Ordeal by Time

A challenge against the clock, the race of truth, just you and nowhere to hide, a cycling road time trial. 

Not something of a truly sociable nature although in a timber built Village Hall somewhere adjacent to the course and at an ungodly hour in the morning it was possible to savour perhaps the best cup of tea and home made cakes in the whole world.

An early start was a prerequisite of the time trial whether it was an event over the standard competition distances of 10 and 25 miles or the endurance ordeals of 50 or 100 miles or more. This was mainly to avoid the build up of traffic on what would be a principal transport route including for many years sections of the dreaded A1 dual carriageway. Early risers for work or perhaps families  setting off for holiday or a long weekend in the spring and summer months may have noticed the flash of a flourescent orange, yellow or green  race number safety-pinned to the lower back of a crouching and concentrating cyclist. The riders, widely dispersed, were otherwise easily passed and inconspicuous and causing only minor comment from those awake and alert in their fast moving vehicles.

It was usually a case of having to ride out from home to the start and this could be equivalent to the distance of the actual race, each way. In the chill of the morning there would be a light mist over the road surface and verges on leaving the city streets and entering the open countryside. The cold, fresh air was a rude awakening to the lungs. Damp cycling gear grabbed from an unheated radiator felt clammy and uncomfortable against the skin. There was in truth no such thing as an entirely wind proofed jacket.

Bodily extremities were poorly protected against the heavy mositure laden air. Fingers projecting from fingerless gloves had to be warmed in the steady stream of exhalation, toes wiggled within stiff leather cycling shoes and genitals, sat on the front tip of the saddle just had to shrivel up and act like a man.

The bike had been specially prepared with an extra squirt of oil on the transmission. Toe straps checked for any wear and tear. A rattle or squeak on any part of the machine would be a sign of weakness amongst those who heard it. Best lighweight wheels and slick, stick on tubular tyres were the only real concession to speed that could be hoped for on a bike that was used to go to the shops, dodge the 61 Service Bus and all points inbetween.

It was always a bit of a gamble, that ride across the city to the start, that the tyres would not be perforated or lacerated by shattered glass, a solitary thorn or a sharp flint.

Under the multiple clothing layers was the other secret weapon- the skin suit. A lycra sheath, a second skin with nothing else on , not even underpants. Mine had been made to measure by one of the cycling club Mums. Team colours of red, white and blue so arranged to resemble the French national Flag to the upper part and sheer, black to the shorts, all in one piece with carefully stiched in chamois leather seat padding. Climbing in and out of the garment was an event in itself.

Arriving at the Village Hall HQ the bike was left stacked against tens of others outside. Signing on and collecting race numbers gave an opportunity to weigh up the opposition. A large, hand written chart affixed to the wall or on an artists easel resembled a complex scientific formula. Riders, club affiliation, number, time off and that blank column in which the race times would be slowly filled in. The field of riders could be 60 to 100 in number.

Every tenth name on the start sheet would be a seeded rider, a locally renowned time triallist and distinguished by the best equipment of dedicated steeply raking time trial bike, streamlined aero helmet, disc wheels and a steely determination to do well, unlike us other opportunistic chancers. Above all they had driven to the venue, They were that serious.

Already warmed up from the exertions of the ride out I would carry out my final preparations, strip off down to the skin suit, try to conceal the sweat patches and then set off to the start. Consecutively numbered competitors milled around waiting for their call up. A Club Official with a stop watch ushered you to the chalked up line and a further Club regular grabbed the handlebar stem and seat post. This allowed toe straps to be tightened and adoption of a position in which your body would be prone for the next 25 minutes (10 miles) or hour (25 miles).

A short countdown from 3, a faint rocking motion and then the first pedal downstroke and off. In that first few seconds you knew instinctively if the ride was going to be good or horrendous.

Powering up through the gears to cruising speed was accompanied by a lung bursting intake of air, the blood could be felt surging into muscles and tendons. If the physical process could have a soundtrack it would undoubtedly be a pitiful scream.

The course was usually a straight out and back affair with a roundabout, or a slip road and bridge as the turning point. If starting about the middle order there would be riders well on their way back to that sweet cup of tea and carrot cake on the opposite side of the road. Immediate emotions towards them were envy, jealousy and not a little bit of anger at their chance of an earlier reprieve from the torture.

Most events were fully mixed with men, women, youths, girls, boys and veterans participating. If you did not have a seeded rider bearing down on you within minutes or rapidly disappearing some way up the road it was possible to see, chase and catch your minute marker. This did give added motivation although even a rather tubby lady, squeezed into a skin suit and rather poured around a saddle seemed to remain at a constant distance ahead for an eternity.

In my mind I would develop a metronomic rythym and if that part of my brain responsible for my legs was functioning as it should the miles would be ground out pedal stroke by pedal stroke. In full flight it was a tremendous feeling of wellbeing, albeit tiring. If into a head wind, cross wind or a curtain of rain the sensation was a bit tempered.

Not all roads were smooth and flat. A challenging course had to have a few ups and downs, an open exposed section, potholes and stupid motorists.


The golden rule was "do not ride with your head down and unsighted." At that early hour and especially on a Sunday there was invariably an elderly couple parked up straddling the verge, having a cuppa and browsing the newspapers. Why they had left a warm home and comfortable sofa to just camp out in the middle of nowhere was always a mystery to me. A protruding vehicle on the course was a must to avoid.

The final mile and parts thereof were always the longest. Lactic acid was seeping into the muscle tissue. That cup of tea could be visualised in its pale green Womens Institute china cup. Then, over the line, freewheel, sit up and gasp. There was no loitering. A runner would convey the finishing times to the HQ or a Scout team would send them by short wave radio.

There were the usual pleasantries with the other finishers with the words 'tough', 'bonking', 'personal best', ' could not get going' and 'crap' being my own favourite utterances.

The moment of truth came in a few strokes of a felt tip pen. It could be some hours before all results were in but you could not hide from your recorded time. My best ever peformances were 22'11 for 10 miles and 1'1'05" for 25 miles, both freakish results involving a downhill start, a late boozy night beforehand and possibly a faulty stop watch but a reluctance by the timekeeper to admit to it.

Those proficient and athletic at time trialling always excelled at other forms of cycle racing because they could simply call upon their natural power and ride away from the competition when they felt like it. Those, like me, who tried it out and did not really have the dedication to stick to it found ultimate comfort in a hot, sweet cup of tea and a home made and very sticky bun. After indulging in such treats those cold shrunken genitals seem to be restored to somewhere about normal.