Deep down, I knew I’d made a big mistake. I didn’t dare tell anyone at first, fearing that I’d be ridiculed. But I knew they were upset. I’d first been told what to do on a school trip many, many years ago and I’d been reminded by locals on every trip to this island since.

But this time, I forgot to wave or say hello at the fairies at the Fairy Bridge on the Isle of Man. If you’re not familiar with the Manx superstition, you can read about it here, and I urge you to take heed. If you’re in anyway unconvinced, then this tale of woe will surely change your mind….

I was staying with friends in Port Erin, 15 or so miles from the start of the Manx100 race in Douglas. My plan was to arrive on Saturday afternoon, have my tea, go to bed and then ride to the start in the morning.

From the description of the route, it was clear that this was going to be no easy task – just over 100 offroad miles and somewhere around 16,000 feet of climbing awaited – so I made certain that I got to bed on time before a 4am start, some half-asleep shovelling of breakfast cereal and an easy ride to Douglas. On the way, I pretty much ignored the fairies until it was too late.

The start of the race was ok. I found myself in the leading group and while we were moving at a good pace it wasn’t unfriendly.  Somewhere between 5 and 10 miles, on the first of many loose rock-strewn trails, the sidewall of my rear tyre split. I stuffed a gel wrapper and a tube in there and got going again, hands covered in tubeless sealant.

Once at the next section of road I had trouble getting the chain onto the large chainring. Four or five of the teeth were bent, presumably an impact with another rock. I spent a few minutes searching for a suitable rock and then beating the worst of the bent teeth off the chainring in the hope I’d be able to use it and get my average speed up. I’d dropped loads of places now but I was content to spend the next 90 miles trying to catch people up…

I caught up with Ian Leitch, who’d also had some rear wheel-related woe. We exchanged pleasantries and as I rode off down the hill, I got a puncture on a sharp rock.

I fixed the puncture.

I carried on and passed some riders who I’d already passed once before.

Some time later, I got a puncture on a sharp rock.

I fixed the puncture.

I carried on and passed some riders who I’d already passed twice before – “hello again” I said. Things were getting a bit awkward now.

Then I went the wrong way at Ballough and ended up far, far away down the road in Sulby. Checked the map, turned around and carried on.

Then I went the wrong way at Kirk Michael and ended up even further away this time. Checked the map, swore, turned around and carried on.

I passed some riders who I’d already passed thrice before. “Ermm. Hello. Me again.” I said, trying to get away as quickly as possible.

Then I got a puncture. My bike was spending more time upside down than it was the right way up.

Then I remembered the fairies and got all irrational, ignoring the fact that my rear tyre was the same rear tyre that I’d ridden Mayhem on. It was ideal for the grass and woodland of Gatcombe Park and I’d not had time to change it for something tougher so here I was, lacking finesse, smacking it into large, pointy Manx boulders and blaming the whole fiasco on some imaginary, mischievous little people. Idiot.

That last tube, as it turned out, already had a puncture. I muddled through for a bit and eventually it go so soft that a reasonably-small rock finished it off. So I started walking, sort of giggling.

A kind man gave me a tube. I was only a few miles from the checkpoint where the route split – there was a 100 kilometre version of the race so I’d decided to take that instead of trying to grind out 40-odd more miles without any more tubes and a 7pm ferry to catch. If I missed the ferry home I was in a world of grief so the decision to bail out was a very easy one indeed.

74 miles (I know! It’s not 100k is it?) and over 4000 metres of climbing later I arrived back in Douglas where the organisers had laid on pizzas and cake and it started to rain. The 100 mile winner arrived sometime later and some simple maths proved that I’d made the right call to bail out.

I caught the ferry home, trying not to worry about the shenanigans of those fairies…

Regular readers of this blog will probably be a bit bored of me claiming that I’m not very good at short races. It’s not like I’ve got absolutely zero top-end (I’m learning how to get a bit faster) but I’m much more suited to the longer races.
That said, I do love a good fast-as-buggery, turn-your-lungs-inside-out thrash on a short lap. I love the fact that you don’t need to take a vanload of supplies, spares and people to even think about finishing the race – in fact it’s practically game over if you so much as get a puncture so there’s not even any point in taking a spare tube or a pump….just put the number board on the bike, climb aboard and get in the proverbial paincave. For an hour. AN HOUR! ALL DONE AND DUSTED! Brilliant.

