Friday nights. For many, they’re for going out on the lash. For us two, it was one of the most important nights of our short cycling career so far - the second of 3 Cramlington CC 10 mile time trials along the M101 course. We had both been building up to this day - we’d had a good couple of weeks on the bike followed by a week off in order to taper for the event.
We both had targets. Kerry wanted a sub 30. I wanted to get a PB - something under 24:30 would be nice. Any dreams of a category win for me were gone - a rider had forgotten to put his times on the entry form and was automatically put in Category D. Based on the fact he does a 22 minute 10, I didn’t fancy my chances.
HQ was the social club in Bebside (same as the Barnesbury 25) and the irony of a bunch of cyclists warming up outside a building full of big blokes drinking beer and smoking isn’t lost on me! Kerry, who was getting very tetchy with nerves, vanished off to warm up and calm her nerves. After polite conversation with Mr Tuckett and the Sills, I found her to wish her luck and left her to set off, and set about my own warm up. My warm up routine is still something I’m not sure about. I’ve read so many different things, and tried various routines, and the final result never seems to change - my legs fill up with lactic acid within a mile of the off!
As I started down the slip road onto the spine road, my heart sank. My legs were heavy. Either I was tired, not fit enough, or I’d not warmed up. Suddenly all the build up seemed miles away, I was no longer happy about being in the race. The slip road, on which I usually hit over 30mph, I was struggling to get over 26mph. As I hit the spine road however, I made 31 mph. And held it there. For a long, long time.
As I hit the half way point at Sandy Bay roundabout, I saw the welcome sight I had waited over a year for - my mum and dad at the side of the road cheering me on. I should take the time to big my mum up. She’s was no couch potato herself - running cross country for England, finishing the Boston to Skegness Seabank Marathon first lady home for 6 years on the trot, and completing the London Marathon in less than 3 hours. In all my years as a rugby player, she’d stand on the sidelines come rain or shine screaming encouragement at me and the rest of the team week in week out. Now they were both stood at the side of the road screaming encouragement at her son again (and their future daughter-in-law). It made all the difference.
The return leg was the diverse opposite to the outward leg. The wind was up, my legs were cramping, my Camelback Aeroback was blocked so I had no drink (which for a lad my size is NOT good), and I was really, really struggling to keep the speed up. I passed the slip road to Blyth, knowing the finish line was about a mile away. I looked at my Garmin - it looked quick.
The last mile or so of the M101 course is nothing short of a bastard. It’s a false flat, and if you’re not on target by then, kiss it goodbye. You can’t get any speed up, it’s a real hard slog and it’s totally disheartening. By now I’d lost all feeling in my feet, I couldn’t get out of the saddle for cramp, there were salt rings around my mouth, and I had literally spent myself on the previous 9 miles. It was just a case of getting the bike home.
I crossed the line, choking on my own vomit with sweat stinging my eyes and both legs searing with cramping pains. I’d given it everything I had and if it hadn’t been good enough, so be it. As I coasted to the side of the road, I knew it wasn’t a half bad time, because my minute man Paul Atkinson, who usually takes a couple of minutes out of me, hadn’t caught me. Still wretching, I looked down to the Garmin…
***
My immediate concern was Kerry. Considering she’d started off at 11 minutes past and was nearly at the finish when I started at 31 minutes past, I knew she’d cracked 30 minutes. I went to my mobile to see if she’d told me her result, but all I had was a message saying, “See you at HQ”.
I rode slowly back to HQ with fellow Cramlington rider Paul Atkinson, discussing the evening’s race and conditions. It hadn’t been the easy night we’d expected. On the contrary, the wind had once again played it’s part in making the the course difficult to get round. As I approached HQ, I saw the most welcome sight - my mum and Kerry stood waiting for me. Kerry ran with a skip in her step, arms open, beaming with happiness to tell me her time…
***
What followed finally felt like a small reward for the 2 hard years of lifestyle change, healthy eating, training, and sacrifice. Surrounded by friends, family and fiancee, I watched as race organiser Keith Sibbald worked out the category winners on the large timing sheet (or “scoreboard” if your name is Kerry). The rider who hadn’t filled in the entry form correctly and would have been in my category had sent his apologies, leaving me to only compete with riders of a similar standard to myself. As Keith went down the list of category D riders it was becoming clear… I’d won. It was also a bit of a giveaway that my mum kept saying, “You’ve won it. I’m sure you’ve won it. You have!” and Kerry muttering under her breath to Keith as he worked out the times, “It’s James Ashberry… it’s James Ashberry… IT’S… JAMES… ASHBERRY!”
With a time of 23 minutes and 57 seconds, a personal best by some 48 seconds, and 2 minutes 53 seconds quicker than the last time I raced on that course, I was indeed the winner of Category D. I was now officially a sub 24 minute time trialist. A year ago at this very time, I had been told that a sub 30 minute time trial was out of my reach, now here I was a full 6 minutes quicker. I only wish the person who’d said that could have been there to see it but unfortunately, he wasn’t.
The reward wasn’t to end there though. This race was always about 2 people - Kerry had been going all out for a sub 30 minute time trial. This is a girl who a couple of years ago would spend her Friday nights like I suppose a hell of a lot of people do - drunk (and in bed all day Saturday with the resultant hangover). A year ago she took up cycling and her only form of training has been a daily commute - hardly race preparation. She started out on a piece of crap Halfords special last year, bought a Trek hybrid in September, and her first ever road bike in April of this year. This is no seasoned roadie. This is a girl, who in a similar fashion made a healthy lifestyle change, who hasn’t had a great introduction to road cycling with a few accidents, mishaps and a stolen road bike along the way. Less than 3 months after getting her first road (and less than a month after getting her replacement road bike) she was aiming for a sub 30 minute 10 mile time trial. And you know what? She did it.
