falling off bikes since 1975

My name on the Three Peaks roll call this year was accompanied by a stark red R for “Retired” to indicate that I didn’t make it to the finish. The record will not take into account any excuses, however valid I think they may be. Facts are facts, and the incontrovertible one is that I failed to finish.

It would be unfair to say that my preparation was awful. That would imply that there’d been some, when the truth was that it was non-existent.

And so despite the slowest neutralised start I can remember I was already finding it tough as we ascended Ingleborough. Even so I reached the handrail section to the false summit sooner and more easily than I expected. The top was shrouded in mist, but I stuck to the tape this year and followed the right path to the descent. This was more eroded than I remember and my arms were already beginning to show some fatigue.

Instead of passing plenty of people down to Cold Cotes it was obvious that I’d fallen a long way back, and only passed one or two. Kirsty was amongst the few remaining pit crew and told me I was only seven minutes down on Papa Makin. Steve must have been holding his pace better than me though, and I didn’t make any time up on him on Whernside.

The Whernisde ascent this year seemed to take forever and by the time I reached the steps I barely had the strength to lift my legs. I often have a recurring nightmare where I’m carrying a bike which weighs so much that I end up crawling with it on my back unable to walk. Yesterday I realised that this wasn’t a nightmare, it was a premonition.

The carrying was taking it’s toll on my arms too, and I was barely able to hold on as I completed the toughest sections of the Whernside descent, but with caution and a healthy sense of self-preservation I made it safely down to the side of the Settle-Carlise railway.

Only Pen-y-Ghent left, I thought, and relaxed. And so it was that I was skimming along on the smooth and wide fast section heading for Ribblehead Viaduct. Doing about 25mph I clipped a corner.

A boggy corner.

The deceleration of the bike was instant and I slipped forward off the saddle onto the top tube. In a fraction of a second I shot across the track with no time to regain control or steering and the front wheel found an even deeper bog. This time the deceleration of the bike was total. I on the other hand still had plenty of momentum. This was used to slam the left hand side of my pelvic bone into the stem. Unfortunately I dress to the left and between the stem and my pelvic bone, backed by 175lbs of me still travelling at 25mph, was my cock.

I didn’t have much time to contemplate the pain straight away as the laws of physics were still in full effect and there was plenty of kinetic energy to get rid of. I briefly saw my bike outlined against the sunny sky as I went over the bars in a graceful arc (physics again) before completing my aerobatic manoeuvres to land chest first on the ground. Hard. Winded and in severe pain from my groin I hastily checked the inside of my shorts for what I was convinced was either a ripped scrotum or a bleeding bell end. I appear to have got off lightly with only some severe bruising. Photos would prove unsuitable even for The Outcast.

Once I’d determined that I was at least still able to walk I limped over to the bike, picked it up, and turned to make my way to the track. Here obstacle number one faced me. My airborne efforts had thrown me clear over a limpid pool, of size enough that you could sail model yachts upon it’s glassy surface, or at least sink a decent sized family car. The only way back to the track was around, and here problem number two surfaced. My front wheel was buckled so badly that the bike wasn’t going anywhere.

For the third and last time in the day I slung the bike over my shoulders and started walking. There was no rush. I don’t have the budget for the spare bike, or even spare wheelset, that those who take this race seriously manage to put together. Without a replacement there was no way I’d make the cut-off for Pen-y-Ghent. By the time I reached the viaduct few spectators remained, and it turned out that the walk had delayed me past the cut-off time anyway.

Disappointed to be out of the race, but relieved that the suffering was over I was able to change into civvies and make some serious inroads into a box of Jaffa cakes. I’d be more disappointed by not finishing if the bike hadn’t been bust. To me it’s a legitimate excuse.

It doesn’t erase that stark red R though.