Iona Mitchell journal #05: the off-season isn’t quiet if you’re watching Strava

As the road season fades, London Academy rider Iona Mitchell continues her season-long journal, recording the rituals, rivalries and mild absurdities of domestic cycling, from off-season QOM grudges to hill climbs decided by the slowest thumb on a stopwatch.

The road racing season might be over, but there are still a few weeks left to eke out some healthy competition and ruin my good bike before the winter truly sets in.

I’m enjoying a nice steak and ale pie at the pub when the phone dings. I resist turning it over and instead sneak a look at my smartwatch – keeping up my table manners for the in-laws.

The table manners don’t last long: “Oh piss off back to Eastbourne,” I cry out loud.

My eyes well with tears and a crushing feeling of inadequacy presses down upon my ego. I briefly consider quitting cycling forever

She’s done it again, the closest fast-girl has gone on a club ride and picked up a couple of my QOMs along the way. It’s a regular Sunday occurrence, but it still upsets me every time. My eyes well with tears and a crushing feeling of inadequacy presses down upon my ego. I briefly consider quitting cycling forever.

She’s chosen a bad time to upload her ride, though. I’m at the table with JV, route master of the Hastings club ride.

“JAYVEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” JV sighs.

The following week, the Hastings Sunday club ride very conveniently is set to head out along the North Trade Road out of Battle – scene of last week’s robbery. Most members have been clearly briefed on our mission, but I have to interrupt a new member, punchy Scott, to tell him that I’ve recently been robbed of a QOM. His eyes light up, excitedly asking, “Are we doing this??”

He’s like a dog on the scent, I barely have time to explain where the start and end are before he launches out of the roundabout and up North Trade Road. Panic. Everyone scrambles for his wheel.

This is a stellar lead-out, Scott is strong, it’s hard work and we yell at him, “We need to average 40kmph!” from behind – worried that the attempt will be overcooked. I’m clinging on as Scott fades and JV takes over to give what he can, then it’s just Owen left in front. Up a rise two members, Martin and Michael, sprint up for a few hundred metres and I hop onto their wheel – Martin going much faster than necessary and small Michael offering zero draft, this is much harder work than it needs to be! Over the crest of the small rise I put my head down and click down a gear. Pushing on, body barely awake and legs filing formal complaints. By the time I reach the turning which marks the end of the segment, I’m pretty knackered.

Did you really just hijack the group ride to get that random segment? It isn’t even a proper climb!

As the rest of the group catches up, someone asks, “Did you really just hijack the group ride to get that random segment? It isn’t even a proper climb! It’s just a random stretch of road!”

“Yes,” I respond. They don’t look impressed. I offer them some sage wisdom: “As someone once said: First, they came for my Battle Roundabout to Heathfield Turn and I did nothing. Then, they came for my Forewood Lane and I did nothing. Then, they came for my Stonestile Lane Full, and there were no QOMs left.”

The next week, hill climb season kicks off. I’ve only entered a string of local climbs along the South Downs, keeping it low key, for a bit of end-of-season fun. I figure there’s also a few extra quid in it for entering the series and going for an overall prize – a sure thing, no one else is possibly that fussed enough to enter the whole of a fairly niche series… right?

I’m immediately proven wrong. Looking at the start list there are plenty of other women riders at the events. It’s unusual – this is a CTT affiliated event! Where have all these women come from?

Browsing the recent times of Lucy Deschamps I realise that I’ve got no chance, she’s rapid. And, as it turns out, 50! No 50-year-old has any business being that fast

Browsing the recent times of Lucy Deschamps I realise that I’ve got no chance, she’s rapid. And, as it turns out, 50! No 50-year-old has any business being that fast. Even Annemiek herself is only a sprightly 43 years old.

On the day I also discover that Lucy is ridiculously friendly. We meet over some emergency Jelly Babies and she wishes me good luck as I push off. Well I’ll bloody well need it now that you’re doing the series, Lucy!

“And the worst bit is that she’s really friendly!” I complain on the way home.

“The bitch!”

“And she said she would bring us start-line sweets to share next time!”

“What a cow!”

During the week I feel down, so, as a present from myself to myself, I decide to take a local KOM.

