by
tomf
Sat Apr 02, 2011 7:31 am
The smell of sweat and chain-oil hung over the leisure centre car-park as the riders chatted, straddling their bikes and sipping from their bottles.
"Good morning, gentlemen... and ladies." The commissaire was perched in the open door of his 4*4.
"We need 10 volunteer marshalls for this course, but only six competing clubs have sent nominees." He waved at a knot of people wearing flourescent bibs, lounging around a mini-van at the edge of the car-park. "Thankyou, folks. So as you know, under the new British Cycling rules, I will draw lots from the remaining clubs' riders to determine who will make up the numbers."
There was a muted chorus of groans. A steward stepped forward, holding a box of tickets. The commissaire rummaged around before plucking one out and holding it up.
"Number 53."
A loud sigh, the sound of cleats unclipped.
"Number 21."
"F****** ****!" Another rider stalked through the bunch, dragging his bike back over to the van, unpinning his race number.
"Number 25."
Silence. Then a sudden clatter.
"Look out - he's making a run for it!"
A skinny rider in a blue jersey was trying to sprint toward the road. It was a doomed attempt; as he skidded across the tarmac in his Sidis, a burly steward stepped out from behind the van, casually jogged over and stuck his foot out, sending the athlete sprawling. Then he dragged him to his feet, and in one lazy motion, threw him through the open door and slammed it shut.
He nodded toward his prize. "After you lot have finished your race, he'll be collecting in all the signs - on foot. Now, anybody else want to try something funny?" He leered at the riders; they studied their shoes awkwardly.
"And ... number 8. Alright everyone, let's have a good race!"
I think it was around then that I decided to give time-trialling another go.