I’ve done two short XC races last week, so probably 50% of my yearly quota of these things in 4 days.
The first one was a very local race – the Bolton round of the midweek XC races. I enjoyed this race last year and last week’s was no different. I think I might have had a similar result to last year but as a return to racing after a 24 hour solo and 2 or 3 weeks of eating The Wrong Things, 10th place wasn’t too bad. I was able to ride to the race and ride home again through the woods afterwards which was an added bonus.

photo: Matthew Field

The second of the two was the National Points race at Sherwood Pines, however the ‘proper’ races were all on Sunday. I was doing the Open (AKA the everyone welcome, run wot yer brung) race on the Saturday because:

1) I had a big ride planned on Sunday
2) You need a full (expensive) British Cycling race licence for the Sunday proper ‘points’ races and I’m a tightwad
3) All my mates are tightwads so they were all racing on Saturday too
4) We were going to Rachael’s 30th birthday party on Saturday night so it was going to be a late night

The race was harder than I was perhaps expecting. It would seem that there are more fast tightwads out there than I thought, but I managed to finish in second place, having ‘only’ crashed twice on the bone-dry but incredibly narrow and twisty course.
It rained before the Sunday races too, so another bullet dodged ;0)

photo: Mark Dawson

After a barbecue and some birthday cake (thanks Lee and Rachael!) and a few hours’ sleep in the local Premier Inn, me and Guy set off from Matlock, joined the Pennine Bridleway at its southernmost point and followed it north until we got to Rochdale, some 100 or so miles later.

Photo: me

After a sometimes-rainy, always-windy and quite often very tough and hilly 11 hours of offroad riding we dropped down to the mean streets of Rochdale and nipped down 15 miles of backstreets back to our house, arriving just as a roast chicken dinner emerged from the oven (thanks Deb).

To round things off, I continued my “special project” training last night and rode the recumbent again on the UCLAN track. This time though it rained. Hard. As new experiences go, it was one of the more unpleasant ones…

One of the things that pushes me on in a 24 hour race is the thought of the extended recovery period that I’ll soon be enjoying. As a regular bloke in his 40s, depriving myself of pies, curry and beer for weeks on end before a big race is really quite a difficult thing to maintain so as the end of the race draws near my thoughts often turn to “the menu for the week ahead”.

Since Mayhem almost a couple of weeks ago, I’ve ridden my bike a bit, but I’ve been mostly taking it easy. I’ve eaten curries, pizzas and pastry. I’ve drank beer and brandy. I’ve eaten lots of chocolate and cake. Now though, it’s time for this period of almost-out-of-control eating to draw to a close as my shopping habits change back to the usual vegetables, fruit and stuff that won’t give me a heart attack within 3 months.

I also look forward to recovery as it’s a time when I make more of an effort to catch up with friends that I don’t see anywhere near often enough. Riding bikes with other people isn’t hard to organise or to do but when you’ve got a set of hill reps or some other kind of weird shit to do in the name of a training plan then it starts to get awkward and you look like a weirdo.

Combining riding bikes for a laugh, eating “wrong” food and drinking beer, therefore, is ideal. Which is what happened last weekend at Simon’s “real ale wobble”. Not to be confused with the inferior Welsh event of the same name where you ride with hundreds of complete strangers and drink beer, this one involves riding with a large group of mates and drink beer.

going

…going…

oh dear

The route is ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OFF-ROAD, OFFICER as the amount of ale consumed (I managed 7 pints but I’m nowhere near the lead with that particular stat) could be considered dangerous when you’re riding a mountain bike until 2am. With a bellyful of processed ham butties and pork scratchings from the final pub (that we entered without dismounting our bikes) that threatened to make a reappearance halfway up anything resembling a hill, I somehow managed to arrive home in one piece.

Right now I’m working off my excess lard that seems to have rapidly accumulated around my midriff, preparing for the hard training to come. Over the next few weeks I’ve got a couple of short XC races in the diary, the Manx 100, a couple of Very Big Rides and an attempt at a certain record that requires me to train on one of these (thanks to the lovely people at UCLAN for the use of their track). Back to riding on my own then….

sorry about the shorts.