That night I celebrated losing my V–plates with a few too many in the O Bar and tried to forget the fact that the next day I was going to enter a race twice as long, twice as grueling and with twice as many enemy troops.

When I woke up it was raining. I was so happy I could have shit. The mountain was thick with cloud and rain fell like snapped off fork legs. “No one is racing metal horses today” I thought to myself as I smugly poured warm UHT milk onto my unsweetened cornflakes. But as the morning went on, despite my protests, the rain gradually eased. I felt a horrible sinking feeling inside as I watched the wind drag the clouds off the mountain, it felt like some big omni–present arsehole was dragging the ‘get out of jail free card’ from my clenched fists.

As it turned out, and much to my dismay: rain generally doesn’t stop mountain bike races. When I found out that 400 people had been stuck at the top of the mountain in the pissing rain and icy wind since first light I laughed, I laughed at how crazy these bastards really were (in my sport it only takes a solitary drop of rain to call a session off and head to the bar). But with all joking aside, it was pretty serious cock up, lifts were shut off, people were stranded, visibility was none, scenes were likened to those of New Orleans in the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. People were cold, people were wet and people were pissed off, but the show went on.

The bad weather prevented the race starting on the glacier, which was another kick in the already kicked in teeth. I was two hours late getting to the top of the mountain, but despite my best efforts to miss the start, the mad bastards were all still up there getting ready to go. This time I was positioned mid pack and this changed my mentality completely. With one race firmly under my belt I felt like more like a hunter than the hunted. This time I was one of the sea of Orcs shouting and cheering, no longer running away, I sat there baying for blood. The atmosphere was building and the anticipation of the battle ahead elevated me to some kind of anarchic, dreamlike state, as if I was part of a big lawless riot. The ropey girl with the tramp stamp held up her 30 seconds to go board, feeling like a drunk football hooligan, the rope dropped and 400 Neanderthals let out war cries as they hurtled down the mountain. Again the first corner was carnage, f–king bunch of cannibals this lot, at one point in the pile up I swear some dude tried to get on my bike!

After a while it all separated out and once again my fight with my nemesis Arm Pump started. If there were a suggestions box at the bottom of the
mountain I would take one of the little slips and write “it’s just too damn bumpy you crazy bastards” and pop it through the slot on the top.

400 people and a course only wide enough for one person at a time? You do the maff. The ‘race’ slowed to a snails pace as people slopped and flopped around in a queue of mud. Everyone was knackered, pissed off and smelt bad: it was like pension day at the post office. I actually got bored at one point in the Mega Traffic Jam. I ended up finishing in an hour and 20mins and although it was an ordeal I was glad I’d made it down. I felt a slight sense of pride as I gazed back up to the top of the distant mountain where it had all began.

Throughout my trip to the Megavalanche I experience a whole host of different emotions. From the darkest depths of boredom sat in the back of a van for days on end listening to the same song over and over. To the horrific fear of being on the front row at the start of my first race. To the rush of bouncing down rock faces at 40mph. To the excruciating pain of arm pump. To the disappointment of finding out that I’d qualified. To the euphoric relief of making it down in one piece. It truly was an emotional ride.

To conclude, I’d say that the Megavalanche is a mass congregation of primitive males, whose only skill is the ability to steer a pushbike down a hill. Although my first time was an enjoyable experience I’m not going mountain biking again. It’s a stupid sport for stupid crazy people.

F–k yous:
Arm pump, Camel cigarettes, everyone who knocked me off, the crazy gardener on our campsite who gave me a bollocking for taking a dump with one shoe on, the weather on Saturday, the music word game that we played for 18 hours straight on the way home. Ham and cheese everything.

Thank yous:
Steve Atkins, Foy and Dave Blow for being great travel companions and for helping me out all week. Steve Geall for the padded catsuit. Mike Rose for the bike and lid. Rich Siebel for the goggles. Local drug dealer for the Camel Toe. Victor Lucus for having patience with amateurs. All the people who picked me up and put me back on my bike, The O Bar in Alp d’Huez for the free drinks and BBQ, the kebab shop in Dover. And finally a big thanks to Dave Whitehead for keeping group morale up and for fixing my bike at least five times everyday. Cheers, I’ll see none of you next year.