Iona Mitchell journal #02: legs, lies and traffic lights
Iona Mitchell is back with her second dispatch from the sharp end of domestic racing. This time, it’s all about midweek mind games and weekend chaos: biscuit raids, TT rivalries, and bunch sprints on bacon-scented start lines. With trademark wit, she takes us from the psychological warfare of a Wednesday night club race to the elbows-out drama of Binfield.
After surviving the chaotic thrill of Banbury’s “berg” and a Palace panic, London Academy’s Iona Mitchell is back with her second dispatch from the sharp end of domestic racing. This time, it’s all about midweek mind games and weekend chaos: biscuit raids, TT rivalries, and bunch sprints on bacon-scented start lines. With trademark wit, she takes us from the psychological warfare of a Wednesday night club race to the elbows-out drama of Binfield.
Wednesday
We’ve all got someone we want to beat, whether we admit it or not. Maybe someone who always seems to be a few places up on the results sheets, or someone who just rubs us up the wrong way in the pre-race car park. My great rivalry, the single person my life depends on beating, takes the form of a quietly spoken 54-year-old plumber, and father of my boyfriend, JV. The backdrop for our legendary clashes? The prestigious Hastings and St Leonards CC Wednesday night TT.
Beating each other at the weekly TT has become a serious business, one to which I will sink to any depths to achieve
Some weeks JV will be faster than me, some weeks I will go faster than him. A telling marker for our fitness levels, beating each other at the weekly TT has become a serious business, one to which I will sink to any depths to achieve.
I lay the groundwork the weekend before, casually stopping by JV’s house to demand a cup of tea and biscuits. He is out in the garden, laying the foundations for a new shed. I ask him whether he is worried that spending all afternoon on his knees will affect his performance at the coming TT. I make sure to eat all of the remaining biscuits, strike at the carb supply, cut off the fuel source.
On the day, I inspect his legs. ‘Have you shaved JV? Looks a bit patchy. Not very aero eh? You must be feeling confident’. I show off my socks and let everyone know just how many watts they will be saving me.
Then it’s time for my own confidence to take a knock. When the starting order is announced, insultingly, I am JV’s minute (wo)man. ‘Fantastic,’ JV says to no-one in particular, ‘I will have a carrot to chase.’ At the start line, the rider in front of me is late, and I take his place. ‘Thank goodness,’ I think, ‘that’s another minute between me and JV. No way he can catch me now.’
Image: supplied
‘How long do you think until I catch you?’ asks JV from behind.
Then, I’m off. The pacing plan is a simple negative split, my boyfriend has played traitor to his father and crunched the numbers. I feel sick and stiff-legged. I concentrate on keeping my head down, ignoring the many very cute sheep which can be seen from the course. It doesn’t take long for me to pass the two riders who started ahead of me, a set of temporary traffic lights turn green as I approach. Who left them there?
The furthest point of the course is a roundabout, where I reverse for the second half. Immediately my heart sinks. There is JV, coming the other way, and the rider whose place I have taken just behind. Shit! JV has just overtaken his new minute man, and they are both about to overtake me! I feel like I could cry. JV waves smugly. I dig in deep, sure that any second he will be coming past, cheekily telling me to ‘vamos’ or ‘allez’. Vamos yourself JV. At the temporary lights I race through. Why hasn’t he passed me yet? The course ends with a final rise, I’m too cooked to even sprint it.
Suddenly, I’m feeling a strange emotion, I think you might call it ‘a sense of satisfaction with one’s own progress’
Immediately looking at my Wahoo I try to do some maths. The bad belly feeling hits as the numbers come up looking slow.
At the gathering, waiting for the last riders to roll in, I hear that some people were stopped by the temporary lights. JV claims he was stopped for at least a minute while other riders whizzed through. We wait for an official to return and confirm time-deductions. I loudly announce that I was at the lights for at least two minutes. By the time they return it has become three, I try to bribe her, and by the time they read the results, I am insisting on six.
