Iona Mitchell journal #04: life on borrowed rollers

In a weekend of ice-cream mishaps, borrowed kit and back-of-the-van logistics, London Academy’s Iona Mitchell finds herself at the heart of the chaos — and the quiet triumph — of life on the domestic road scene.

I was sat on the Dawlish station car park floor, watching the girls warm up in a moment of calm between the faffing of transponder clips and the argy-bargy of the start line. Our modest jumble of borrowed rollers and camping chairs, set up opposite the portaloos, lacked some of the glamour of the teams further along: matching rollers neatly lined up next to team cars, qualified mechanics at work, and branded marquees flapping in the sea breeze. Walking past is a bit like walking past the open door of a first-class lounge – look at the free fruit and comfortable seating! Wow! How the other half lives!

While my teammates swallow their nerves and drag heavy legs through warm-up routines, I plug ‘ice cream near me’ into Google Maps, pleased with my decision to skip tonight’s circuit race in favour of the Sunday road race. In the pits, watching the girls set off for the sighting lap, I knew it was the right call. I’m getting old, so railing corners and smashing multiple sprints each lap isn’t my flavour of sorbet right now.

As the bunch completes the first few laps I’m looking out for flashes of orange and pink, trying to speed-shout every teammate’s name as they pass, all in one breath and far too late for any of them to hear. It’s probably best that they can’t hear me – we all look the same in team kit, so I’m probably shouting the wrong names anyway.

“Go on, Grace! We love you, Grace!” I yell, jumping up and down like a maniac and nearly flinging my ice cream at a fellow spectator

Coming into four laps to go, I spy a glimmer of orange and pink ahead of the bunch… can it be? Yes! “Go on, Grace! We love you, Grace!” I yell, jumping up and down like a maniac and nearly flinging my ice cream at a fellow spectator (rum and raisin, in case you were wondering). Jogging to the pits looking for someone to share my excitement with, I find EJ hobbling. I almost shout “Look who’s off the front!” at her but check my excitement, realising that her hobbling in the pits isn’t a good sign. I help to lift her bike over the barrier while her partner helps her shuffle to safety. EJ’s back is out of business after an injury last year. Lapped riders start to pull in and the scene becomes chaotic. Too chaotic for anyone to notice the rider off the front. Carried away by the excitement of the race, I abandon poor EJ to run to the finish line, watching Grace finally reeled in – she must have been out front for two laps. Not bad!

The pace quickens as the bunch sweeps past for their final lap. I hunch over the barriers on tiptoe, blocking everyone else’s view to make out the furthest corner, waiting for the pack to emerge. It is a fast finish – you can see them approaching like a herd of wildebeest. I dither like a worrisome mother wringing her hands. ‘Oh, I do just hope that they all make it safely and no one is hurt.’ The bunch speeds past. Who won? We gather in a huddle of sweat and adrenaline, Grace swearing about a chopper, EJ swearing about her back, and Esme and Catherine too tired to think of any naughty words. Sarah arrives and tells us all off for swearing. No one else seems to have witnessed Grace’s venture off the front, but I insist it really did happen. Three laps at least.

It’s a fine line between being resourceful and taking liberties

Back in the car park Sarah disappears to sweet-talk Loughborough Lightning into giving us lifts to the Sunday race. Most teams rely on staff, budgets, and resources to operate smoothly. We’re a small team mostly reliant upon Sarah’s charm and connections. Tonight we’re enjoying the luxury of borrowed rollers, bike stands, and tools courtesy of her links with teams Spectra and Loughborough, who must like her a lot because it takes all five of us multiple trips to carry the borrowed goods back to their owners. Sarah returns from the Loughborough camp in victory: lifts to the Sunday race sorted. It’s a fine line between being resourceful and taking liberties. The Loughborough mechanic shakes his head and calls Sarah a cheeky cow as we pass him a bundle of camping chairs; the fact that he does so with a smile and twinkle in his eye reassures us that we haven’t completely crossed the line just yet.

On the train home to Exeter we give the platform staff high blood pressure by squeezing five bikes onto a four-bike train carriage, and later the university halls receptionist an aneurysm by taking them into our rooms.

The next morning the complicated plan laid out by Sarah and the team at Loughborough is set in motion: Grace and I ride to a petrol station where we meet the Loughborough team. They take our bikes atop one car while we hop in a different van. Sarah drives to meet us in Tiverton, where there is a lot of faff trying to find somewhere to leave the higher-than-2m van. Our bikes make a narrow escape from being driven into a <2m car park entryway. Cars and vans are left in various car parks, bikes removed, gels and waters topped up, bib shorts found, M&S loos located, locations shared via WhatsApp, a few more M&S loo trips. Eventually everyone is ready for a recce ride.

This is probably the second recce I’ve done in my life, so I make a big effort to memorise every bend in the road. I concentrate for a few minutes but am quickly distracted by the complexities of the Loughborough team town-sign sprint classification table. There is a pile of rocks at the bottom of a long descent, about 2k from the finish. “Who left that there?” I ask as we pass it by. Aside from the pile of rocks, I’ve pretty much immediately forgotten everything about the course.

