks to Pete for letting me ride his precious machine. Thanks to Sam and Calvin who volunteered to help me. They thought they were in for a nice easy weekend, as did I, but it didn't turn out like that. Also thank you to Lee who turned up to see Pete and ended up spannering too.