Iona Mitchell journal #03: from sofa sulks to sprint finishes

From sofa sulks to sprint finishes, Iona Mitchell’s latest rider journal captures the messy, funny, and unexpectedly joyful side of domestic racing. What begins with a reluctant nudge from a teammate not to skip Hove Park turns into a run of races full of mishaps, heatwaves, crashes, and unexpected laughs — reminders of why racing is hard, chaotic, and ultimately fun.

I was languishing on the sofa, bemoaning my poor weekend at the Ronde van Wymeswold when teammate Grace D texts to ask whether I’m doing Hove Park that week. I tell my phone ‘abso-bloody-lutely not’ and politely tap in an evasive response.

Grace D isn’t having it and immediately hits back with the hard line: “it would be really nice to have a teammate there”.

“Oh fuck off Grace.”

She’s really got me where it hurts. Imagining her out in the cold, all alone, surrounded by a pack of hungry Wolfox riders. I immediately cave and that Friday night I’m sat on the start line alongside Grace D and Jas, faffing with my plait.

I’m in no mood for this racing malarkey. It’s getting dark, chilly, and the field is tiny

I’m in no mood for this racing malarkey. It’s getting dark, chilly, and the field is tiny. The gun goes. Let’s get this nonsense over and done with. First lap I let Hannah Graveney take the lead, as my Hove Park debut it’s best to follow a wheel. But seeing ‘the dodgy corner’ up ahead I change tactic and decide to take first wheel myself. Then, as the fun whooshy feeling hits coming down through the bend and up the Hove Park ‘hill’, my mood lifts with us up the path, above the trees and up, up into the sky. No thought spared for energy conservation I attack, Hannah attacks, Anoushka attacks. I remember that racing is fun. Four laps to go and Grace dives out of the corner, taking Hannah with her. I slow down on purpose, letting the gap grow and forcing everyone else to chase. Then, hold on a minute – what’s this? Seeing the back of the small group for the first time, I’m behind two matching sets of kit. Seeing double. When did that happen? I realise that I’ve been having too much fun fannying about for the past half hour, and completely missed Wolfox rider no. 2. I secretly pray that this quiet rider is shit, because otherwise I’ve just bought a fresh-legged rival to the line.

Caitlyn Bower, Grace D tells me after the finish (in which Caitlyn drops a demoralising sprint), is not shit, and is actually a pretty demoralising sprinter. I congratulate Caitlyn at the podium, and she apologises for not pulling. Apparently she has a 200k sportive tomorrow and needs to save her legs. I can’t help cracking up. I’m in too good a mood to care.

The good energy carries to the next race. It is an absolutely sweltering day in Oxfordshire and I feel really bad about asking my teammate Emi to pin numbers onto my very damp back. Not bad enough to not though, and we chat racing while she politely pins away. It’s her first road race after a few years’ hiatus (as much as doing a few Ironmans can be called a hiatus). A quick warm-up and we’re cutting it fine for the briefing. When me and Emi roll up we’re at the back of the group. Not an ideal start. I nearly topple over dodging a curious wasp. Get it together, Iona! The race hasn’t even started and you’re already falling over at the back.

Once we pull out into the ‘neutralised’ section, however, I do actually manage to pull it together, making a beeline for the front end of the group, then, we’re off.

It’s a nice course, with a long and straight main road abruptly turning left into a small lane which dives down and up through the fields. It has to be the smallest lane I’ve raced on and half of my brain is panicking about what might happen if a car was to come the other way. Blessed be the marshals. There is one fast lump in the road over which your belly rises through your torso and gravity seems to cut out for a second. “I caught some air there!” Lily tells me as we churn up the climb.

It’s so hot that I feel a bit nauseous. I briefly consider feigning a puncture and going to lie in a cool ditch instead

As I’m contemplating my death at the hands of an oncoming car, someone rides off and I remember that I’m supposed to be racing. With four London Academy riders, two of whom I’d back for a win, I think it’s fair to do a bit of leg work reeling things in. Finding myself back next to Lily, I ask whether she fancies putting in a counter-attack. She tells me that she’d rather go two laps from the end on the rise after the bridge. ‘What a sensible girl,’ I think, realising that throwing around attacks this early in the race would be a waste of everyone’s time. It’s so hot that I feel a bit nauseous. I briefly consider feigning a puncture and going to lie in a cool ditch instead.

The race continues without incident until the penultimate lap, where someone puts in a big attack over the rise after the bridge and for a moment I’m chasing back on, annoyed at the girl in front of me for losing the wheel, and annoyed at whoever it was attacking while I wasn’t ready.

The attack has split the bunch and we form a semi-cohesive group at the front. I count eleven riders and make a mental note to just not be last if we take it to the line. Approaching what I believe to be the bell lap, things slow and I fish for a gel, just as someone puts in a massive sprint.

My first thought: ‘well she looked knackered a minute ago, what’s she doing?’.

My second: ‘well now we’re all bloody attacking each other with a lap to go – do these girls just hate their legs?’