There’s a short, one-minute punch outside of town which I know isn’t locked in. And to make things better, it’s owned by an absolute KOM fiend, my friend Sam.

He is the kind of ruthless arsehole who will listen to you talk about a KOM you’re really proud of, and go out the next day to take it. He’s even been known to ask people to give him a lead-out to take their own KOMs from themselves.

I line up one of my go-to training loops with a detour, and head out on my mission.

The wind isn’t in my favour and I can’t convince my boyfriend to come out on lead-out duties; nevertheless, I make the turning ready to leave it all out on the road. The climb is short enough that I can big-ring it, crossing what I guesstimate to be the start I ramp up the power, stomping the pedals thinking, “If you’re quick enough you’ll be done before it starts to hurt.” The gradient pitches upwards and I hop out of the saddle, cadence slowing to a grind, I force myself to punch through each stroke, visualising the tears and humiliation Sam is about to face, having his KOM stolen by a girl. The pain I am going through now is nothing to the pain he will face when he finds out. The segment has a few metres of downhill after its crest so, seeing the end of the hill as the pain starts to rise through my legs, I fight through it, over the top, getting down into an aero tuck for the last few metres, risking my life as I reach the end of the road and barely check the traffic swinging left.

Phew.

I’ve ruined my intervals for the evening, but imagining the look on Sam’s face as he gets the ‘uh-oh’ notification is worth more than any training benefit.

I’ve ruined my intervals for the evening, but imagining the look on Sam’s face as he gets the ‘uh-oh’ notification is worth more than any training benefit.

The final weekend of HC season is looming… well, my HC season anyway. Everyone else is doing nationals next week, I’m going on holiday. My final weekend involves a double-header on the Saturday, and Ditchling Beacon on Sunday.

On the Saturday we climb Steyning Bostal two ways. The steeper northern end in the morning and the much longer southern end in the afternoon – this more like a TT than a HC, with multiple downhill sections and a long 1% drag to the finish. During my warm-up I pass a few girls in FTP kit. Oh no, FTP girls are pretty good when it comes to these events. It’s still early in the season but the national rankings are littered with them. Giving a friendly wave, I’m warming up in London Academy kit so one of them shouts ‘hello’ at me in passing, though I’ve got no clue if I’ve met them before. Spotting these FTP girls has gotten me a bit worried; alongside Christina Weijak and Lucy on the start list it’s looking to be more stacked than usual. I can feel the podium wine slipping through my fingers. What’s the point in doing this event if I’m not taking home a bottle?
I shake my head and focus on the effort ahead. ‘Just do the same as before – but with more watts,’ I think. Simple.

At HQ after the climb things are tense. Names and times keep shuffling up and down the results sheet. At first Christina has done an obscene time and is listed in the top few men’s, then corrections are made and she’s within a second of Lucy.

“According to the ticker I’m still riding!” a girl tells us. “Correct them and say you did it in three minutes,” we joke.

It’s a close one. As well as the second between Lucy and Christina for first, there is also only a second between me and Anna Boniface for third. As the volunteers go through their corrections I can’t stop looking over at the screen. Someone is trying to engage me in conversation but I’m barely listening, eyes peering over their shoulder, inwardly praying that none of the other girls are suddenly granted any time reductions.

“Excuse me, I think they’re done with the results,” I escape rudely and move closer to the screen.

Phew, I’ve landed the right side of that one second. The difference between a slow thumb on the stopwatch or leaving a bottle at the bottom – a fraction of a few grams or watts. I know it’s a matter of luck rather than strength – but I’m still happy. I know who Anna is from road racing and she’d have destroyed me any other day. I’m mainly pleased, however, with the all-important bottle of third place wine. I’m relying upon the goodwill of JV for my lift to the HC tomorrow and hoping a bottle of red will help to seal the deal.

For lunch I sit down in a local café when the couple on the next table naturally strike up conversation and I’m immediately doomed to the series of questions which we are all subjected to this time of year.

“So, how far is this bike race?” I tell them and they are unimpressed. Their mate Mark did RideLondon last year.

There’s no amount of insisting that will persuade this couple that hill climbing is a real sport. I relent and ask them about their holiday instead.

