AMATEUR HOUR (…AND A HALF)
While Boothy was nuts deep in sand and sprockets, Dangerous was busy representing the slower end of the spectrum.
I’ve never been one for sand. As Boothy put it, ‘It get’s in your knickers’. I can’t quite figure where he was going with that one, but I get the sentiment – I’ve had many an ice cream ruined by the stuff. But today was no day for building sand castles, for stretching out with a four-pack of Stella, or for ad hoc donkey rides on an ass named Fred. Today was the day I was to lose my beach racing virginity, and I was bricking it. I like riding off-road, but it’s something I dabble with only once or twice a year… at a very slow, risk averse pace. The idea of taking on Skeggy’s gruelling, 4.5km track, littered with towering dunes and axle deep ruts seemed pure stupid, but I had to give it a go. My younger brother, Farmer Brod, is an enduro champ and I’ve seen him absolutely battered after racing Skeg’s three-hour pro race that runs annually on the Sunday. Luckily for me, Carl and Boothy, we only had an hour-and-a-half to do, getting stuck in, racing the Clubman race the day before the main event.
The pre-race nerves kicked in the minute I woke up, unsure of how I’d do, or whether I’d complete a whole lap, or simply survive the day. Boothy was thinking of the podium, Frodo was up for a scrap, but my game plan was based on survival, and banging the laps in.
Lucky for me, I was taking a piss (literally) when the flag dropped, so I actually missed the start of the race, but soon caught the horde up all of 100 metres later. There were bikes everywhere, people buried under them and folk desperate to power over the top of them to clear the first big dune, as if their life depended on it. As for me, I just chilled out, stood back and plotted my path through diligently. From being dead last, I must have passed 50 people before half a lap was up, including Carl, who was off his bike, fondling a dune. My heart was racing, my nerves all over the place, but I was making progress and getting over the course slowly but surely. Physically, it felt exhausting. Because I was riding so slow, my front wheel was constantly ploughing crossed up, the bike desperately trying to throw me off like a bronco. The bigger boys were sat further back than their rear mudguard, keeping the nose light and skimming over all the lumps and bumps… until they had a massive crash. I lost count of all the bodies I negotiated, often with a solitary hand left on the ’bars, as if to say they weren’t quitting just yet – they could take more pain!
The back straight took some figuring. You could head out to sea, if you wanted to, where the sand was firmer, or stick near the top where it was a little more loose. For me, tootling along, it didn’t make much difference… I could ride really slowly on either path. Right at the end of the lap was a mega big hill that had left me terrified on the track inspection. I hit it with momentum and somehow made it up top. But what goes up must come down, and this was the point I expected to fold the front, for the bike to cartwheel twice and for me to break a collarbone in front of the masses of spectators. I let them down on that note, simply riding out the descending ruts, before meeting ground level once again, ready for the final blast to the line.
Lap two was now upon me – I’d survived that inaugural circuit. I’ll stop short of saying I felt confident, and ready to pull the pin, but I was still breathing and feeling ever so slightly more optimistic. Best still, I hadn’t crashed once. I bet I was the only rider who could have said that at that point in the race. The track was even more rutted the second time round, and the crashes seemed even more frequent. These guys were tough; as soon as they were down, they’d get back up. I felt sorry for those with kickstarts, especially the ones who’s bikes wouldn’t start – I was knackered just watching them.
Being so crap, my legs were out like skis for most of the lap. They were soon burning, and so was my core. I welcomed signs that my bike was overheating so I could pull over for a quick breather, giving my legs 30 seconds of grace. On the whole, things were going ok and I was trying my best to always pick out the easiest lines to follow. It was so easy to get the wheels cross-rutted, to fold the front or lose the rear. I also didn’t want to ruin anyone else’s race, so kept left on the straighter sections so the fast lads could fly past – it was like being on the underground’s escalators.
Speaking of fast lads, Boothy came past me a few times, too. He was doing great on his bike, highlighting how steady I was plodding. The mad thing is it didn’t feel slow. I’m used to holding my own on a road bike, so being at the back of the field was completely new territory for me, but it’s where I deserved to be. To go fast on sand takes balls and ability – I wasn’t exactly flying the flag for either. I wasn’t doing so bad on the determination front, though. I kept mucking in, passing the start line and kidding myself that I could rest after the next bend.
Towards the end of the race I was pretty tired, probably more so mentally than physically, but there was one rider in front of me that looked beatable. I locked on to him, pushed as hard as I could and made it over the line five seconds in front of him. I’d beaten him overall, even though his fastest lap was four minutes quicker than mine. But that didn’t matter in that moment; I was just buzzing to have got to the end, with me and the bike in one piece.
Was it what I’d expected it to be? Far from it. Despite swallowing several kilos of sand, having my feat ran over on too many occasions and feeling more whacked than I did after finishing a 24-hour running race, I’d had the best of times, with my mates at my side. It was a blast, one that I’d like to do again in 2020. I wonder if KTM will lend me another bike?