After, we sit for posh M&S picky bits in a car park. Our bikes are going to stay the night with Loughborough in the Premier Inn, while we drive back to Exeter in Sarah’s car. I whisper to my bike to behave itself as we depart, and thank Dave for sharing his room with it. That evening in our bike-free bedroom, Grace and I unsettle ourselves telling too many spooky stories and can’t sleep. We have to have a calming bedtime conversation about our favourite SRAM chains before we can relax enough to pass out.

In the morning I grab a stack of toast from the university canteen and carry it to the car, but feel too car-sick to eat. Arriving at Witheridge, the Loughborough Lightning team have already set up camp and our bikes are out waiting for us. I pop the stack of toast on top of my bag while we say our good mornings, then carry it to the HQ for sign-on, leaving the toast balanced on my bars as we collect our numbers and use the loos.

Ever since I first wondered where all those fast girls got their fancy red fork warmers, I’ve wanted one too. I feel like I’ve finally made it as a racer. The final piece to the puzzle.

Back at the Loughborough marquee the toast is perched on a gate as we get our shoes on and check our tyre pressure with Steve the mechanic. He gifts me a piece of latex inner for my transponder. I almost cry with joy – I’ve always wanted a piece of latex inner! I feel like a real pro as he pops the transponder snugly between the tube and my fork. The red looks sharp against my all-black bike. He thinks I’m taking the piss as I excitedly thank him, not getting what it means to me. Ever since I first wondered where all those fast girls got their fancy red fork warmers, I’ve wanted one too. I feel like I’ve finally made it as a racer. The final piece to the puzzle. The toast is moved to a camping chair as we ride out for a quick warm-up. Grace stops for her traditional pre-wee and I ride back to return the toast to my backpack and lock it safely in the Loughborough van. Then, briefing and start line.

Usually at this point, I’m a bundle of pre-race nerves. All jittery, dribbling anxiety sick down my skinsuit. Not today. At the biggest race I’ve ever done, I’m completely relaxed and looking around like a tourist. Look, there’s the National Series leader, and look – she used to ride for Canyon//SRAM, and look! She’s literally a multiple world champion. I do my best not to geek out, reminding myself of the time teammate Lily rode up to Charlotte Hodgkins-Byrne mid-race to say “I’m a MASSIVE fan”, to the mortification of everyone present. Play it cool, Iona! Don’t embarrass yourself! Let’s not ask anyone for an autograph. The commissaire tells us to watch out for the pile of rocks and before you know it, we’re off.

From the gun it’s a dash and I’m moving up and down the arse end of the bunch, trying to place myself comfortably while avoiding cat’s eyes and potholes with mixed success. Hitting the downhills I slip back quickly. Even without touching the brakes I struggle to get much speed, and my limited experience doesn’t fill me with the confidence to take anything other than the safest lines. ‘It’s fine,’ I think naively, ‘as long as I can move up a bit on the hills,’ forgetting that this isn’t a low-key regional race – no one came to ride easy up the hills!

After about 10 minutes of chugging, a group of riders appear behind – a line of duckling On Form riders sat on the tail of the mothership from DAS

Eventually I hit the limit. At first, I’m convinced that I’m the first girl to be dropped, most of a lap in. Embarrassed and disappointed, I dip my head down and turn on the diesels, ready to TT it. With the race only two laps long, all you need to do is make the second lap in time and you’ll finish – though not necessarily with a placing. After about 10 minutes of chugging, a group of riders appear behind – a line of duckling On Form riders sat on the tail of the mothership from DAS. Alright then! I hop on board, thanking the race gods for both the salvation of some wheels and, more importantly, the revelation that I wasn’t the first dropped rider. I take the occasional turn as our group swells to around twenty riders – we almost become our own bunch as we lazily cruise the circuit for the second time, riders catching up to us in small groups. No one seems to be in a particular hurry – perhaps since we’re confirmed to at least finish people aren’t motivated to get there quickly. Maybe they just want to get their money’s worth? I wonder whether they’ve forgotten the time cut.

Coming around the pile of rocks and into the final straight I understand the reason for the relaxed pacing. We’ve made the time cut and now it’s a battle for placings. It isn’t a straight sprint. Over the final kilometre the speed steadily ramps up and up until eventually we’re out of the saddle. With 100m to go I’m gripping my handlebars for dear life as the wheel in front of me dances violently. Crossing the line, I’ve barely got the legs to move up the road. Turning, I forget where my arms are and almost crash into a man – he is turned the other way and to this day remains oblivious to his close call with my handlebars.

Finding Grace and Sarah, it turns out that Grace has bagged herself a top ten. Massive! It might be the best result at a Nat A anyone on the team has earned. While I’m busy being impressed and in awe of her mad racing skills – going off the front at Dawlish for four laps then top-tenning today – she is more concerned with analysing every move which led her to coming mere 10th instead of 9th or 8th. All of the ‘what ifs’, the ‘if only I’ds’. As I toss the stale toast into the bin at Tiverton Parkway station I contemplate what it takes to come top ten at a Nat A. Legs, for sure. Bunch skills, definitely. And then what? Probably something a bit like what Grace has – the confidence to attack a bunch of the best riders in the country without seeing it as a big deal, but just because she can. For six laps.