If my morning last Sunday were a movie, it would open with a shot of me, heaving over my handlebars, at the top of a steep, forested hill. The image would blur and pulse in time to my sharp breaths, before a slow pan down to the bike between my legs: a £200 Decathlon single-speed. There’d then be a close-up on my pained face. Freeze frame. Yep, that’s me, I’d interject as the narrator. You’re probably wondering how I got here.
Before I tell you the story, let me preface it by stressing I never intended to race a hill climb on a single-speed bike. “What about your road bike?” you might be wondering. A good question, to which there is a simple, albeit somber answer: my road bike met a deadly fate this July when, strapped to a car roof rack, it was snapped into three pieces by the metal height restriction bar of a car park (I promise I’ll write that warning tale another time).
The plan on Sunday was to borrow my brother’s road bike. He and I had ridden a couple of hill climbs together before. If you’ve ever scrolled down this website as far as my author bio, you might know that my proudest result is 28th out of 40. I’m no racer, but I like taking part.
So when a friend suggested I sign up to East London Vélo’s event and sling myself up Mott Street in Epping Forest – an almost one-kilometre climb that scales a modest 67m – I said I was game, provided my brother raced too and lent me his bike.
That plan ran smoothly, until we reached the sign-on. My brother gave me his bike to test ride while we waited to collect our bib numbers from the boot of a car beside the pub. Within 10 pedal strokes, I slashed his back tyre on a shard of glass and sealant sprayed all over my calves.
I scrambled to help him patch the tubeless rubber – a task we were improvising off the cuff – but by the time it was fixed, I had already decided my road bike curse was too strong. How could I risk someone else’s bike? As we'd soon find out, the start order made a swap impossible in any case; setting off just six minutes apart, there would be no time for one of us to get up and down to pass over the bike. My only option was to race with one gear. “What's the ratio?” another entrant asked me. The wrong one, I said.
I thought about going home. I figured the least I could do was stay and cheer. I’d ridden the best part of an hour to get to the start, surely I should make that count for something? Then my stingy nature kicked in. Entry to the competition had cost me £5. As long as I had two wheels that spun, I was going to get my money’s worth.
I appreciate hill climbs are fertile turf for tech-savvy cyclists, so, for them, this was my ‘set-up’: a navy blue Decathlon ELOPS 500 city bike, steel frame, aluminium rims, circa 12kg all-in. I’d be surprised if the winner’s bike weighed much more than half that.
I bought this bike as a cheap runaround to get to and from friends’ houses, the pub, or the barber. Occasionally, I’ll lug it over to big Tesco. But I wouldn’t dare challenge it to any incline greater than 5%, for fear my thighs would burst like watermelons in a microwave. I certainly wouldn’t take it anywhere near Mott Street – average gradient 6.7%, max almost 15%.
Fortunately, I reassured myself, I’d fitted clipless pedals for the ride out, so I’d have some strength in the upstroke. But it was time to be realistic. In the face of such Alpine slopes, my goal quickly shifted from clocking a decent time to simply reaching the top at all. Could I make it?
At least 20 people began their efforts before me. I cheered them off with an “Up! Up! Up!”, then took my place in the queue and gawped at another man’s S-Works bike. He could probably have bought 50 of mine for the price of his – not that the fleet would be much use.
When my turn came to start, a kind event organiser offered to give me a push. “Please,” I said, “and if you could keep pushing all the way, that’d be great.” He laughed. Presumably he thought I was joking.
Thirty seconds until lift-off. I clip in. 10 seconds. Five, four, three, two, go. I stand up on the pedals and thrust my hips towards the bars for momentum. The last thing I hear is the voice of my brother, the day’s second-last entrant, willing me on from the start line, before I sweep round to the left, up a ramp, and rise into the forest.
Immediately, it’s a grind. My brain starts to wander to the worst case scenario. “What will you do if the chain snaps?” I guess I’ll get off and run. “In those shoes? They’re worth more than the bike.” I’m afraid I don’t have an option.
I reach the halfway point, a welcome plateau, and my minute-man comes sailing over my right shoulder. The sluggishness of my RPM is comical in comparison. He looks weightless. I feel like I’m towing a three-seater sofa.
Just as my spirits start to fade, a marshal – a guardian angel – tells me I’m almost there. I know the climb, and know there’s another 200-odd-meter ramp, but I appreciate the sentiment, and rise out of the saddle again to prove that, despite my speed, I really am trying my hardest.
The finish line is usually signalled by a roar at hill-climbs competitions. I hear the noise swell from the other finishers as they spot me in my neon pink jersey (how could they miss me?) and I kick ahead, as hard as I can, surging towards the crowd and gathering speed. My mouth opens involuntarily. I don’t have the energy to close it.
Where, oh please, where is the finish line? I glance down and spot a dark blue mark across the road. As I lurch across it, I let out a moan that makes me sound like a birthing cow. There’s applause. Someone calls out my bib number. The timekeeper then scribbles down the reading on his stopwatch. And five metres up the road, legs frail and throbbing, I’m bent double, acting out the opening scene of the movie.
The closing scene, perhaps, is what comes a few minutes later, when I turn to my friends and punch the air. No, I wasn’t in the running for the medals – my time of four minutes and 10 seconds placed me second last, ahead of a gentleman more than twice my age. The winner managed 2:01 – but I had accomplished something, scaled the unscalable, and that was worth celebrating.
A few hours later, my friend sent me some photos he took at the finish. I didn’t see the winner cross the line, but I’d be surprised if his face looked as pain-stricken as mine. I think I may have been prouder of my performance than he was of his.
The bond I have with my steel runaround has now deepened. Cycling Weekly’s photographer Richard Butcher once told me, “The best camera is the one you have with you”, and I suppose that’s also true of bikes. I may not have set a new PB, but Sunday’s hill climb was a reminder that racing isn’t just for the fastest. There’s joy in not taking yourself too seriously – I had more fun on the single-speed than I’d ever had with gears.
That said, let this be clear: I hope I never have to race on it again.