I’ve ridden national 4X and BMX in the past, but nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for the explosiveness and pace of a cyclo–cross race on the first lap. It’s like a battlefield. It seems there’re grenades exploding, mine fields (in the form of upright boards, that some over imaginative carpenter has nailed to the floor) and sharp shooters, picking random riders off (there were lots of crashes) because they don’t like the colour of the kit they are wearing. Everyone rides as though they are in the middle of a forest fire (that has been caused by the explosiveness of the race) and at the end of my disastrous first lap (I threw a chain whilst trying to hop a mine) even though I couldn’t see any flames my heart and legs were burning. Any sign of that Holy Water? Welcome to hell.

After the initial shock of the first lap I suddenly realised that the ‘skinny demons’ in front of me were a bit rusty in the ‘off–road’ bike–handling skills department. Fit yes, but drifting around turns and railing ruts were not their forte. A lot were Scalextric riders never straying from the main line. The super fit demons were starting to resemble sheep that had strayed from a farmyard. Suddenly I felt like the big bad wolf, who’d had a massive fall out with the local Slimmer’s World group and I started to eat the skinny sheep one by one. All of a sudden I felt UN–STOPPABLE. Awooooooo.

I got stopped. After an entire lap of slicing and dicing the skinny sheep, they started to resemble demons again. I’d left a few carcasses behind but these here demons were demonic for a reason. Most were seasoned visitors to hell and were used to living amongst flames and fire, their flameproof suits were not scorched in any way, however I started to resemble (and feel like) an over–cooked Sunday roast. Apparently hell is full of ‘lost souls’ and over–cooked Sunday dinners. I was beginning to feel like one or maybe both of the above.

David Soul sang it…I felt it. I dug in, listened to my pit–man and mate David Mole (not Soul) and didn’t. Pedal like your life depends on it (even if you do feel like crying like a baby). I quickly changed my thoughts from holy water to breast milk. This thought lifted me no end (breasts not milk)…waaaahhhhh!

After a successful lap four (must have been something to do with the breast milk), a third of a lap around on lap 5, and all of a sudden it felt like some idiot had re–surfaced the course with Velcro. It was slow and hard going. When I finally dismounted my bike to run through the minefield (which was actually only three 1 foot high barriers) it felt like some of my demonic competitors had applied a tube of superglue to each of my disco slippers. I couldn’t lift my feet an inch off the ground, let alone dance through a field full of explosives, and the spectators that had gathered around the minefield, that were usually shouting what sounded like words of encouragement, suddenly changed and sounded as if they were screaming and wailing (like the cries of hell). I glanced across at them and they had all turned to worms, waiting to feast on my slightly plump flesh for all eternity. My (unshaven and out of place) legs couldn’t move, my ears were bleeding (from the wailing) and I felt like I was trapped in a corner. You get the picture. Just think ‘Christmas day at the worm–in–laws!

There was definitely a lap six but at this point nobody (not even the skinny demons) cared. There may have been a lap 7 and 8 lap but I really couldn’t tell you if I completed them or not. I hated everyone at this point and even felt like spitting (with forked tongue) at my pit–man (who’d encouraged me every pedal stroke of the way) when I went past.

I was. Finished that is. The gates of hell slowly started to close shut and the skinny demons around me started to resemble a human form again. There were the usual post–race conversations on why they hadn’t finished in the top ten, or how they’d crashed and burned on lap 3, or ‘my form (whatever that means) is poor at the moment’. However for once (just ask anyone who knows me), I was completely lost for words. Exhausted, liberated (must of been the lycra), and even though I was nearly sick at the end of my warm–down, strangely, I was already thinking about my next visit ‘TO HELL’ and back (which is apparently in Sedgley next to a football pitch).>>