Paris Roubaix and the etiquette of the finger buffet

 It was my first competitive cycle race of the year.

A tough undulating circuit of 8.5 miles per lap including five ascents of a wickedly long and steep hill.

On the ascent on the final lap I was just behind the lead group of riders and prepared to move up the field when suddenly the tightly packed bunch accelerated. I had missed my chance to overtake and had to be content with crawling over the line behind the last man. Never mind.

I came over the finish line and parked up the car safely away from the Officials and spectators. My passenger for the previous two and a half hours, the Second Commissaire (Race Referee) alighted and went with clipboard in hand to get the numbers of the winner and finishers.

So ended my participation, on a voluntary basis, as one of the vehicle drivers accompanying the 56 riders at an unearthly hour on a April Sunday morning.

It had been a very eventful road race but thankfully all of the field made it back safe and soundly returned to their homes and families.

You would not think that so much could happen in the space of that distance and time to try to thwart, intimidate and exact harm on a band of dedicated amateur athletes on two wheels.

The race convoy was made up of a lead vehicle with high-viz signs and an array of flashing roof mounted lights to inform approaching road users of the event, a second safety car similarly festooned with hazard warnings, my own car with a magnetic roof box sign and beacon, the Chief Commissaire with lights, PA system and more fluorescent displays and a car with a Doctor on board. When providing a cocoon either side of the riders this is a long line of traffic and cannot fail to make an impression and cause observant and conscientious motorists to at least slow down or keep well to the left side of the carriageway until the multicoloured cavalcade of sporting excellence had passed by.

On this Sunday morning in pleasant countryside it was evident to me that the typical driver was possibly drunk, nursing a headache from the night before, angry about something, half asleep, hurrying to the Car Boot sales or just plain ignorant and stupid. There was scant regard or respect shown to our authorised use of the roads in that locality and more than once I had to take evasive action whilst, of course, keeping a happy smiling face as an Ambassador for the sport and resisting an overwhelming urge to commit an act of road rage myself.

The omens for a troubled day were there from the first roll out of the village hall car park when the CB radios on a selected waveband for the convoy crackled into life with a voice placing an order for an apple crumble for lunch. This was a farmer communicating with his Missus whilst out somewhere in nearby fields on a tractor. My passenger, an experienced race official reported that on a race the previous weekend the frequency adopted had coincided with that used by the delivery service for Tesco's with amusing consequences.

Verbal traffic on the airwaves during a race is busy and varies from time checks, warnings of obstructions in the road, providing information on rider problems both physically and mechanically and some good humour.

Within a few minutes of racing one of the riders sheared off a crank and had to retire. The field fragmented on that first climb as limbs and muscles had not been warmed up or stretched enough to catch a solo attacker. He was away and soon out of sight whilst the other, now 54 riders struggled to organise a pursuit.

The next hazard came from what we refer to as leisure riders. These are superbly attired and very expensively mounted affluent couples taking the fresh air before a stop off at a gastro pub and then a slow wobble home. The combined cost of a typical pair of bikes and gear can exceed £5000 at least. They look the part but have no road sense and what is worse, no empathy or identification with those who race seriously. The posers insist on hogging the road and refuse to take account of the approach or passing of a large group of fast moving riders.

Again, a smile and gesturing wave is necessary to avoid any grievance or complaint reaching the local constabulary.

Unusually for the rural surrounds there were no gals on horses to become excited and annoyed at the presence of us obvious town based types. This was a bonus although on successive laps the convoy encountered a loose dog, low flying hedgerow hopping pheasants, a lazy fox sauntering across a narrow part of the course, more rude motorists and drivers of large 4x4 SUV's trying to avoid getting their tyres dirty in the gutter or by a slight pull over on to a verge.

A few stray cars found themselves amongst the riders after ill advised and hasty manouvers to try to jump the whole line in one go on a blind bend or hidden dip.

Walkers and Ramblers were visibly shaken and disturbed when sneaked  upon by cyclists travelling at 40mph with no apparent warning apart from the prior passing of multiple, brightly coloured and very prominent escort vehicles.

So, in spite of the best efforts of man, not discounting the equal endeavours of women and assorted beasts the race turned out to be a good one with controlled but aggressive riding and a well deserved victory for...well, I never did find out as I was keen to get first dibs on what looked like wonderful cheese and pickle sandwiches and the equally fine buffet fare back at the Village Hall HQ.