Liam Glen

My decision to race the National Marathon Champs was a bit of a last minute one. With the North-West Road Champs moving to the Saturday, there weren’t any race clashes, and above all, the course was meant to be a cracker. How could I pass the opportunity by?

Marathon racing, or XCM as the UCI now calls it, has a special place in my heart. It was these types of 70-80km mountain bike races that first got me involved in racing back when I lived in Portugal. All the local municipalities put on these sort of races, with a standard entry fee of 10-15€ netting you an additional post race lunch and a (sometimes) hot shower. Organisation wise, they were often left a little wanting, but they enabled everyone to get involved in racing and just having fun on a bike – the UK could learn a thing or two.

With the forecast looking reasonably positive (ie. not rain), I made the quick trip up to Selkirk to bag my camping spot for the night. The pasta party was an unexpected bonus as all the offerings were more than just passable, in fact, they were darn right tasty. As is the case when I’m confronted with a buffet, I just pilled as much on my paper plate as physically possible, much to the chagrin of the man behind the bar.

Clear skies meant a pretty cold night although I just about managed to get away with it wearing 2 sets of tights, skiing socks and 2 fleeces in addition to my sleeping bag. Come morning, I had lost the feeling in a couple of toes but apart from that, all limbs correct and present – success! The sun was struggling to make its presence felt early on but at least it was there at all. All in all, it was looking to be a cracking day.

Having been thoroughly chilled to the bone (the sun was still struggling at 10am) as we stood around for the rider briefing, the field was gridded according to some unknown and frankly perplexing rules. In the end, the gridding mattered little as the neutral leadout was slow enough that it was easy to move up the outside. As we hit the first fireroad climb, I was in prime position about 10 riders back.

Bang! The big dogs lit the fuse at the front as I tried desperately to coax some life into my cold legs. Pacing in marathon races is often a strange one as it seems crazy to go so hard so early, but staying with the front group can often makes things easier later on. My body didn’t agree though, so I had to back it off and just settle for keeping the front bunch in sight.

Having made this starting effort, it’s usually then a case of settling in to a rhythm and trying to ride as efficiently as possible. Up the next short incline, I managed to drop my group mates and set off in pursuit of blown riders. It wasn’t long until I spotted Giles Drake off the bike and walking and then Dave Henderson who seemed to have called it a day. Only 6 more carrots up the road then.

The first feed station came and went in short order, but it was only afterwards that I realised that one of my bottle cages had broken and dropped a bottle somewhere on the first descent. By now the day was hotting up significantly and I was rueing my decision to wear a wool base layer especially now I was down to mere dregs in the bottom of my only bottle. Luckily, the next feed stop wasn’t too far away.

At around the halfway point, I was joined from behind by Tim Dunford. After a slow start, he was evidently on a bit of a mission so I duly locked onto his wheel in an unashamed display of wheelsucking. We started the big climb up from Innerleithen together, and he just wound up the pace all the way to the top whilst I hung on for grim death. His occasional looks back were the only thing that penetrated the dark world I was now in – he was hurting and I was still clinging on.

As we neared the top, we passed Rab Wardell which meant we were now duking it out for 5^th place – a position I would never have imagined myself in at the start. Once again I was running dangerously low on fluid and had to make a risky decision at the last feed station to just ride through it. Tim had gotten someone to hand him up a bottle and there was no way I was going to stop having made the effort up the climb. My vague recollection of the profile indicated that it was all more or less level from here until the last big descent into Selkirk but my brain wasn’t in the best shape by this point!  

Over the top, we hit more of the moory, boggy terrain that just seems to suck the will to live right out of you. Despite my legs feeling surprisingly good, I was just unable to put the power down as I was getting bucked all over the place. A bad line through a muddy ditch and it was all over – I watched Tim power away into the distance.

From here on in, it was a case of damage limitation as I knew my chance at 5^th have escaped me. The last descent was a bit of a letdown compared to the amazing singletrack earlier in the race as it was just a straight shot down the moor. Despite ploughing into a waste deep puddle and comically keeling over sideways as I failed to unclip, I made it down in one piece having kept my position. Rolling into the finishing arena, there was a sense of disappointment at having been dropped so close to the finish, but also relief that I’d finally been able to put together a decent race on the mountain bike after a troubled season so far. 6^th at a National Championships? I’ll take that in an instant.

