Patrick Fotheringham journal #03: war pig

Our 2024 journal contributor Patrick Fotheringham rides for Halesowen Academy. As one of the older members of the squad, his role is part-mentor, part-racer. In his third journal entry, Patrick recounts a whirlwind of intense racing, unexpected crashes, and frustrating hospital visits at the Tour of Lithuania, leaving both body and spirit tested to the limit.

Through a cocktail of ambition, boredom and the hunger to prove a point, combined with hearing through a friend that guest riders were needed for certain races, the opportunity to ride the Tour of Lithuania for SN Vitae-HUUB p/b Bim Bam Coaching arose. A five-day 2.2 stage race, predominantly flat stages, looked to suit me. I was well aware that it was going to be a shock to the system, but I trusted that the training and experience would serve me well.  

The 2:30am Grand Depart in order to get to London Luton was slightly psychotic, while the traffic leading in to the airport and a busy WizzAir check in gate invoked some stress, but neither that nor the industrial amounts of caffeine could prevent me from passing out on the three-hour flight to Vilnius. Upon arrival in Lithuania, we found out we were down one rider, as well as the team manager. A plan of action was drawn up, followed by a small wait in the car rental to acquire a van large enough to take 6 bike boxes, and soon enough we were on the road. Three hours traversing the country to the Baltic coast town of Klaipeda, finding the most obscure Airbnb; surrounded by forest, it looked like an outdoor activity centre accommodation, PGL but run down. It was very simple, minimal cooking facilities, tiny beds and one toilet between 7 of us.  

We were with a few of the Lithuanian teams, as well as Estonian UCI Continental team Voltas-Tartu, who boasted all two metres of the imposing Lithuanian champion, the gigantic Rokas Aidomaitas

Tuesday involved a morning mission to find a quick release skewer and a seamstress to repair a broken skinsuit, followed by a pre-race ride, scouting the route for Stage 1, with opener efforts, practice taking bottles and pacing from the car. A long, flat circuit, with roundabouts, road furniture and a four-carriageway run in to the finish narrowing down to 1 lane following a dog leg corner with 150m to go; it was going to be 180km flat out. Happy with what we had seen, we rode down to the race hotel where we would be for two nights. We were with a few of the Lithuanian teams, as well as Estonian UCI Continental team Voltas-Tartu, who boasted all two metres of the imposing Lithuanian champion, the gigantic Rokas Aidomaitas.

Having settled into the hotel, we took a trip to Decathlon to stock up on race food and energy drink for the bottles. A gentle discussion of how many grams of carb would be needed in the feed bottles for the car, with a diplomatic vote in favour of “you get what you get” beating “specific amounts for specific people”, we left with neutral bottles, carb mix, sugary snacks and Mass Gainer protein to act as recovery drink. The night’s dinner was at a lunch club that looked like a Soviet prison, and the food was equally as questionable. Yet, there was pasta and sauce, and that sufficed. 

Stage 1 quickly came around, and now would be a good time to talk through the members of the team. As well as myself, there was Tom Williams, recent winner of the Ryedale Grasscrete Grand Prix, Felix Whetter, Elijah Kwon and Olly Featherstone. We rolled to the race start, where just like the witches at black masses, the team generals were gathering. Finally, we were underway. It was a hot day, and the pace was relentless. In the bunch you could coast but as soon as you hit the wind it hurt. An early crash took out Olly, who bounced off the floor and got back in. The break took a while to establish, with the UCI teams eager to be represented, and never got more than a minute due to the Scandinavian-focused chase of the Swedish and Norwegian teams who missed it.

It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t pretty and there was a lot of screaming and a couple of sceptically long sticky bottles to get me back to Neutral 1

After two hours, the time came to get bottles. I collected a few empties, and dropped back to call the car up. It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t pretty and there was a lot of screaming and a couple of sceptically long sticky bottles to get me back to Neutral 1, where I sat for 10 minutes before hopping past the commissaire cars, a polite wave to the officials with the hope of avoiding a mention in the communiqué and some Swiss Francs to the drinks fund, I was back onto the bunch. With the bunch going at 50kph, this was by far the hardest effort I made all race, and I was cooked. The bottles were distributed amongst the boys, so I made the executive decision to recover at the back of the bunch, where I cruised into the finish. While the legs were golden, the ultra-aggressive position on the bike ruined my back over 180km. Five minutes lying on the floor beside the van later, I gingerly got up and we rolled back to the hotel. Another questionable meal at the lunch club, cramming as much overcooked pasta as humanly possible, followed by attempting to replenish the lost fluids.

