I rarely talk about it, really, but this weekend marks the 20th anniversary of one of the best days of my somewhat underachieving life and provides an excuse to bring out the old photos of it one more time.The Western Time Trials Association 12 Hour was traditionally held on the Sunday of August Bank Holiday weekend. Those hardy long distance riders, including such heroes of mine as Janet Tebbutt, Gwen Shillaker and Andy Cook, would gather at Sutton Benger just in time for daylight to break at 6 a.m. and they resolutely set off, at one minute, or perhaps two minute, intervals, in the direction of Malmesbury with an endless road in front of them and 12 hours in which to cover as much of it as they could.
In 1994, I had exceeded all of my own modest expectations by doing 214.795 miles and so that was the target. There was no hiding behind soft ambitions like wanting to finish or do 200 miles in a day, either of which would have seemed perfectly satisfactory the year before.
I knew I could set off faster than in 94. Then, unsure of lasting the distance, I had been timed among the slowest after a mere 25 miles but 6th fastest of the 31 finishers on the finishing circuit and the big idea of time trialling is not to finish knowing that you didn't use up all your energy. So, I went off quicker, knowing I had done more miles so far that year and all the numbers added up. In fact, in 1995, I rode over 6200 miles on a bike, which compares with none at all in 2014 and 2015.
It was an odd diet of about 8 bananas, probably a ham sandwich for lunch a few months before becoming vegetarian (aha, I nearly wrote 'a few moths before becoming vegetarian'), flapjack, flapjack, one of those energy bars I'd never had before and was so sickly I spat it out over the road and any amount of energy drink bought from Boots rather than Lance Armstrong's doctor.
I stopped briefly probably three times- to take on more bananas in the morning, to relieve myself at Burford where I knew one could climb over a gate onto the corner of a golf course and express in one necessary function my opinion of golf as a sport and later on to dig out whatever remnants of food were left in my pockets as I completely ran out of fuel. I may be conflating episodes from my three 12 Hour rides there but I doubt if anybody knows better than me what happened.
There are few things quite as joyous as arriving back at Sutton Benger to see out one's 12 hours on the finishing circuit, going round and round the 15 miles of lanes until your time's up. You know you've done it, all bar the last bit and the last bit is easier, with some company and support, after a day in which, for long periods you might not have seen another rider, official or much evidence that you are doing any more than having a ride round the countryside on a Sunday afternoon.
The weather wasn't too bad, with the usual prevailing south westerly wind making some stretches easier than others but even if I compile enough statistics to say that, if everything had been in my favour, I might have done 225 miles, even with my dad as Chief Timekeeper (and the following year and subsequently, Event Organizer), we couldn't make my distance any better than what the numbers said, which was 217.888 miles. And I was absolutely bloody delighted with that, having taken part in the legendary event I'd seen as a young upstart, featuring boyhood heroes like Ted Tedaldi, and finished in the top half of the finishers, like 15th out of 31, and not just the top half of the starters. Because such an event always claims a number of casualties in those who don't stay the distance for one or other reason.217.888 is not a remarkable score within the sport. I believe the record has now risen to 317 from the 300 or so it was then. On the Thursday evening before I had posted an equally unremarkable personal best of 26.31 for 10 miles on a small section of the same roads but they were the best things I've done, in only 30 time trials ever ridden, preferring to do things I enjoy for the sake of them rather than things I might have been better at but not enjoyed.
Journalism is what I'm thinking of, just in case nobody can think of anything I might have been good at.
And, 20 years on, it doesn't look as if I'm going to improve on those benchmarks, a few stone overweight and strangely fearful of the forlorn, old bike in the corner of the kitchen. But, thanks for the memories and, luckily, there's now a nephew and niece in place doing equally, probably better, things than I ever did in my few years of bike riding so I can leave it to them.