...And the fun didn’t stop there! Oh no. Thanks to the weather gods, there was a beautiful sunny afternoon to enjoy, catching up with friends and talking about the race. Much food was eaten, much water was consumed and the season’s tan (freckle) lines were duly worked on. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.

You would've thought that last weekend's 2/3/4 race at Capernwray was the perfect opportunity to bag the first win of the year. You would've thought...

There was reason for cautious optimism heading down to Sherwood Pines for the first round of the National XC series last weekend. I’d finally made the break in a road race and felt like I could mix it up with the bigger teams. A week of recovery and some light turbo sessions should have set me up perfectly for a good showing - or so you’d have thought.

Reality begged to differ.

A dropped chain off the start didn’t bode well, but I manage to pedal it on quickly, only losing a handful of places in the process. This did put me right back in the middle of the throng that formed as we entered the first singletrack, but with arguably the most competitive field ever assembled for a national, this was entirely expected. In fact, things were going quite nicely until barely a km into the race, I started to feel my back tyre go soft. A few hundred metres later and I’m on the rim – cue frantic deployment of co2 canister. Having been passed by the whole field and around 15 experts, I set off again in hot pursuit.

The rest of the race was spent picking off back markers whilst praying that my rear tyre wouldn’t roll off. By the last lap, I was getting rim shots every hundred metres on the singletrack and eventually rolled in pretty much where I’d started – 49^th.

All this is besides the point however. Truth is that even without any technical mishaps, I just wasn’t prepared for the intensity and the brutal pummelling that your body receives in an xc race. Turns out that racing for 3 hrs on the road, with a few maximal efforts thrown in to break up what is otherwise a tempo ride, isn’t good training for 90 mins of sprint intervals over rough ground. Who knew?

With this in mind, I headed up to Grizedale with only one thing on my mind – go hard, go fast. The North Face trail would be ideal for reacquainting my body to the rigours of xc as it’s pretty much the roughest trail I know. It appears to have been constructed entirely from sharp rocks, all perfectly positioned to slice any wayward tyre.

Despite my intentions to get some good training in, as the ride progressed, I found myself forgetting about my heart rate and just enjoying pinning it on some singletrack. This is why I love to ride my mountain bike! I was pushing harder and harder, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

After a couple of laps of the trail, I descended back down to Coniston water where I’d left my car with my extra water bottle ready and waiting for round 2. Spinning along the lake shore happily minding my business, I happened upon a multicoloured conga line (there was a running race apparently).

 Working my way up through the field, there were a lot of painful looking knees and hips on display. Despite the controversy surrounding “proper” run technique, I know for sure that most of what I witnessed certainly wasn’t it! It felt almost cruel to be casually pedalling at triple their speed whilst they suffered so visibly.

By this stage, the day had warmed up considerably, continuing the string of amazing days we’ve had this past week. Climbing up once more above the eastern shore, a magnificent panorama of lake and mountains revealed itself. There was no place I’d have rather been in that moment.

With the ups, come the downs. Careering down one of the many fire roads in the area, I spied a ribbon of dirt heading off to the right. A quick dab of the brakes, a little weight readjustment, and I’m flying down the loamy track with firs brushing by my outstretched elbows.

And it only got better after that.

In fact, I’d be tempted to say that this was the funnest trail I’ve ever ridden. The fast speeds gave way to swoopy contouring singletrack, perfectly designed so that you never had to so much as touch the brakes. A few uphill grunts were followed by some steep drops that popped you out nicely by the water’s edge. No question, the best 5 mins of riding I can remember.

At times like these, I feel like a new rider all over again, enjoying the simple pleasure of discovery on two wheels. Sometimes, you’ve just got to get back to basics, and rediscover just why you ride in the first place.

It’s safe to say that my relationship with road racing has been a troubled one. Whilst I managed to do alright in the crits I raced last year, working my way up to 2^nd Cat, the same can’t be said for races on open road.

In fact, I’d never even finished one. That’s 3 starts and 3 DNFs. Not good.