No dice.
Convinced of a loss, I mentally prepare myself for a strop.
But, as the announcer works his way through the times, slowest to fastest, I hear JV’s name called out. Confused I make a face. That can’t be right. But it is, and when my time is called out, it only takes a second for me to calculate that I’ve made a big dent in my PB.
All feelings of competitiveness disappear as I pat JV on the back and tell him that I’ll let him beat me next week. Suddenly, I’m feeling a strange emotion, I think you might call it ‘a sense of satisfaction with one’s own progress’.
Is this what time trialling is all about? I ponder at the pub.
No. My imaginary voice responds. It’s about beating JV. We’ll do it again next week.
Image: supplied
Sunday
The tempting scent of bacon butties was wafting over from the Binfield FC clubhouse hatch. Faffing between a car-bumper and a wheelie bin, I employ a monastic self-discipline and think instead of all the delicious gels in my pocket. I look up when Georgia Bullard descends in a sunny blaze of pre-race pep and excitement. I’m not sure we’ve actually spoken before but she either doesn’t realise or doesn’t care as she dives in full force for the big hugs and the ‘how are you feelings’. It’s infectious and all of the pre-race apprehension takes a backseat. She’s excited because it’s her first race back this season and she is itching to go. If you’ve seen videos of farm animals being let out into the fields after a long winter, you’ll imagine the kind of prancing energy Georgia has today.
If you’ve seen videos of farm animals being let out into the fields after a long winter, you’ll imagine the kind of prancing energy Georgia has today.
Gathering for the commissaries’ talk, Georgia points out which girls she thinks will be a threat, she raises her voice “and those girls in white – watch out for them, they’re proper choppers”. The girls from The Phoenix Collective turn in jokey mock offence.
Once the flag drops, things turn into a serious HIIT session. Merrily rolling along one minute, then – putain! Jennifer Powell attacks! Heart rate through the roof, the elastic fully stretched. Until, sweet relief, she’s reeled in and we relax again. Two minutes later someone else goes. And repeat. There’s a moment where a succession of stinging attacks split the bunch significantly, girls call from the back, ‘There’s a split – keep working!’.
‘Good idea’ I think, not making any move to help. The bunch swells again.
Image: supplied
I find myself behind a rider whose erratic movements set my alarm bells ringing. Anyone who witnessed my three crashes at VIA 2023 will attest that bike handling is not my forte. Nevertheless, I don’t want to double my chances. I move up and around at the first opportunity. Momentarily she appears right in front of me again. How did that happen? No matter. I move on to safer pastures. Then, as if by magic, the rider in front transforms into that one wheel I’m trying to avoid. What’s going on?
I take destiny into my own hands and move even further forwards, right through the sensible end of the bunch and out the other side. Sliding past Georgia, she tells me to keep forwards. I mis-hear her and nearly do the opposite. Coming over a small rise, I up the tempo a little, optimistically imagining heavy breathing behind (no-one actually notices). Perfectly punctual, Jennifer Powell puts in another punch just as I fatigue, and I slide from first wheel to last in record time. ‘And look at that,’ I think through my gasps. I’m behind that one rider again.
Despite the best efforts of some, the flat-ish and head-windy course inevitably ends in a bunch sprint. Heading into the final stretch of road an Ocado van pulls out ahead, causing some minor swearing and gesturing from the bunch. The thrill-seeking goblin in my brain quietly suggests making a dash to hitch a free draft off the van to the finish, and its neighbour, the comedic ogre, suggests titling the subsequent Strava ride ‘Mama brings home the groceries’. I keep it legal and brace myself for the coming chaos.
Someone brave starts things off with 500m to go, the washing machine enters the spin cycle
Someone brave starts things off with 500m to go, the washing machine enters the spin cycle. To my left two girls battle elbows, to the right more argy-bargy. I get around some flagging girls and momentarily see a blessed path through the chaos, but, I snooze I lose. The group slows and then surges again with a second wind. We see the finish, boxed in and crossing the line somewhere in the bunch. I do a headcount and estimate a hopeful tenth place.