In fact, she didn’t just “do” it. She took that 30 minute target, bent it over her knee, pulled down it’s pants, and gave it a bloody good spanking. Without aerobars or aero helmet, on a bike she’d had less than a month, after having switched from her ridiculous SPD mountain bike pedals to Look road pedals 2 days earlier, she had gone round in 28 minutes and 22 seconds - 1 minute 38 seconds faster than her target and a full 2 minutes and 32 seconds quicker than her last Cramlington 10 result. I was brimming with pride. My result, something that would normally have me dancing a jig, had vanished somewhere into the back of my mind - I was far too proud of Kerry to even consider my achievement.
Fresh from 2 PBs and a Category win, we met my mum and dad in the 3 Horseshoes for a lovely meal and some beers, and finally went home to watch Le Tour de France higlights on ITV4 with a bottle of wine - topping off a wonderful evening.
Something that did put a damper on the evening was being told that someone had asked, “What’s the fat cyclist’s name? Is he here?”. Apparently, a Cramlington CC rider replied with, “Don’t you mean the 22 Stone Cyclist” to which he said, “Yeah, whatever”. It leaves a somewhat bitter taste in the mouth. Perhaps said rider would like to carry a rucksack of bricks in his back to get himself up to my weight and do my time? The challenge is there!
Paramedics, BMXs, and Morphine
When we raced the last Cramlington 10, we went for a recovery ride the day after. This was the day that Kerry’s first road bike, a Pinnacle, was stolen. We decided that a recovery ride along a similar route would help us get rid of the demons from our last post-race recovery ride.
It was not to be.
A lovely ride out to St Mary’s Lighthouse in Whitley Bay ended badly. On the way to our house through Blyth a teenager on a BMX rode off the curb and into the side of Kerry, smashing her to the ground with a sickening thud. She had managed to rescue herself temporarily after the collision, but over correcting the twitchy carbon Giant led to her landing in a nasty looking, crumpled heap on the road, with what initially looked like superficial cuts.
Bystanders quickly called an ambulance, and within minutes the Police and Paramedics had arrived on scene. Kerry was clearly in a LOT of pain, and could not be moved. I was a state. Seeing the love of my life lying there in such pain, simply because of another person’s stupidity and through no fault of her own, had completely knocked me for six.
The paramedics strapped Kerry’s arm and leg into splints, whilst giving her a constant stream of gas and air to keep her calm. Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, and before we knew it, half of Blyth was watching. Kerry was still screaming in agony, I was beside myself with anger and worry, and the world and his wife was soaking it in like something from an episode of Holby City.
After the euphoria of the previous night, we had both been brought down to earth with a bang - Kerry quite literally so. I couldn’t help but question it. Why her? Why again? No one deserves to crash, but surely there are more deserving cases? Why were we once again having to pick up the pieces because of someone else’s inconsiderate and dangerous actions? My heart was hurting so much for my fiancee who had just started to get confidence back after the last crash caused by other people. Now here she was again, hurting, crying, screaming and wondering why on earth it was happening to her. I felt helpless.
***
I peered my head around the curtain in Wansbeck General to find a sorry looking Kerry. She was heavily drugged and still using the gas. At this point, neither of us had a clue as to what the injuries were but when the nurses cut off the Padarmedic’s splints it didn’t look good. Her arm had swollen to nearly twice it’s normal size and in a very irregular shape. She was in a lot of pain, and any movement of her arm or leg would have her wince in agony. I had visions of several months rehabilitation off the bike.
She was quickly carted off to X-Ray and I began a very lonely hour sat outside the X-Ray room. I could hear voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. All I could do was think of her looking up at me from the ground, her face distorted in pain, screaming at me. Tears streamed down my face. I just wanted to see Kerry’s face again. I wanted to know she was ok. I wanted to know the severity of her injuries and what I could do to help. The feeling of helplessness I had at the side of the road simply wasn’t going away.
The prognosis was good. Nothing was broken. She had severe bruising to the soft tissue in her arm and leg, minor whiplash to her neck and upper back, cuts to her elbow, road rash on her back, a twisted ankle, a severe headache from banging her head to the road, and a massive dent to her pride. She had been very, very lucky.
Armed with enough pain killers to put an elephant to sleep, I wheeled her out to the car, took her home, and began what’s going to be a tough couple of weeks for my girl.
One thing is for sure. Had she not been wearing her helmet, she’d either be dead, or have extremely severe head injuries. The helmet is cracked in several places, and had that been her skull, God only knows what might have happened. I know some people believe helmets make no difference. I know some clever boffins with white coats and Dr Who box sets have come up with scientific “proof” that helmets don’t make you safer. You know what I say? Bollocks. Kerry and I are now both in the fortunate situation of knowing we’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for wearing a bike helmet. Put that in your test tube and smoke it, Mr Scientists.
She’ll be back. She’s tough. And what’s more, she’s a racer now. Before our crash she ordered some Profile aerobars and a Giro Advantage helmet. She’s going to be fast, make no mistake.
I might buy her a BMX for Christmas…