Race Relations

I have stood on a good few street corners looking to catch the attention of approaching motorists.

On other occasions it has been in the middle of nowhere when I have expressed appreciation to complete strangers for a small act of kindness and consideration.

Sometimes I have been upset by a particular attitude or just frustrated by the sheer bloody mindedness of people.

No, I have not turned to streetwalking as a means of supplementing income but all of the above have formed some of my experiences as a volunteer marshall at local cycle races.

It can be a lonely life, especially if sent out to the farthest point on a 10 mile looping circuit. Once there that place becomes the new centre of my universe. There are bits of loose gravel, washed out of field entrances, to be swept away so as not to cause punctures or potential for a dramatic loss of traction by one or more of the participating riders. Other bits of debris such as the ubiquitous McDonalds wrappers whose path out into the remote countryside rivals the great migration of the Housemartin pose a hazard if becoming airborne and wrapped around chainset, gears or wheels and have to be hunted down. Nails, screws and shards of glass usually originating from the tailgate of a fast moving builders van as it takes to the country roads at indecently rapid speed are common finds from the initial recconnoitre of my new domain.

I check my watch regularly trying to estimate the time of the first passing by of the race although the preceding vehicles with their headlights blazing and flashing roof mounted orange lights give ample notice of the imminent arrival of the large group of riders on that first lap.

I am in charge of a 'T' junction where a minor country road meets the course of the race and take up my position in the mouth of the junction in my high-viz jacket with arms outstretched to form a bit of a presence to bring any local traffic to a halt. The race sweeps by in parambulatory style until the real business of competition begins sometime on the second or third lap.

Behind the odour of liniment and massage oil that hangs heavily in the air come the following cars of the Race Officials, the Service team with roof rack draped with spare wheels and bikes, a few enthusiastic mums and dads and then the long slowly moving line of the hapless motorists trapped momentarily by the entourage. A few of them with a basic knowledge of cycling have enjoyed the sights and sounds of a large field of riders but most of them just feel aggrieved, inconvenienced and annoyed at being delayed on their journeys.

One in every hundred or so drivers may feel obliged to shout and swear at me just for the sheer hell of it. It is not always those on four wheels who are abusive and downright nasty. A gal on a horse rode up to me screaming for the race to be stopped as it was upsetting her obviously highly strung animal.

Other races have been based on a tighter circuit in a town centre. This introduces a completely different set of scenarios. There are those who want to cross the road at the same time as the riders thunder by and ignore the barriers, ropes the blowing of warning whistles and even the attendant Policeman on official duty. Dogs also have little comprehension of bicycle racing and can be quite unpredictable if spooked by the noise and crowd.

A few city centre circuits effectively form an obstacle for those out on a boozy pub crawl and as a Race Marshall there are pressures to act as a counsellor, agony aunt and best friend to those well under the influence.

There are some for whom coming across their first proper bike race is a catalyst for a barrage of questions about the sport, tactics, why cyclists shave their legs, how many gears do the bikes have, is Mark Cavendish here? and so on.

I don't mind attempting to explain the intricacies of a sport that has captured my interest for the last 30 years if it arouses fresh interest in a potential new fan or participant.

For this and many other reasons I volunteered to help out on the 2014 Tour de France opening stages in Yorkshire, UK and just yesterday I was told that my application had been accepted amongst the 10,000 others who had the same urge.

It is the big league, the Premier Division, the big daddy of all races but I feel that I have had a good training out on those inhospitable back roads and look forward to well, more of the same.