A Corinthian Endeavour
The National Hill Climb Championship 2015
Chris Smith 5.21.0 99th Overall
Thank you to everyone who came to give me some encouragement up Jackson Bridge today. It was again an amazing turnout with a huge field of top riders from all over the country. I feel honoured and very humbled to have been chosen to take part in this years National Hill Climb Championship. After 13 climbs I was keen for today to come, the last event of the racing season. All my nervous energy seemed to disappear as soon as I began my painful accent. I apologise but all in between the start line and finish line was a blur. I was kindly caught by a marshall at the top who I couldn't thank enough.
The Hill Climb
by Matt Clinton
A metallic taste fills your mouth. You gasp for oxygen as a marshal gives you a push to freewheel up the road. You stop, place your bike down and collapse by the roadside trying to remind yourself why exactly you did this.
A quick delve into your memory, it's been a long season, you've road-raced and time-trialed through all conditions, but the the weather's suddenly turned. There's a chill in the air as each day the leaves turn increasingly brown and line the roads. You've still got some form. You've got your bike and a hill. And then there's your unhinged possession to see how fast you can get up this hill.
It's always September's fault. The weather's not changed by now, you're riding on a high of the last few races and you accidentally fill in some entry forms. There's no going back now. Several weeks later the startsheet drops through the letter box, reminding you that pain is imminent.
The day finally arrives and it's time to park up, looking uncertainly up towards the summit of the monstrous hill ahead of you. Wrapped up warm, you sign on and pick up your number, cold hands pinning it on to the back of your skinsuit. Putting the winter layers on over the top, a ride up the climb really makes you think why you've entered, let alone donned your dossard! Yet there it is, at the back of your mind as you breathe in the sharp, cold air; the competitive urge to race up this torturous gradient.
The re-con has gone well, but as ever you've pushed yourself a tiny bit too hard. Turning at the top you descend back to the car, the cold wind biting as you do so. Grudgingly you pull your turbo from the boot of the car, open the legs out and fit your bike to it. Hopping on, you spin your legs out from the effort to scout the climb, getting the blood flowing and the lungs opened up. There's another reminder it's going to hurt.
A whiff of embrocation drifts across the car park as you try and focus on getting warm; there's a rider rubbing his legs, the blood rushing to the surface, his legs turning red. You look over to the start, riders are off already as you try and catch the number on their back, working out how long you've got left to start. The minutes quickly tick down, you don't feel like you've got much further with warming up than 15-minutes ago; but it's now time to face up to the torture you're about to endure.
Stripping off your layers, you breathe deep in preparation for the coming influx of autumn air. There goes your minute man as you take off your last jersey, the final protection from the elements as you roll to the line in your skinsuit.
The time keepers are wrapped up warm as you place your back wheel on the stone there to keep you on the line. Leveling your pedals, hands grab your bike holding you steady. You clip in, look up and breathe deep. “30 seconds....”
“20... 10.... 5...4..3..2..1.. go.”
It's slow motion as you push your pedals round for the first time. As you start your second pedal stroke you start to gain some momentum as you remind yourself not to ride too hard off the line. But there it is, you're already fighting the gradient as you try and keep your pace. Settling down into the saddle, you force against gravity, legs feeling the pain already as you attempt to control your ever increasing breathing.
The gradient kicks, you're out the saddle, scrambling for that extra gear. It's not there, you're already at the bottom of the block as you drive yourself to turn the pedals at this unnatural cadence. The lactate's already building, your legs are now burning like never before.
Rocking from side to side, you give it all to carry on up this cruel gradient, jerking the pedals round in a manner you're unaccustomed to. It's now a tunnel. You hear unrecognizable cheers, the occasional shout of your name, they spur you on despite the desire to stop.
The tunnel narrows, your vision dims and yet you still persist in exacting this sadist desire to reach the top. More cheers spur you on as you hit your limit and the line appears, it's not far to go.....
The gradient kicks, you're out the saddle, scrambling for that extra gear. It's not there, you're already at the bottom of the block as you drive yourself to turn the pedals at this unnatural cadence. The lactate's already building, your legs are now burning like never before.
Rocking from side to side, you give it all to carry on up this cruel gradient, jerking the pedals round in a manner you're unaccustomed to. It's now a tunnel. You hear unrecognizable cheers, the occasional shout of your name, they spur you on despite the desire to stop.
The tunnel narrows, your vision dims and yet you still persist in exacting this sadist desire to reach the top. More cheers spur you on as you hit your limit and the line appears, it's not far to go.....