Along the road Georgia is ecstatic, she’s won! And, going by the finish line videos, by a good bike length. There are cheers from multiple riders behind her, it’s a proper feel good victory, one that everyone is happy to see.
After surviving the chaotic thrill of Banbury’s “berg” and a Palace panic, London Academy’s Iona Mitchell is back with her second dispatch from the sharp end of domestic racing. This time, it’s all about midweek mind games and weekend chaos: biscuit raids, TT rivalries, and bunch sprints on bacon-scented start lines. With trademark wit, she takes us from the psychological warfare of a Wednesday night club race to the elbows-out drama of Binfield.
Wednesday
We’ve all got someone we want to beat, whether we admit it or not. Maybe someone who always seems to be a few places up on the results sheets, or someone who just rubs us up the wrong way in the pre-race car park. My great rivalry, the single person my life depends on beating, takes the form of a quietly spoken 54-year-old plumber, and father of my boyfriend, JV. The backdrop for our legendary clashes? The prestigious Hastings and St Leonards CC Wednesday night TT.
Some weeks JV will be faster than me, some weeks I will go faster than him. A telling marker for our fitness levels, beating each other at the weekly TT has become a serious business, one to which I will sink to any depths to achieve.
I lay the groundwork the weekend before, casually stopping by JV’s house to demand a cup of tea and biscuits. He is out in the garden, laying the foundations for a new shed. I ask him whether he is worried that spending all afternoon on his knees will affect his performance at the coming TT. I make sure to eat all of the remaining biscuits, strike at the carb supply, cut off the fuel source.
On the day, I inspect his legs. ‘Have you shaved JV? Looks a bit patchy. Not very aero eh? You must be feeling confident’. I show off my socks and let everyone know just how many watts they will be saving me.
Then it’s time for my own confidence to take a knock. When the starting order is announced, insultingly, I am JV’s minute (wo)man. ‘Fantastic,’ JV says to no-one in particular, ‘I will have a carrot to chase.’ At the start line, the rider in front of me is late, and I take his place. ‘Thank goodness,’ I think, ‘that’s another minute between me and JV. No way he can catch me now.’
‘How long do you think until I catch you?’ asks JV from behind.
Then, I’m off. The pacing plan is a simple negative split, my boyfriend has played traitor to his father and crunched the numbers. I feel sick and stiff-legged. I concentrate on keeping my head down, ignoring the many very cute sheep which can be seen from the course. It doesn’t take long for me to pass the two riders who started ahead of me, a set of temporary traffic lights turn green as I approach. Who left them there?
The furthest point of the course is a roundabout, where I reverse for the second half. Immediately my heart sinks. There is JV, coming the other way, and the rider whose place I have taken just behind. Shit! JV has just overtaken his new minute man, and they are both about to overtake me! I feel like I could cry. JV waves smugly. I dig in deep, sure that any second he will be coming past, cheekily telling me to ‘vamos’ or ‘allez’. Vamos yourself JV. At the temporary lights I race through. Why hasn’t he passed me yet? The course ends with a final rise, I’m too cooked to even sprint it.
Immediately looking at my Wahoo I try to do some maths. The bad belly feeling hits as the numbers come up looking slow.
At the gathering, waiting for the last riders to roll in, I hear that some people were stopped by the temporary lights. JV claims he was stopped for at least a minute while other riders whizzed through. We wait for an official to return and confirm time-deductions. I loudly announce that I was at the lights for at least two minutes. By the time they return it has become three, I try to bribe her, and by the time they read the results, I am insisting on six.
No dice.
Convinced of a loss, I mentally prepare myself for a strop.
But, as the announcer works his way through the times, slowest to fastest, I hear JV’s name called out. Confused I make a face. That can’t be right. But it is, and when my time is called out, it only takes a second for me to calculate that I’ve made a big dent in my PB.
