Blast from the Past

A little background. One of my local bike shops runs a series of ‘have-a-go’ time trials on Wednesday evenings during June and July, to give people a chance to try ‘testing’ without the pressure of competition, or joining a club. You just sign on the line, hand over a quid, pin on a number and see what you can do. It’s a great idea and attracts an eclectic mix of experienced racers, total beginners, teenagers, veterans and, occasionally, a bona fide superstar in the person of Sean Yates, who lives up the road and rides for the shop team when he’s not looking after Lance Armstrong et al.

For the first round of this year’s series, I took the road bike as usual. No tri-bars, skinsuit or aero helmet; just the standard set-up. A modest 13:16 for the five-mile course (come on, I never said I was any good, did I?) was enough for about eighth out of 25 and I went home satisfied.

Except I wasn’t. Not really. I knew there were places where I’d eased off, lost my concentration. I was also aware that, given a set of tri-bars, I could have been – what? Top five? Maybe better? Suddenly, £1,500 for a pair of Zipp wheels seemed like a sound investment.

Happily, I have neither the money nor the motivation to enter cycling’s arms race. As Joshua, the deranged computer whose global thermonuclear war simulation almost sparks Armageddon in the movie War Games says, the only way to win is not to play. So I decided not to. And thus, last Wednesday, I took The Guv’nor.

Just as fusion cooking has sometimes produced some highly questionable results, so the idea of combining time trialling with a bike designed 80-odd years ago was rich in potential for disaster. On the face of it, there could be few more promising steeds. In a discipline that depends on minimising wind resistance, The Guv’nor’s 36-spoke wheels, lugged tubes and exposed cables generate more ‘dirty air’ than an approaching Tube train. There are weight and rolling resistance issues, too; the 28-inch wheels, with their hub brakes, Westwood rims and massive balloon tyres, each weigh more than the frame, which itself is made of Reynolds 531 steel. Even under current UCI regulations, very few TT bikes tip the scales at 15 kilos; fewer still sport a Brooks saddle. Or a bell.

Given my mount’s manifold disadvantages, I could afford to choose my clothing based on aesthetic, rather than aerodynamic, considerations. Although he’s as English as The Last Night of the Proms, The Guv’nor is a replica ‘path racer’ – the Cervélo P4 of its day. Accordingly, I eschewed the gentleman-farmer look of plus-fours and tweed cap in favour of a merino racing jersey, shorts and cotton casquette. And to show we really meant business, I even removed my Carradice saddle bag. After all, I didn’t want to look a complete idiot.

At the line, I forwent the usual push start; it didn’t seem fair to ask anyone to support our combined 90-odd kilos for the final 30 seconds of the countdown. Plus, the few seconds I might sacrifice to a standing start probably wouldn’t prove decisive. At least with only three to choose from, selecting the right gear was easy. I knew my mate Kevin was starting a minute behind me, so there was no time to ease myself in; it was a case of head down and go.

And go we did, hammering down a road still as straight as the Romans left it (and only marginally smoother). The steady whirr of the Sturmey-Archer hub, the hollow thrum of the tyres and the late-evening sun gilding the cranks and bars gave the ride a hypnotic, almost trance-like quality. I could have kept going like that for hours.

Six minutes later, we reached the halfway point; a mini-roundabout, where we had almost to double back on ourselves. The Guv’nor’s slack frame angles and long fork rake don’t lend themselves to lightning changes of direction, and I’d half-anticipated having to detour through the farmyard on the opposite side of the road to make the turn. I needn’t have worried, though; we made it round without incident and set off on the home stretch. Helped by a slight tailwind, The Guv’nor loped along like a greyhound, and our minuteman quickly became our half-minuteman. We crossed the line going full blat with a triumphant ting-a-ling on the bell. I removed my goggles (oh yes) pushed my cap, now wringing wet, onto the back of my head and looked behind me. Kevin and his road bike were nowhere to be seen.

It had been a magical ride, but in the race of truth, it’s time that counts. Beforehand, I’d decided that 15 minutes — the 20mph average known to British club riders as ‘evens’ — would be pretty respectable. Failing that, anywhere higher than dead last would do.

As it turned out we weren’t last. Obviously we weren’t first, either, but while a time of 13:40 was unlikely to set Fabian Cancellara shivering in his Sidis, it was significant on several counts. Firstly, it was only 24 seconds slower than I’d managed on my carbon road bike – a difference of just 3%, despite The Guv’nor’s weighing more than twice as much and having 85% fewer gears. So it really isn’t about the bike after all. Secondly, I’d fulfilled the criterion set out in an 1890 American newspaper article that stated: “If he [the bicyclist] could make 20 miles an hour on a good track, he was called a ‘scorcher’, the idea being that he was going so fast that he would scorch at least the end of his nose, if nothing else.” (And no, I didn’t.)

Thirdly, and most importantly, my mind wasn’t full of the 13 riders who finished ahead of us; I was thinking about the dozen who came in behind. In other words, I felt like a winner. The best part is, I’d have felt the same satisfaction even if we had been last. And that, surely, is what this game — and this wholly remarkable bicycle — is all about.

Nick Moore, East Sussex

www.gonecycling.co.uk