Porno Pants: Episode 6

I’ve just set off on the swim and my left goggle is filling up with water. I swear at the goggle for leaking and at myself for risking changing the lens before the start. I do a length with my eye shut and wonder if I can carry on like this- its only 12 more lengths to go. Then the goggle becomes completely full and looses all semblance of suction with my eye socket. They come off my face but are held onto my head by the grey swimming hat im wearing. Soon the drag of the goggles pulls my hat off and I have to grab them both with my right hand. I try to swim with them in a clenched fist, but it doesnt work so I have to try and open open a few fingers to get some grip on the passing water.

It is not going to be a good day.

About 18 mins later and, ive made it out onto the bike leg. I’ve been cornering well and have overtaken a few guys just by not breaking so much on the bends. I go down a steep hill and see a yellow ‘Caution Cyclists! Bend’ sign some way before the bottom. I slow down and easily make it around a modest corner, and curse the organisers for warning me, slowing me down, for a nonexistent danger. A few more K’s past and I am hooning it downhill again. A ‘Caution Cyclists! Bend’ sign flashes past, and I half heartedly apply a little pressure to the brake. Then, all of a sudden, there is a very sharp bend. I force the break-pads onto the front rim, and begin to slow down, but with every turn of the wheel I am getting closer and closer to the verge. When I reach the apex of the corner my brain has made some complex calculations based around the rate at which im approaching the verge, the curve of the corner and the rate at which I’m decelerating. It has come up with the conclusion that im fucked. I get an unfamiliar sense of resignation to my fate, and I close my eyes and brace for what is about to happen.

I open my eyes and Im laying on my back, in a ditch, my head facing up the hill. I hear a groan while I wait for my senses to deliver a damage report. Nothing comes in. I stand up, see my bike lying in the road about 5 metres away, and suddenly panic that there will be other cyclists coming down the hill wanting to use the bit of road that my bike currently occupies. I walk out and get my bike, which seems, much like my legs, to be in good working order. I feel my left shoulder, which has a slight ache, and my hand returns with a few thin lines of blood on its palm, but nothing major. I decide to carry on, so clip into the pedals, wonder how they became unclipped in the crash, and pedal on up the road. Two cyclists overtake me, and I start removing bits of grass and mud from my brake levers, water bottle holder – my water bottle is missing – and front derailleur.


(My shoulder grazes this morning)

Another 10KM done now. I’m not hurt from the crash but my brain whirrs through the possibilities of what might have happened. The adrenaline in my system and gratefulness for another chance to race combine to give me extra momentum and I force the pedals round and round, zooming along the flat. The final hill looms large in front of me and I grit my teeth as I get out of the saddle to get it over and done with. Then disaster. A horrible "CRACK" and I look down to see my rear derailleur and chain having an untidy party where they shouldnt be in amongst my back wheel.

Fuck.

Fuck fucking fuck.

I get off and have a closer look. There is no hope - the rear mech has snapped in two.

(My rear mech this morning)

I try to push the bike, but it won’t even roll along because of the chain in the wheel. I can’t run in my cycling shoes, so take them off and clip them into the pedals. Then I put my bike on my shoulder and run up the hill. I get to the top and realise my bare feet are hurting from the tarmac, and I ask some spectators how far they think it is to the finish. The general consensus seems to be 5 miles, which I consider running with my bike, but my bare feet, and the state they’d be in for next weekend’s Half marathon make me realise my race is over. I swear again, not wanting to concede defeat and sit on a wall, deflated. A spectator offers me a lift back to the start and I gratefully accept – what a generous man – thank you. He drops me off at my car which I break into (my key is in the sports centre) and put the bike in.

That leaves a 200 m walk up the road to the race transition area. As I approach, the race stewards and two policemen come running over and ask me if im ok, and if ive been mugged for my bike. I explain that Im OK and have just crashed out. They ask me where I crashed and I say on a bend at the bottom of the hill with the Caution Cyclists – Bend sign, but they don’t really catch on to my irony. I walk back through the crowds in the race village and see people tapping their friends shoulders and point at me. I look down and see im bare footed, bleeding from my back and have red scratches and grazes on my left leg and arm. I go to the organising tent and tell them what happened, then get my stuff out of transition and buy some lunch.

‘Chalk it up to experience’ my dad says later that night. And I have.