Excuses were plentiful and as follows:

-Bronchitis: pretty valid

-Rear derailleur shredding tangle: meh

-Dropped like a stone: ...

Given this history, it may have seemed like a somewhat foolhardy idea to try and break the duck in a National B race held over 120 hilly Lakeland kilometres. I’ve never really been one to build up to things - jumping in at the deep end is more my style. Oh, and decided to race a crit the day before just to bed my legs in nicely.

Race day dawned bright and early, and I was treated to a pretty spectacular drive through the Lakes as the bright sunshine bounced off the snow capped hills. Really, it was picture postcard stuff all the way from Barrow to Cockermouth.

After a seemingly endless wait to use the toilets, the race start was suddenly here and now and we rolled out as a group to the start/finish line. Straight up a 2km climb. Joy. Heart rate figures such as these shouldn’t be experienced before the flag has even gone down.

A chaotic first lap in typical British racing style led to an early three man break. Back in the bunch it was all hustle and bustle with everyone feeling rather good in these early stages. Despite averaging close to 40 km/h I felt as if I was on the brakes half the time. A fast moving bunch is no match for the laws of physics it seems.

Despite the nerves and the dodgy moments, these early stages serve the focus the mind, to prepare it for the pain to come. In such times, you become almost hyper-aware, your senses picking up the slightest details without being overloaded. Will my bars fit into that gap? Can I coast this extra metre? How far back am I?

Oddly, it’s in moments like these that I find my eyes wondering. Taking in the litany of sponsors plastered over my fellow bunchmates’ behind. Logos for logistics companies, industrial lubricant and even the odd plumber. Right, time to get the head back in the game.

Hitting the long drag to the finish with 1 lap down, the first serious attacks came and I suddenly found myself up the road with daylight behind. Ok, there may have been a bit more grovelling involved but I was clear nonetheless. The composition looked ideal with all the major teams represented. Hang on a sec, this one could actually go the distance!

The next few laps passed in a bit of a blur, the rhythm of the through-and-off like a hypnotic metronome. At some point we caught the initial break, and then the lead moto informed us that we had a minute over the bunch. Could it be that I’d actually made the break of the day?

Suddenly, with 3.5 laps and just over 60km to go, Ben Greenwood (Vanilla bikes) shot off the front on one of the short steep climbs that dotted the backside of the course. A former national U-23 road and hill climb champion, any time he hits the front you just know a selection is going to be made. A Node-4 Giordana rider was immediately onto the wheel and much to my surprise, I soon found myself bridging up with another Node-4 rider in tow. For the following couple of laps, the boys in orange took turns driving the pace whilst Ben and I sat on – given that there were two of them, we were under no obligation to contribute.

As you can imagine, I was feeling pretty smug with myself at this point. I’d made the 2 selections and was sitting pretty getting dragged along at warp speed. I may have even entertained thoughts of going for the win.

It wasn’t to be though as a group of riders bridged up from behind and I was left outnumbered by other teams. Ben and eventual winner Pete Williams shot off again on the climb to the finish and it was left to me to take up the chase. With half a lap to go, I imploded pretty spectacularly as I struggled to even get out of the saddle to react to the various attacks.

With the group heading up the road without me, and a small group approaching rapidly from behind, I just had to dig deep and finish this thing. I had promised myself a chocolate Clif Builders Bar if I managed to make the full distance and that was all the motivation I needed.

I eventually rolled in with this 3^rd group for 20thplace and my first, solitary point of the 2012 season. Woot! More importantly though, I’d got into the break and put myself in a position to win the thing, all that was missing was the legs.

This race was my third now aboard my sparkling new KR810 with the awesome Reynolds Assault tubs. I’ve managed to adapt to the bike pretty quickly and barely notice it now. That may not sound like a compliment, but when you’re racing, you just want to be able to concentrate on the action and not be thinking about that annoying chain rub or that vague handling in the corners. The Assaults are just the perfect wheelset for all-round racing as they strike a good balance between weight and aerodynamics. Most importantly though, they make a satisfying whooshing sound when brought up to speed!

