When I was down south at the bike shop, I’d commute on my single-speed every day. And every day I would pass Roadie labouring his way up the hill; we would lift a finger from our bars to acknowledge one another. Then one morning, Roadie came into the bike shop.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” he said.
He was looking for tub cement, and I was happy to oblige. It was a quiet morning, so we got to talking. When I say talking, it was more of a monologue on the previous season’s time trials. He told me how he’d ridden in the county’s open, gained a top-three finish in the club’s league, and that next year he was going to win—hands down, no problem.
In the bike shop, you get used to these one-sided-kind-of conversations; they tend to centre on cycling successes, bikes (owned or just about to be purchased, or not), or, from time to time, overly complicated training and dietary regimes. So, as you might guess, I subtly steered the conversation in another direction.
“What you doing for Christmas?”
Roadie replied, “Going to see the folks up in Northern Town.”
“Northern Town?”
“Yes, that’s where they live—retired up there.”
It just so happens that before I moved down south, I lived a couple of clicks away from Northern Town. And, loosely based around Northern Town there’s a cycling club, as is the way with most towns, and it has the usual mix of has-beens and wannabes and, unusually for some place in the sticks, a couple of talented riders.
“I used to be in the club up there,” I said.
He seemed unimpressed. I guess membership of a provincial club didn’t rate highly on his cyclist-status checklist, but I persevered.
“They have a Boxing Day time trial, you know”
“Really?” His interest perked a little.
“A little bit of fun, nothing serious,” I replied.
“I’m up for that,” said Roadie with a sudden surge of interest.
*
A week later, I was standing chatting in a lay-by on the A-whatever, which heads from Northern Town out into the mountains. It was bloody freezing, and I was silently berating myself for dressing in eighties racing kit. What I should have done was follow the lead of some of the others who were dressed as Santas or as reindeer; their outfits, I thought, offered some protection from the ice-laden air. Anyway, it was too late for regrets and there was only fifteen minutes until the first rider was off, so I distracted myself with a lively discussion on how many post-event beers would form an acceptable limit before a homeward ride. Then my brother—those of you who know him, will be aware of his colourful use of our mother tongue—interjected, “Who the f**k is that cock?”
All heads turned to the new arrival. It was, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, Roadie. He was doing the penguin walk toward the sign-on while pushing a TT bike complete with a Zip disc and deep-section front wheel. Although I’d mentioned the dress code to him—actually, to be honest, it may have slipped my mind—he was clad in a skin-suit and sported an aero helmet. It crossed my mind not to acknowledge his arrival, being a little fearful of the ribbing I’d receive on account of my newfound-southern buddy.
“Hi, Pete.” He’d clocked me, and I felt I couldn’t really pretend not to know him; mistaken identity wasn’t going to wash.
“Hi, Roadie,” I replied.
“Good to finish the year with a win,” he said while stretching his quads as the others gazed incredulously at this specimen of southernness.
I heard my eloquent brother mutter something that connected Roadie to female genitalia. Fortunately, at that moment, a marshal called for the first riders and in no time, the first—Prancer, if I recall correctly—had departed. Following Prancer was a steady stream of Santas, retro roadies, and superheroes with flapping capes. Some riders were down on the drops; others scrunched over the bars of hybrids or mountain bikes. In stark contrast, Roadie had settled into an aero tuck after an initial stomping of the pedals.
By the time I’d passed the finish line, Roadie was packing his bike, slipping Zipps into coordinated wheel bags. He looked smug—as smug as anyone can look from a distance. In my sweaty, dribble-sodden state, I rolled over to ask him, on account of my polite nature, how his ride had been.
“A short twenty,” he informed me as he slipped on a Rapha jacket. “Could have been better though, but good enough for the win.”
There were, at this point, three riders yet to come in. Unbeknownst to Roadie, the final rider out on the course was a teenager who we’ll call the Pro, although back then he was still a talent in the making, dreaming of what would later transpire. Now the thing is that the Pro, though somewhat lacking in his years, knew the importance of Christmas traditions and so had chosen to ride on a mountain bike. He was good like that—liked to give us all a sporting chance. And, so as we, my brother, Roadie and I, stood watching the final riders dribble in, the Pro, forearms resting on his bars, thundered towards us and the finish.
I checked my watch. “A long nineteen.”
Roadie’s face dropped. “What the…?”
“Yep, that’s the win,” I said.
Roadie looked to the floor, his ego crushed. “No…can’t be right—“
“Come on you southern monkey,” my brother said with a delight he couldn’t conceal. “Let’s grab a pint and a slice of humble pie.”
Happy Christmas and see you all next year.
