Armchair Cyclist

The subject of cycling has crept into my daily thoughts. This usually happens in late september being nature's way of making me feel totally unfit and unmotivated. Although I may have the impulse to get out on my bike everything is against it, the weather, the nights drawing in, the prospect of having to strip down components if it rains during a jaunt, lack of trendy winter-gear and at least a hundred other hindrances. The tipping point between actually riding out and putting my road bike into hibernation is the Cycling World Championship , the last major event of the long competitive calendar. This years Elite Mens Race took place yesterday, sunday, on an undulating course around Copenhagen. The distance and average speed do hammer home the inadequacies of even the keenest, fast pedalling amateur or enthusiast. Nearly 6 hours racing over 155 miles at an average, yes, average of 26mph. This year all the ingredients and preparation made it the year for a British winner. The team were all on peak form having performed exceptionally well in the Tours of France and Spain during the summer months. It is rare enough to have your main men firing on all cylinders but the whole team in equal proportions made for something historic. Of course, as with all British competitors in any world competitions, it was won in the press and media before the actual start. I cynically envisage the tabloids having two completely contrasting stories for GB teams and individuals already in type either lauding them to the skies or completely burying them. The positive headline would state that Mark Cavendish, the current star and deservedly so on merit would  win a frantic bunch sprint but conditional on the whole team controlling the race from the start. The negative, that stardom, a glamour-model girlfriend and multi million pound contracts had caused Cav to forget his passion for cycling.
With this already heavy burden of expectation on the team I feared the worst with the TV feed of the last few laps of the race. There were a series of attempted escapes by glory hunters and a few big names but the GB team jerseys were prominent at the head of the main field chasing down any gaps and keeping the pace high to minimise any speculative breaks. A big crash split the 200 riders but the GB team, in their advanced position were clear and rolling. The mangled frames and buckled wheels trapped some of the favourites and they retired for a Danish pastry and bacon roll.
Alternate stints of eye ball popping effort were required as a minimum and the two year in the making strategy for this single race was working to plan. Unfortunately the other 25 national teams had other spoiling plans in support of their own riders. Tangerine Dutch, green and yellow Aussie, tricolour French, Vorsprung durch technic Germans , swarthy Spanish and the United Nations of cycling all had a go to disrupt the British high speed train. At just 1 mile to go there was a real prospect of a derailment. The arrowhead of the GB team at the head of the fast moving field disappeared from the first 20 places washed over by the teams who had effectively coasted and freewheeled for the previous 154 miles of the race . Cavendish had lost his escort and allies and the sprinters who had given him a hard time in the Tour de France fancied their chances. The Press got out their shovels . The team had sacrificed themselves for Cav and he was now on his own. 100 yards to the line of an uphill finish there was a lot of bumping,bouncing, leaning and shoving for position. The GB jersey that I thought was Cav sudenly swung out of contention in total exhaustion. I despaired, but  in the void of the slipstream was a diminuitive figure in black helmet and team colours. Cav had been dragged to the front by the last gasp of his teammates. In an explosion of muscle, sinew and national pride for someone whom the press regularly hung out to dry, Mark Cavendish won the World Championship. I was dancing, shouting and crying at the same time.

I briefly thought about getting my own bike out of the garage to re-enact the sprint finish but it threatened rain and William was close to serving up his famously delicious shepherds pie.