In good company!

In spite of the weather I decided that doing the Hay on High 100 miler was the order of the day but instead of starting out really really early I hung on and waited for the weather to clear. It didn't, the rain got steadily heavier and I set off a full hour and half behind any other rider in the race. The long an lonely road was insanely steep in places, always wet, often into a head wind, I had forgotten my GPS so had no idea how fast/slow/time was passing. I rolled in to the first feed station an hour and ten minutes after starting and was pleased to find a cup of tea, a map and the news that after two more massive hills there was a bit of flat, but none of it was fast. I met a group of soggy lycra clad riders sat on the roadside, broken bike and lack of spanners meant their ride was over. Further on I took the chance to gulp some drink, misjudged the steepness of the road, couldn't put my bottle back in the cage, fumbled my grip on the bars, couldn't change gear or direction and fell off.  Once unraveled from the bike I remounted and tried to not convince myself that baling out was the option, my knee was hurting, it was raining, I was wet, cold, alone, miserable and not enjoying the trip. But I pressed on, after all if Davina did it then so could I. 

At this point my bike started complaining loudly, every rotation of the pedal something groaned or missed a beat. Self arguments continued, its not that bead, its falling apart, youre looking for excuses, bale out now before it really breaks. Another heavier downpour sealed the deal and I pulled the ejector handle and floated in to the start zone and handed my racing chip in. Enough.  

Mechanic on hand took bike away, self doubt then filled my mind, would they find nothing wrong, would I end my race looking like a fat bloke who had bottled it. No. Top bike man found that the big ring, that's what drives the chain round, had bent so every rotation the chain was trying to fall off but the speed of my pedaling (ahem) caught it again and so we continued on our merry way. Could he fix it, yes he could. 

So while bike got TLC and I got a cuppa and tried not to drip muddy water on the clean floor I could not help but notice several things. 

One was a very handsome poodle called Albert, the other was a soggy group of cyclists sheltering from the weather. There were four of them, two lovely blond ladies and two handsome chaps. As its rude to stare at very pretty ladies who make lycra look good I concentrated on Albert but there was something familiar about one of them. Then behind me through the door walked a stack house of a man who was a good head taller than me, biceps bigger than my thighs and a very broad grin. He chatted for a moment with me about the weather, bikes, he was the rescue driver for the group I was avoiding looking at. There was something familiar about him to, I would have said so but thinking it through he was far younger than number one son, he who cannot be named, so was unlikely to be a friend of his that I knew by default so left it. 

The soggy maidens and chaps left with stackhouse.

It was then that mechanic putting my steed back together revealed that stack house was a Welsh International Rugby player, George North and one of the girls was Becky James, world champion cyclist, her sister, brother and friend. Not a bad bunch to have sheltering in Drovers Cycles on a wet day. So if it was good enough for a world champ to bale out it was good enough for me. 

Look what I went and collected this afternoon, still in the rain, a lovely trailer that will come in really useful to move all sorts of things. Like pooh. 

And I know where there's some that wants shifting!