All feelings of competitiveness disappear as I pat JV on the back and tell him that I’ll let him beat me next week. Suddenly, I’m feeling a strange emotion, I think you might call it ‘a sense of satisfaction with one’s own progress’.
Is this what time trialling is all about? I ponder at the pub.
No. My imaginary voice responds. It’s about beating JV. We’ll do it again next week.
Sunday
The tempting scent of bacon butties was wafting over from the Binfield FC clubhouse hatch. Faffing between a car-bumper and a wheelie bin, I employ a monastic self-discipline and think instead of all the delicious gels in my pocket. I look up when Georgia Bullard descends in a sunny blaze of pre-race pep and excitement. I’m not sure we’ve actually spoken before but she either doesn’t realise or doesn’t care as she dives in full force for the big hugs and the ‘how are you feelings’. It’s infectious and all of the pre-race apprehension takes a backseat. She’s excited because it’s her first race back this season and she is itching to go. If you’ve seen videos of farm animals being let out into the fields after a long winter, you’ll imagine the kind of prancing energy Georgia has today.
Gathering for the commissaries’ talk, Georgia points out which girls she thinks will be a threat, she raises her voice “and those girls in white – watch out for them, they’re proper choppers”. The girls from The Phoenix Collective turn in jokey mock offence.
Once the flag drops, things turn into a serious HIIT session. Merrily rolling along one minute, then – putain! Jennifer Powell attacks! Heart rate through the roof, the elastic fully stretched. Until, sweet relief, she’s reeled in and we relax again. Two minutes later someone else goes. And repeat. There’s a moment where a succession of stinging attacks split the bunch significantly, girls call from the back, ‘There’s a split – keep working!’.
‘Good idea’ I think, not making any move to help. The bunch swells again.
I find myself behind a rider whose erratic movements set my alarm bells ringing. Anyone who witnessed my three crashes at VIA 2023 will attest that bike handling is not my forte. Nevertheless, I don’t want to double my chances. I move up and around at the first opportunity. Momentarily she appears right in front of me again. How did that happen? No matter. I move on to safer pastures. Then, as if by magic, the rider in front transforms into that one wheel I’m trying to avoid. What’s going on?
I take destiny into my own hands and move even further forwards, right through the sensible end of the bunch and out the other side. Sliding past Georgia, she tells me to keep forwards. I mis-hear her and nearly do the opposite. Coming over a small rise, I up the tempo a little, optimistically imagining heavy breathing behind (no-one actually notices). Perfectly punctual, Jennifer Powell puts in another punch just as I fatigue, and I slide from first wheel to last in record time. ‘And look at that,’ I think through my gasps. I’m behind that one rider again.
Despite the best efforts of some, the flat-ish and head-windy course inevitably ends in a bunch sprint. Heading into the final stretch of road an Ocado van pulls out ahead, causing some minor swearing and gesturing from the bunch. The thrill-seeking goblin in my brain quietly suggests making a dash to hitch a free draft off the van to the finish, and its neighbour, the comedic ogre, suggests titling the subsequent Strava ride ‘Mama brings home the groceries’. I keep it legal and brace myself for the coming chaos.
Someone brave starts things off with 500m to go, the washing machine enters the spin cycle. To my left two girls battle elbows, to the right more argy-bargy. I get around some flagging girls and momentarily see a blessed path through the chaos, but, I snooze I lose. The group slows and then surges again with a second wind. We see the finish, boxed in and crossing the line somewhere in the bunch. I do a headcount and estimate a hopeful tenth place.
Along the road Georgia is ecstatic, she’s won! And, going by the finish line videos, by a good bike length. There are cheers from multiple riders behind her, it’s a proper feel good victory, one that everyone is happy to see.
‘Fifty quid there!’ I say, riding back to HQ.
‘Fifty quid?’ she repeats.
‘Yeah! You get fifty quid!’
She whoops.
Find out more
Iona Mitchell journal #01: from Banbury bruises to Palace panic
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