Snowed out at the first attempt and rescheduled four weeks later on February 7th the queen event, and final showdown of the cyclocross season, returned once again to the home of the National Championships, Birmingham’s über fast and spectator friendly Sutton Park. The ice had finally thawed, and despite dark, menacing, low level cloud the rain held off leaving a course that was all about speed, agility and raw power.

Three practice laps were enough to dial in both bikes to the conditions, set tyre pressures and ensure everything was eager and willing for an hour of rider and bicycle butchery. The season had been spent racing regional events in the Wessex league so stepping up to national level was always going to present a new experience and world of pain. Perfectly pitched under the Wheelbase.co.uk/Cannondale team canopy the warm up began with a bitter sweet symphony of tunes being fed straight into my skull at what can only be described as tinnitus inducing sound levels. It’s weird, so much happening, the smell of fast food and frenetic buzz of the race scene, spectators cheering and running from one vantage point to the next, distorted commentary fills the air as greyhounds in every category race as if they want to rip that fake rabbit to shreds. To the outside world that is the essence of cyclocross. Sat on my static trainer, slap bang in the heart of it all, gradually increasing the exertion until a bead of sweat drips silently, as if in slow motion, to the dirt below. Lost deep in my own thoughts it felt like I could have been anywhere in the world during those heartbeats.

2.15pm and reality takes hold. Row three of the grid, intoxicated by warm-up balm and adrenaline in equal measure. Damp tarmac, three degrees centigrade and 99 riders just moments away from self destruction. A machete would be the weapon of choice in slicing the atmosphere into more comprehendible measures. The gun sounds and all there is to do now is race. Immediately jumping to the right and sprinting up the road climb, swinging left to join the dirt, I’d got away well and avoided the 20 plus elbows that seemed pencil sharp and all with my name on. Around the opening loop and the race was already lined out. I was relieved to not be caught in any early crashes and settled into around 15th as the train blasted past the pits for the first time. A tight chicane right then left dropping down to the copse, followed by a series of 180 hairpins and surging power climbs before emerging back into the open for the second half of the lap. Despite trying to follow the well beaten track the open grassland was littered with bumps and roots that made it hard to find momentum and hold full speed. Nearing the end of the lap the drag up to the muddiest section slowed the pace momentarily, but the soft ground ensured that more power was needed to hold your position.

At only an hour in length you can’t afford to have any bad patches, especially at the nationals where such a spell is amplified and capitalised tenfold by the competition. By the end of the second lap I was still in a good position inside the top 20 but knew that something just wasn’t right. A strange numbness in my mouth, that I hadn’t experienced before, broke concentration and I struggled to produce the power that my head was desperately instructing my body to force out. The only thing that I could do was to back off and hope that it passed. Lap four and still losing precious time there was no doubt about it, this was going to be one of the longest hours of my life. With forty minutes of racing in the legs I suddenly started to feel more like my old self. The numbness had subsided and with it came a few extra watts of much needed power. Making up six or seven places in the last couple of laps eventually saw me cross the line to take 24th, not really the result I was hoping for but all things considered a hell of a lot better than what could have been the first DNF of the season. If that had happened I may well have been forced to take up cricket.

So, with the season now over all that leaves is to say thank you to Toby and the boys from Wheelbase, my support team (especially during the “filthy weeks”) and to my bro JC for the motivation and inspiration to give what can only be described as the mentalist of all cycling disciplines another go. Respect.

Photos by Cotty, Dymond, Powell, Reid, Robins.