Another week and another column. Many thanks to all those who commented on the forum about last week’s offering and provided for the most part a very appreciative reception.

So, this week saw me ride the first round (and my first ever) of the National Disability Crit Series in Shrewsbury. A 3.5hr journey meant a brisk start for myself and fellow Paracyclist, Crystal Lane, at 7am. I am not by nature a very sociable person anytime before about 11am, and indeed if you ever are unfortunate enough to encounter me before that time, the experience will most probably consist of me hissing at you like a cornered feline from across a barricade of tousled duvet.

But, no matter. British Cycling asked me to race it, so race it I did. My dark mood was not improved, however, by the monochrome skies and driving rain as we drove to the venue.

Once at the race, the obligatory frantic and slightly panicked sign-on procedure ensued – a delicate operation whereby you stroll around simultaneously trying to look unfazed and completely chilled whilst covertly sizing up the opposition and deciding who’s rear Michelin you are going to suck hardest. I know that some of my readers possess filthy minds, so let me disabuse you immediately of any notion that what I’ve just said was a sexual euphemism.

Having returned succesfully to our little enclave of GB Talent Team riders (myself, Crystal Lane, Jon-Allan Butterworth and faultlessly cheery John McFall) bearing my race numbers, it was time to pin them on. I’ve seen a number of people before whip their jerseys off and pin them on themselves, and also people standing asking teammates/supporters/floating spectators to lend a hand with the pinning-on. Undoubtedly the best way, though, (should you wish to save the absolutely critical, essential, important few milliseconds from your time) is to ask someone to pin them onto you whilst you adopt a hunched-over position as if you are riding aero. The general effect is to make you resemble a sort of stunted, malnourished and mysteriously clean-shaven camel – but this is mere rainwater off the back of your extremely professional amateur approach to racing.

John, due to a teammate forgetting to bring him his new team kit, has been given his GB Talent Team kit to race in – and extremely nice it is indeed. The patriotic red, white and blue colours always look quite snazzy, and I am filled with a potent longing to receive my own set as I observe my homeboy pimpin’ dat shizzle. (I will occasionally do this, readers- a spot of street lingo in order to make it appear as though I am ‘down with the kids’, so to speak).

It is both Crystal’s and Jon’s first race, and this factor adds to the usual air of repressed anticipation before a race. I’ve done a few races in my time, and back in the day (I will also occassionally do this too, readers, slotting in the odd nostalgic comment to sweeten the deal for my more generously matured readers. I like to have a varied audience) I remembered looking forward to feeling completely at ease at a race. Yet this subdued feeling of nervous energy never really goes away; I find you just tend to become less aware of it, or less affected. It – like shaving legs, comparing tan-lines, and lying about how many hours you did alone in the rain – becomes natural, as you slip more and more regularly into the conforming and comforting softness of the racer’s mocassins. (That one is for the extremely old readers).

By this time the tension had risen to a palpable pinnacle of heady frustration, and my teammates (although we were riding for separate teams, I seem to instinctively always consider my GB co-riders my real teammates) were filtering off out into the rain one-by-one to begin their separate warm-ups; each rider knowing their own body best and needing some alone time to focus the mind.

It was as I was saying goodbye to Dr. Hill (coach, mentor, benevolent GB father-figure and fellow appreciator of Fight Club on DVD for intervals) that I became aware of a small gang, a small gaggle, a small group of girls varying in age, I would expect, of between seven and 10 years old.  Watching me keenly with all the fascination of a troupe of hungry lemurs, one brave soul tentatively stepped into the firing-line as I was making last-minute adjustments to helmet straps and HRM.

‘Hi’, she says, in a tremulous quaver. ‘Hi’, I retort in as friendly a way as I can manage whilst attempting not to asphyxiate myself with helmet strap issues. After a pause, she nods slightly, as though she is just grasping or comprehending something I’d said. Deep breath.

‘What are you racing for?’ ‘Erm, well…’ I look at Dr. Hill, slightly flummoxed, and slightly confused at the obviousness of the answer. An obviousness beautiful in its simplicity. Obvious to all racers. But obviously not to small girls. I flounder miserably, my usually casual quick-fire repartee utterly stumped by such a left-field question.

‘Erm…’ I stammer, ‘err…. Victory? And Glory?’ I offer weakly, in a sort of faint and disbelieving and slightly hopeful way. The little girl nods, opens her mouth, and then closes it again. She nods once more, seems pleased with this answer, and then says ‘Good’, before skipping off to rejoin her troupe and continue whatever daisy-picking, facebook commenting or mud-pie constructing projects little girls favour these days. I have no idea.

I raise a quizzical and nonplussed eyebrow in Dr. Hill’s general direction. He smirks, and I throw a leg over the bike and start my warm-up.

I will not bore you with a long and drawn-out recounting of each of the 37km of the crit, except to say that it was extremely enjoyable in a perverse and meditative way. A slight falter three quarters of the way through was mercifully minimized by teammmate Jon-Allan, who selflessly stepped in and let me draft off his wheel for a lap- allowing me to catch my breath before getting back into it. Once I know each of my teammates a little better, I hope with their permission to write a little something on them all- as they really are a fantastic group of athletes and people.

Anyhow, I came 3rd, and the prize money bought me a particularly enjoyable (and large) meal at the service station on the 3.5hr drive home with Crystal. I will not divulge my methods, but regular forumites (Jorrin in particular) will testify to my ability to quaff a ridiculous amount of food in minimal time. This particular occasion (may as well blow my own trumpet whilst I have this soapbox to perch on) saw almost 2,400 calories go down the hatch in about 15 minutes.

The racing part of this column now over, and without wishing to delve yet deeper into self-aggrandisement, I cannot claim the 3rd place was all my own work. I must thank OBM for his coaching advice over winter, British Cycling and in particular Dr. Chester Hill for his steady guidance over the last few weeks, Beef for Strength & Conditioning work at the University of Exeter (www.sport.ex.ac.uk) , the people at Ocean Physio (www.oceanphysio.com) for insoles/stretching/biomechanics help, Paul West for organising the race series, and finally all the participants (many of whom were racing for the first time) for making it such an enjoyable experience.

I’m racing in round one of the Rudy Project National TT Series on Sunday- so you can expect a bit on that in the next edition, amongst many other items of note.

I realise that this column/article series/blog is still in its infancy, and I’m still finding my way stylistically and in terms of content. If you’d like to comment on this or any other edition, please do leave your thoughts on the forums or e-mail me at: [email protected]

I’d like to leave you with a particularly good video discovered on the interweb- see above for how you should collect bottles from the team car!