My third: ‘why are we turning left??’

It takes until my fourth thought of the moment for things to really dawn on me: ‘uh-oh this is the finish!’.

Lily crosses in a respectable 3rd, I just pip 9th, Grace and Emi come through not long after.

“Oh my god Lily, you absolutely split the bunch with that massive attack on the penultimate lap just after the bridge,” Grace exclaims.

Eventually it dawns on me.

It is mid-morning and Grace S is dripping a river of rainwater all over Paddington station concourse. I’m feeling nervous – not so much about the upcoming race, but about the potential battle for bike-spaces and seats on the GWR train pulling into the platform. Using our best bunch skills we cut through the horde of passengers and nab a pair of seats, then settle in for a spot of breakfast pasta and gossip while Grace dries off. At the Worcester end of the journey my imaginings of a quaint town filled with tea shops and authentic Worcester sauce emporiums are dashed by a very bog-standard English town. We ask a local whether there are any coffee shops and are shown a Costa, a Starbucks and a Nero. Our sensitive southern souls shudder at the thought. It takes some navigating, but we eventually find somewhere with a vintage-bicycle table and neck our oat flat whites before riding to the race. En route we get hit with a shower, arriving suitably soggy at HQ. Grace dries off for the second time that morning.

I’m feeling nervous – not so much about the upcoming race, but about the potential battle for bike-spaces and seats on the GWR train pulling into the platform

Today’s Team Cup has me, Grace S, Lily and Jas racing for London Academy. The wet ground means a conservative roll-out, chugging along until eventually someone goes, and there is a lurch of activity. Moving forwards I have to squint a bit to make out the green and purple of DAS’ Tammy Miller in the distance. It takes ages for the bunch to pull her back in; even when we’re collaborating well she remains a dot in the distance. She must be an absolute workhorse.

At some point, me, Lily and Grace take to the front of the bunch, not for any tactical reason other than to have a little team natter, but we know that someone behind might be panicking, seeing us line up and anticipating an organised London Academy play. Any rival would be relieved then, to find the lead car slowing and our dangerous three-pronged attack neutralised.

“What do you think it is? Maybe a horse ahead?” I think back to the last Team Cup, when we were all stopped due to a tractor needing to load some cattle in the road. Country life continues with no care for the domestic racing calendar.

Before long we’re being shepherded into a lay-by and told that the ambulance has broken down so we’re going to have to wait while the medics climb into the team cars for the race to continue. I’ve never really thought about the fact that races have ambulances before. You’d think that I would have noticed the massive yellow flashy vans following us around, but when you’re racing you don’t spend much time looking back.

Eventually, we’re off again. Team On-Form keep things lively, playing the exact move which we hadn’t done earlier – three riders on the front, one attacking, two parking it and getting in the way of anyone trying to chase their mate down. Then, counter-attacking straight after.

Reeling in one of these attacks, I feel guilty for pulling her in and apologise as I pass. The girl wants to go up the road, who am I to stop her? I want to cheer ‘Go on love! Go off the front! I hope you make it!’. I wonder whether I have enough innate competitive spirit to be taking part in sports.

When you’re as rubbish at positioning as I am, you become quite practised at dodging crashes. I skirt the tumbling bodies and miss by a whisker

Further along the road, I find myself at the wrong end of the bunch. Momentarily, the sea of bodies and bikes opens and I glimpse a wobble ahead. I’ve seen this kind of wobble a million times over in on-board crash videos (thanks, Instagram algorithm). This is the first time I’ve had such a good view, however. It’s a specific motion, like a party streamer falling through the air. Torso right, bike left, torso left, bike lefter. Classic touch of wheels. When you’re as rubbish at positioning as I am, you become quite practised at dodging crashes. I skirt the tumbling bodies and miss by a whisker. We are promptly stopped, the inevitable result of no ambulance.

To great controversy, they say something about taking the placings from the end of the previous lap. I do the maths and shrug – I was top ten wheels coming into that lap. My moral compass says no, but the prospect of a free points haul says otherwise.

Minutes tick by and we get comfortable, chatting away. Parents and supporters walking down from the finish to provide bottles, snacks, jackets. I’m halfway through telling someone how many gels I’ve eaten when the heavens open. It’s been threatening all race, dark grey clouds looking increasingly menacing each lap. The rain only gets heavier, it’s like standing in a power shower. Riders abandon their bikes to huddle under trees, one or two people bring out their brollies and friends are fast made underneath. I’ve spilt quite a lot of carb mix down myself today so I’m grateful for the free bath.

As the rain eases the race is called off. It sounds like someone went down pretty hard. A mixture of annoyance and relief swirls the drying air. By the time we find our way through the emerging sunshine, back to HQ, Grace is just drying off for the third time. It’s a shame to be coming away without a result after some good teamwork. I’m convinced that Lily and Grace’s epic 2-up breakaway-to-be would have been the winning move, while I would have been a trusty teammate and successfully blocked the bunch before making a legendary sprint to round out the podium… oh well, we’ll never know.