A return to Tarleton TT course.

A long while ago, around 1990, I rode two ten mile time trials at Tarleton, well I started but never actually finished either. First one I arrived at the last minute and the timekeeper allowed me to start, how far behind the guy in front of me I’ll never know. I reached what I assumed to be the turn but being no marshals I was confused, I did however spot a cyclist walking away from the island and shouted, ‘is this the turn?’ the guy looked more confused than me before eventually nodding his head.

I returned to the finish area not knowing exactly where it was but I rode past a group of cyclists but no timekeeper so I carried on. Eventually I realised I was whistling in the wind and returned to my van in despair.

My next outing on this course resulted in my finishing up in Preston’s accident and emergency unit having been wiped out by a car crossing the dual carriageway, little wonder it is more than fourteen years since I ventured back to Tarleton.

Back to my latest venture at Tarleton, the recent hot weather must have addle my brain as I for some unaccountable reason decided to have another go at the ten mile time trial based here. I was at least a little more familiar this time as I attended an earlier one, though not as a competitor, in support of our members having a go for the first time.

Dave Owen, Chris Roach and William Cocker all rode putting our club colours on show to great effect while I rode up and down the course to familiarise myself with it. As I was still suffering a long lasting viral chest infection, competing was out of the question.  

I arrived early to the signing on HQ but even so was allotted number twenty four so my start time was almost an hour and a half away.

Number one rule for doing time trials is preparation, methodically pack everything needed, having in the past managed to arrive without shorts, take heart rate monitor but not the chest strap, also vice versa to that, no cycling shoes, no cycling top. I as usual prepared methodically, bike, wheels, helmet, mitts, shoes, (matching the pedals this time) heart rate monitor plus belt, shorts, turbo trainer for warm up, boy I was doing well and set off for Tarleton with great confidence.

Having signed on, set up the turbo and began my warm up it wasn’t long before a heavy sweat required the towel from my bag, see I have everything, err, not quite. While getting the towel I noticed my club jersey was not in the bag, Jeeze, here we go again. After a rummage round the car it was again a case of , oh no not again. Fortunately I did have a cotton tee shirt, the one with the photo of Dave Bisset with swinging onions printed on the front, it would have to do, at least it had a club connection.

It was a very warm evening so riding in a cotton tee would be quite cooling riding in the light breeze.

Five four three two one and go, all thought of everything beforehand gone, me against the clock, as Dave Bisset often says, ‘I may beat the hour’. My thoughts were would I get round, as long as I kept my eye on my heart rate monitor to control my effort all would be well. Again fate conspired to defeat my intentions, in order for the wireless cadence to be picked up I had place the computer on the top tube just behind the stem, when in the tri bar position I found to my dismay I could not see it, I was flying blind. In the normal hands on hoods position the monitor was clearly visible and that was all I thought about, so much again for methodical preparation.

No matter, just get on with it, and so I did and let my legs dictate how I managed the pain. All was going well, no one passed me until just before the far turn, I point out that the far turn is not the half way point, though I was feeling as if it should have been. Once round the large roundabout I was at least on the return leg and one by one every man and his dog overtook me, either I was dying or they were flying, I manfully struggled on determined at least to finish and beat the hour.

The finish is down a series of lanes with three left hand turns at junctions, all well marshalled, and it was on one of these short straights I managed to find the only ‘big’ pothole on the course. ‘S aitch one tee’ I shouted loudly as the front of the tri bars went down on impact while at the same time I was passed by another competitor, either he was lucky or I was unlucky, the latter situation fits me like a glove.

Eventually the purgatory was over and it was with great relief I engaged the small chain ring, I had punched the heart rate monitor just after the finish, and back on the hooks I was able to see the damn thing though the reading was now of little interest as I ambled back to my car. I was joined by a rider who was quite pleased with his time, another PB, little did he know I was more pleased than him just to have finished. The couple of miles back to the car in a low gear allowed a feeling of pleasure to return, my legs were beginning to thank me for the wonderful respite.

Everything back in the car I now turned my attention to what I may have recorded on my invisible heart rate monitor, I was in for a shock, well two at least.

First was I actually finished under thirty minutes, I would have settled for forty five to be honest. Second, and this was a real surprise, average heart rate, 181 beats per minute, maximum heart rate reached, 189 beats per minute, little wonder when I got off the bike I was coughing, and coughing, and coughing. Had I been able to see the monitor while riding I would have settled for a heart rate of around 170, at that I should have been able to get round in comfort, well relative comfort. Little wonder I felt so much relief when riding back to the car. On reflection I think I must have been mad to enter but then again I suspect many cyclist are considered a little mad by others so I am in good company. If weather permits I may have another go, but next time I will make sure my monitor is visible, highly visible.