Here she (definitely a she) is in all her glory. The cross crankset has been replaced with a more racing friendly 53-39

Also, a quick shout-out to BBB and Windave for their Racershield gloves. These are a full fingered glove with zero padding, providing great bar feel and the perfect amount of insulation for the sort of cold early morning starts that early season racing entails. I find myself wearing them pretty much every single ride at the moment.

No report from the day would be complete without a further comment on just what a fantastic day it was, irrespective of how the race went. I decided to head down the coast for my return leg and it really was something special. A quick scan of the sea horizon revealed the distant outlines of Scotland, the Isle of Man and Ireland whilst behind, the Lakes reared up in all their glory. I arrived home totally blissed out, thinking that there was no better way I’d rather spend a Sunday in spring.

Not a bad view for a spot of lunch

The last weekend in February has traditionally marked the start of the (real) road season, with Omloop Het Niewsblad and Kuurne-Bruxelles-Kuurne forming the Flandrien "Opening Weekend". On a more personal note, this weekend marked my first dive into racing, kicking off what is going to be a busy few months on this front.

The scene of the crime would be Croft Motor Circuit, just outside Darlington. Stepping out of the car after the scenic drive over the Pennines, the first thing that hit me was the wind, literally, as I nearly got taken out by my car door swinging shut on me.

After a botched attempt at a warm-up, I was soon on the start line with the other Cat 2s. Being a handicap start, one would expect the pace to be high from the start. However, given that the scratch group was starting barely a minute behind us, we never really had a chance so it was best to sit in and conserve energy.

Around 5 laps in, the inevitable happened and we were caught from behind. I managed to stay close to the front and out of trouble but things definitely got a bit more spicy in the bunch due to the extra numbers.

Having spent all winter training on my own, I sometimes had to pinch myself as I barrelled into corners at 35mph, inches from a hoard of racers intent on fighting for every single space. Add in the sound of 50 deep section rims getting whipped up to speed, and the experience is surreal for sure. At times I was petrified, at times exhilarated, but mostly both.

5 laps later and the group steamrollered through the 3/4s. Gruppo Compacto. At this point, it would have been wise to move up the bunch, but my lack of practice at navigating this maelstrom came home to roost and I found myself drifting further and further back. Hanging on for dear life, I took a quick look behind me and was greeted by empty space. Bollocks.

Very much in the pain cave. Photo credit: Ian McVety, Citrus Images (http://citrusimages.co.uk/)

Up front, the race was being blown to pieces with echelons forming on the main straights. If I hadn’t been so busy staring at my front wheel, I might have found it an impressive sight. Ultimately, I ended up in something like the 4^th group on the road, and that was how it stayed for the next 25 miles until the somewhat anticlimactic finish. All agreed it had been a hard race.

Funnily enough, despite being totally blown away, I find I can’t wait to pin on a race number again. Before then though, I’ve definitely got a few things to work on, first of which is simply...more POWER!

Anyone fancy a quick detour?

No time to relax when I got home, as I busied myself building up my Kinesis KM810 for a planned mtb ride the following day; my first in ages. However, the bike gods definitely weren’t favouring me today and it was only with judicious use of a hammer that I managed to get all the bits off my old frame and transfer them over to the new.

Sunday dawned in all its fogginess but I couldn’t have been more excited to head out. Conditions were pretty much perfect for getting used to a new bike’s handling; slimy as hell in other words. There was drifting a plenty and even a few woops of delight.

The contrast with the day before couldn’t have been starker. Here I was, completely on my own on the open moor, with only the sound of howling wind turbines for company. As much as I love racing on the road, there’s something about just getting out into the wild that appeals to my primal side. Add in a near total whiteout and some sinuous singletrack and I could be in heaven for all I care.

So what of the KM810?

Two words: singletrack destroyer. It just asked to been thrown around with abandon and I happily obliged. Coupled with the bombproof Reynolds carbon wheels, you have a bike that can be ridden hard and fast whilst still climbing like an xc whippet should. Having brakes that worked for the first time in about a year also helped J! I returned thoroughly satisfied and even managed to catch the last 30km of Kurne-Brussels-Kurne which only served to cap off a brilliant weekend.

The season has begun...