“Is it like Tour de France then?” I tell them and they are unimpressed. They don’t seem to believe that I do road racing either.

“I bet your bike is expensive?” I tell them and they are especially unimpressed. Especially when they discover that I’m not riding a carbon frame like Mark.

There’s no amount of insisting that will persuade this couple that hill climbing is a real sport. I relent and ask them about their holiday instead.

At the afternoon climb I’m relieved when Anna is a no-show. The pressure would have been too much – especially on a nearly ten-minute climb. I tell everyone that she’s been scared off.

The climb is long and has two descents. At the second I’m in a serious tuck, desperately trying to pick up speed and recover before the road rollercoasters up again into the next section. Head right down, legs spun out, I’m doing 60kmph when I spot certain death waiting for me at the bottom. Right where the descent ends and rises again, two cars are pulling out into the road from opposing sides, a solid metal door closing ahead.

My life flashes before my eyes. I see myself catapulting over the hoods of both cars simultaneously in a dramatic collarbone-breaking somersault. Sometimes in life you have to forget aero gains in favour of survival. I sit right up and wave one arm like a maniac, praying that both cars can see me coming. I’m in stealth black as London Academy aren’t CTT registered. I pray that I’m not so stealth black that the cars don’t spot me.

I could brake, but that might lose me a precious second.

Thankfully, as if parted by Moses, both cars start to reverse out of the road and I just about pass through safely, and the adrenaline carries me up most of the climb.

Most people have similar stories at the finish line. It turns out that the cars were exiting a local family pumpkin-picking day, also the reason this usually inconspicuous road is so busy on a Sunday afternoon. It sounds like luck was on my side; lots of people had to brake or make dodgy swerves around surprised families, heading home with their pumpkins, not expecting insane cyclists to be bombing it down the hill straight towards them!

The question of the day has been ‘so are you doing Ditchling tomorrow?’, with 90% of replies going something like: ‘Well, I am signed up but…’. When you’re in the middle of a double-header day the thought of waking up at 5am the next day to make an early hill climb is one we all want to forget. Especially considering the shocking weather the event has had in the last few years. Some people cite the early start, some people cite wanting to recover for nationals next week, some people just don’t fancy it. Nevertheless, I wave goodbye to everyone perkily calling, “See you tomorrow.”

Ditchling Beacon usually gets a good crowd. Everyone knows the climb as the last effort before Brighton, so you get all sorts of riff-raff travelling down. I’m caught between worry that a bunch of really strong girls will show up and worry that I’ll get to the village hall and not know anyone.

At the village hall I set him up with his favourite boomer pastime – watching plumbing videos on YouTube – and go for my warm-up

It’s an early start. JV picks me up and announces that he won’t be riding today; he’s done his back in because he’s old. I’m very cross about this – firstly that he’s copping out, and secondly that he’s still selflessly waking up at 5am to give me a lift when he could be having a nice lie-in. I owe him massively – more than the bottles of victory wine I press into the van cupholders. At the village hall I set him up with his favourite boomer pastime – watching plumbing videos on YouTube – and go for my warm-up, needing some extra time spinning today after yesterday’s exertions.

The climb is grot and I find myself struggling to do any numbers at all, but coming over the final peak, past the famous horse sign and trying (and failing) to catch my minute man, it’s a beautiful morning. The sun is still low in a golden haze and spinning out I pass a car crashed in a field, Brighton and the Channel wavering in the distance. It’s gorgeous.

I scrape third and take home another bottle of victory wine, quickly passed to JV for his services. It’s good vibes in the village hall, chatting rubbish with everyone, feeling a bit sad that it’ll be another year until we’re all gathered in a village hall moaning about short efforts.

Someone mentions that they’re looking to move out of London and I dive in, ever an East Sussex evangelical: “Oh it’s great down here, the quality of life is so good by the sea. Plus the riding is exceptional, you’ve got flat, you’ve got hills, you’ve got lanes at your doorstep – whatever you want.”

“And there’s no competition for QOMs, I’ve noticed that you get loads!” Lucy chips in. “Maybe I should move down so that I can have some more too.”

“Absolutely not!” I retort. “Stay out of Hastings!”