#spoxe

Dandenong dirt roads, for Spoxe.

No cross racing this weekend for me; basically too many boxes to unpack full of too many things that we needed too badly to go and play in the mud.

On the plus side, the container of belongings turning up from Australia meant a number of wonderful things;

A washing machine to try and get the mud out of my kit properly

My road bike turned up

I have clothes to wear for work that I don’t need to disguise as NOT being the same shirt day in day out using Febreeze

Point three may be an exaggeration, or may not. Definitely not if any colleagues are reading this. I digress.

Further plus points are that my boxes of tools and spares have turned up. This is exciting because it now means I shouldn’t have a repeat of the MASSIVE OVERGEARING INCIDENT OF ROSSENDALE 2014TM (1) and I can commence the unenviable task of gluing my tubs onto the Planet X 50mm disc rims I’ve had lying around for a looooooooong time. There didn’t seem much point until I had the brake discs here, and in any case, having not glued tubs before, I figured I’d need to do some research.

Good GOD.

Well, if there’s one way of gluing tubular tyres onto rims, no-one has discovered it yet. In the same way that Italian grandmothers are suspiciously protective of family recipes, it seems that the world of cyclocross has a similar attitude to the seemingly every day task of gluing tyres onto rims. Every single method is different. Well let me rephrase that, every single method is identical for 90% of the job, then the 10% makes all the difference between glue/tape/gluey tape/magic/prayers to Satan which all may or may not result in your tyres staying on.

Or not.

Which let’s face it really is the point.

I have no desire to roll a tub off. Like everybody who rides a bike, I’ve crashed. Unlike everyone who rides a bike, I’ve had the pleasure of a stint in intensive care following an off and the resultant massive abdominal surgery was a bit of a chore.

Although the arrow shaped scar pointing at my head indicating “THIS WAY UP” is funny. A bit.

Now of course, crashing on a cross course is likely to be less of a drama than steaming into the tarmac at 50kmh during a crit, unless you're Joey. But giving a tree a hug at 20kmh can still get the old adrenaline glands fired up. That split second of “oh bollocks” as you know you’re heading for the earth is quite the charm. Until you hit it.

Anyway, with Google in hand I have thus far sanded said rims to remove the shiny shiny shiny gloss from the rim bed, and cleaned them with alcohol.

I used a Gin and Tonic; Hendricks, slice of lime. Chin chin.

The first layer of four layers of glue is on, each one will require a day of application and drying. Similarly, the base tape of the tyre is glued and drying.

Let us review that brief method. It’s taking a week to mount two tyres. Even the toughest of tubeless mountain bike tyres take only an hour, tops to mount. And they run lower pressure. And they are puncture resistant to the MAX. And they are not 100 quid a tyre.

It is a curious feature of cycling that tradition seems to trump technology every time. The wistful memories of “things being better” when racers carried their own tubs round their backs and guzzled amphetamines to get through brutal stage races are precisely the things that lead us to still glue tyres. Now I like tradition. I like reading about the old heroes and battles. But things do move on.

So as my headache clears from the solvent intake courtesy of Continental, a weeks worth of labour had better be bloody worth it to get me from 50th to 48th.

After the previous week’s quad numbing hilarity at Rossendale, I was relieved to see that the upcoming Weaver CC course was, essentially, as flat as a tack and looking pretty quick. I suspected that the week priors’ over gearing horror would be replaced by a triumphant return to Australian conditions; a week of decent weather, flat course on hard pack paddock grass, little mud.

Needless to say it hammered down for a full 24 hours before the race.

Once more unto the decidedly muddy breach, then.

It is another curiosity of UK racing that, at least in terms of enjoying the best of the conditions; the highest grade riders get the bummiest of deals. This view was expressed in typically northern fashion by a fellow racer on the warm up lap as we moonwalked sideways up one of the clay bound slopes, as he proclaimed, “This is fucking shit”.

I couldn’t disagree.

Of course being willing to engage with the locals, I managed to get him to expand said wisdom, including further profane gems, but the gist was thus; why do the “best” riders get the chewed up course everyone else has already raced on?

Who knows. It's how it is. Harden up, probably.

It was another big field on the start, 61 riders in total. The first ten in the league standings were duly called up, then it was out with the elbows to secure something not entirely at the back for the start from everyone else. With the philosopher Paddy Oliver’s words regarding my own start line tactics ringing in my ears, I ended up almost right at the back.

The course was composed largely of long, straight and surprisingly boggy sections split by switchback turns. There were two switchback climbs following straight descents, made technical by the ground conditions, and the final sorting out done by two sections of steep, muddy, descent-into-hell type drops followed by mud pit power action and a “run” up a slippery wall of disintegrated clay.

Out of the first section of switchbacks and onto the switchback climbs, it was immediately apparent that a) I was over geared a little again mainly due to the conditions, compounded by b) my Vittoria XG Pro TNT’s being crap in the mud.

They’re an all conditions tyre, but these conditions weren’t for all.

Out of the second climb and the bunch attempted to squeeze at least 50 of the 61 starters through onto a single track descent covered in a foot thick layer of clag. Since steering wasn’t a priority, as it didn’t make any difference, and braking was just for show, hilarity ensued with the majority of us immediately resorting to running.

Running, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to be able to clip back in with this crap stuck to my soles. Cue much gnashing of teeth and tap dancing of pedals. The course designers were then kind enough to furnish us with a slow, painful, death of a minor ascent back up to the bog-formally-known-as-grass, featuring more switchbacks. Then the second descent into hell.

This one was far, far worse than the first, complete with hairpin left hander at the base of the Un-Brakeable Hill Of Sloptm, before running through a Field Of Actual Bottomless Mud And Nettlestm and finally ascending the Hill That Shouldn’t Be A Hill, But Because Of The Ten Thousand Tonnes Of Shit Moved By Riders Before You, It Is Nowtm (HTSBAHBBOTTTTOSMBRBYIIN for short).

And then more switchbacks.

This race was made even more special than usual for me, being spat out the back as per usual after the first lap, by the presence of my good old Mum and Dad turning up to watch me race for the first time in their lives.

Dad was a bit of a decent roadie in his day, but his day was almost 40 odd years ago.

Still, it was with much enthusiasm that he got stuck into shouting “DIG IN!!!!” on every lap, which would have been helpful, had I not dug in, made flower beds, done the weeding and dug out again sometime before he piped up even the first time.

Mum merely watch in horror.

The bell lap was sweet relief as it always is, and as I looked back to double check how close to last I was, it was with some amusement that I found I was already last. Only I wasn’t. Everyone (ok, the four other blokes) behind me had been pulled on the previous lap. And so it was that I managed to ride the last half of the last lap with the tape being rolled up around me, and took a relatively huge round of applause at the finish from everyone else who had finished at least ten minutes earlier.

I love cyclocross. It’s utterly stupid.