Drive in the country

I got a call the other day, a last minute panicky call from someone I know reasonably well in the organisation. "Was I able to take on a driving job?".

They apologised about the late notification but they were short, by one, on the full team and needed an experienced and trustworthy person to do the job. I do get asked, perhaps two or at most three times a year to drive. In most activities such infrequency would instill low levels of self confidence, a bit like being ring rusty or even feeling like you have to start all over from scratch in complete disregard of what has gone on before.

I may feel a bit like this at first but with the reassuring thwock sound of a magnetic warning beacon adhereing to the car roof and alongside a large similarly attracted plastic inverted 'V' sign bearing the lettering ' Warning- Cycle Race Approaching' I am completely at ease.

It was not always like that though and my first driving jobs on local races were a steep learning curve. Jostling amongst the vehicles from the Pro Cycling Teams was frightening especially when they would attempt to pass on the narrowest of lanes to reach their riders with very little airspace between paralell aligned doors and wing mirrors. On the largest races there would be upwards of twenty vehicles in the official convoy, all jockeying for a legitimate right to move up and down the line to provide service, nutrition or medical assistance to their team.

There are of course the unpredictable elements at play, mainly the other road users from white van man to myopic gran, caravan family and dawdlers, brawny gals on horses and casual cyclists. The Police attendance is always welcome to induce some common sense and consideration in those caught up on race day but as soon as the patrol cars or motorbikes proceed to the next stage of the rolling road it is a case of a rapid return to illegality and rudeness. The big one day events are otherwise a joy to work on, well organised and with everyone knowing what their roles are and when to perform them.

At the other extreme was the race today, an event over a hilly circuit run by a local club. 60 riders, 5 official vehicles and a lot of dedicated roadside marshals. I was driving the main Commissaire or referee. At the startline she briefed the shivering riders on that early April sunday on the course hazards of potholes, deposits of flint and chalky debris washed out of farm gateways in successive previous days of torrential rain, the narrowness of the lanes and potential for on coming sunday tripper traffic.

I saw the chequered flag drop as I glanced in my rear view mirror. The riders accelerated up to my load bay door, catching me slightly unawares  but I pulled away to keep pace with the leaders ,some 50 feet ahead of them, a gap I would have to maintain as a minimum until the race shook down to a defined order of serious contenders, chancers and those just making up the numbers. For the first undulating lap the full field stayed  together but the main climb was a killer for those mildly unfit or carrying a couple of pounds excess body weight after the winter period. When fragmented I pulled in behind the lead group which had stretched a healthy gap to the rest of the field. Concentration on the road ahead and frequent checks behind for any bridging across became the pattern for the next to and a half hours.

Up the hill the speed was still 15mph plus and on the sweeping descents this topped out at over 50 mph. A vehicle well ahead of the race was to notify other road users of what was approaching and the majority of souls did co-operate and pull over into a passing space or mounted onto the verge but a few did not and made it clear that they had complete justification in carrying on into the path of the oncoming race. We just courteously and gracefully waved.

We were regularly informed of what to expect around every unsighted corner or deep dipping contour  by radio . Evasive action from the idiots of the road was consequently a bit easier. It rained a lot ,sporadically. The visible potholes became submerged in muddy liquid. Large spring water flows and puddles of water stretched across the road sending up a fine aerosol spray as the riders aquaplaned through. The crackling radio maintaining contact between the official cars was just audible above the road noise and the constant motion of the windcreen wipers. The two riders in front of us were timed at a road junction at 1 minute 12 seconds ahead of the chasing bunch. In the course of three more laps of the punishing course and exposure to the elements there remained only 11 riders in contention and they battled it out up that hill again to cross the finishing line marked by a thick painted line across the tarmac and a small group of supporters.

I did not get to find out who won. It was an off white jerseyed rider with an equally grubby and dirt streaked face. The race had been delivered safely and without too much incident and for that I was grateful. As I left the venue in a mud splattered car I was reminded to keep the diary clear for the same time in 2013, expectant of a call to be asked to drive.