 The war machine keeps turning, and Stage 2 arrived. The opening 20 or so kilometres was fairly amiable, even finding myself in a promising looking break for a short while before the yellow jersey team decided they didn’t like it, and it was neutralised. But soon, the road surface started to deteriorate. Punctures and mechanicals left right and centre, but it still felt relaxed.

The entire race was lined out in the gutter on these flat wide roads, with a strong crosswind from the left. Travelling at 65kph, the sole focus is the wheel in front

I drifted to the final third of the bunch to recover, eat and chill. However, we turned a corner and it was like a bomb had been dropped in the bunch. The entire race was lined out in the gutter on these flat wide roads, with a strong crosswind from the left. Travelling at 65kph, the sole focus is the wheel in front. A quick switch of direction, the rider I was following dodged a crater-like pothole. With a bang, I slammed straight into it. Sealant sprayed out of both tyres, with no chance given the gashes found later that evening. The grating grind of carbon rim scraping on tarmac preceded the feeling of the bike sliding out from underneath me. It was then me sliding. I didn’t get up.

Before I knew it, I was being strapped onto a spinal board, and manoeuvred into an ambulance. The hospital was a small one in the start town, and no one spoke English. The volunteer medic stayed with me to translate and help with personal details, and she refused to leave until I was on my way to the larger hospital, where she was told I was to have a CT scan and X-Ray. There, I finally saw a doctor. However, he refused to speak English or tell me anything.

I was having needles stuck in me, wired up to an IV drip and wheeled around the hospital. It was terrifying, I had no idea what was happening or why

I was having needles stuck in me, wired up to an IV drip and wheeled around the hospital. It was terrifying, I had no idea what was happening or why. A desperate message was sent to a Lithuanian friend in the hope she might be able to translate over the phone if need be. The scans were done quickly, the efficiency compared to an English hospital impressive. The worry over my hip and lower spine disappeared, and I was informed I was free to go after I had been cleaned and wounds dressed. I was stripped naked by two nurses, who set to work dealing with the plethora of cuts and abrasions. Thankfully, I heard English voices for the first time in hours, and I had clothes to wear, and could hobble out of the hospital, but not before a strong discussion with the front desk about post-Brexit hospital fees.  

With spirits at an all-time low, the meal at the night’s hotel mirrored that. Plain fusilli pasta with hot dog sausages. Exactly what one wants having spent most the day in hospital with less skin than when the day started, let alone riding. Voltas-Tartu DS and ex-pro Gediminas Bagdonas was raging on the phone to the race organisers about the culinary catastrophe, while mechanics were being threatened by Lithuanian police for washing cars and bikes on the streets. Following a nutritious, university student style meal, the damage on the bike was inspected. One wheel was a goner, the other somewhat questionable, while the bottom bracket and chain stays showed a large crack from the impact. Despite this, the delusion of getting a double wheel change from neutral and trying to finish the stage in hindsight still lives on to this day.  

I did not sleep well. The pain was bad, with large cuts on both sides of my body I had no comfortable way to lie. The body was burning as the raw wounds started to heal

I did not sleep well. The pain was bad, with large cuts on both sides of my body I had no comfortable way to lie. The body was burning as the raw wounds started to heal. The struggle to get out of bed was followed by breakfast and the transfer to the stage. After a quick thank you to a few race officials who helped smooth things over the day before, me and Olly found the broom wagon commissaire, conveniently a nurse as her day job, and very adept at redressing our collective plethora of wounds. The day in the team car was uneventful, a few bottles to hand out but nothing more. Annoyingly, Tom came off on the final corner in the technical run-in, making it 3/3 on the crash per stage. This meant the stage 4 queue for the morning ritual of bandaging on the back of the broom had gained another member; the poor girl must have either been sick to death of us by stage 5, or felt bad for the luckless Brits.  

Stage 4 and 5 were largely uneventful for me, the pain of the injuries no longer outweighing the feeling of missing out. Travelling all that way for what ended up as very little racing and a lot more pain than intended, as well as the hope that maybe I could have done something, especially on day 5 which ended up in a large bunch sprint that should have suited me. As with my last journal entry, where I was optimistic my luck was looking to change, it feels like the cycle of shit is unescapable at the moment.  

Featured image: Tour of Lithuania

Find out more

Patrick Fotheringham journal #02: light at the end of the tunnel

Patrick Fotheringham journal #01: better the devil you know

Journals 2024: introducing Patrick Fotheringham