Maunder - Rainbows in the mud: Inside the intoxicating world of cyclocross

For Lesley, Anya, Oscar and Amelia

Contents

I am hugely grateful to many people who have provided me with insight, friendship and coffee throughout the writing of this book: Elle Anderson, Charlotte Atyeo, Geraldine Bergeron, Joos Beyers, Martijn Boot, Derek Bouchard-Hall, BrittLee Bowman, Simon Burney, Louis Chenaille, Ben Clark, Ian Cleverly, Nick Craig, Katie Compton, Brecht Decaluw, Danny Delchambre, Dirk Delchambre, Nico Dick, Gabby Durrin, Jeremy Durrin, Dan Ellmore, Charlotte Elton, Ian Field, Colin Garnham, Jenny Govaerts, Halcyon Books, Balint Hamvas, Nikki Harris, Gage Hecht, Bruce Hecht, Molly Hurford, Christophe Impens, Eli Iserbyt, Marshall Kappel, Luc Lamon, Shane Lawton, Chris Layhe, Mark Legg, Vincent Luyendijk, Robert Macfarlane, Michael Mayer, No Nachtergaele, Ken and Maureen Nichols, Ellen Noble, Connie Pauwels, Spencer Petrov, Jeremy Powers, Geoff Proctor, Karen Ramakers, Jonas Renders, Nicky Renders, Evie Richards, Brad Roe, Roebijn Schijf, Renaat Schotte, Dan Seaton, Gordon Siers, James Spackman, Allister Tulett, Dan Tulett, Ben Tulett, Katherine Tulett, Peter van den Abeele, Lars van der Haar, Gert van Goolen, Corn van Kessel, Ellen van Looy, Christine Vardaros, Rene Vermeiren, Brook Watts, Michel Wuyts, Helen Wyman, Stef Wyman, Jim Yeatman.

Everyone remembers their first bike race. Mine was a cyclocross race around a scrap of farmland near Oxford. November 1985, by my reckoning. I was 11 years old, and about to fall in love.

I had no idea what a cyclocross race was, but my dad must have done some research because hed procured for me a pair of hockey boots with studded soles. We did a pre-race lap of the circuit and discussed where to ride and where to push. I was astonished. They expected us to ride our bikes through these thickets, up this steep muddy path and back down this precipitous drop? Were they insane?

There were three of us on the start line. One of my rivals had a better bike than me, and proper cyclocross shoes, but was only nine years old. The other kid wore wellies. Alongside our three dads there were two race officials. No spectators, although the cows in an adjacent shed did look mildly interested. The flag dropped. I moved into an early lead and never relinquished it. Id won my first race. My prize for victory? Three Mars Bars. The road to a professional contract with a European team unfurled before me. Going to school the next day seemed pretty pointless. This muddy patch of Oxfordshire countryside was the scene of something significant.

After our Under-12s race, the seniors took to the mud. Their race was on a bigger loop taking in a ploughed field and some rather spectacular drop-offs. After the race some of the hardier souls washed themselves using water from a cattle-drinking trough. My dad and I watched in awe and fascination. What was this crazy sport wed stumbled into?

Cyclocross has always been present in my life. Its how I started racing, and though I loved it then, it always seemed only to be a gateway drug. You moved on to road racing in your mid-teenage years, because that was where fame and glory awaited. For many years in my twenties and thirties life diverted me from cyclocross. It was only when I had children that the fire was rekindled. For a year my daughter had a habit of bouncing out of bed at five oclock, and my wife and I took turns to be dragged downstairs with her. One dark November morning I was sitting at the kitchen table, precious mug of tea in hand, brain fuddled, browsing cycling websites when I came across a link to a cyclocross video. Beside me my daughter was tucking into toast and jam and watching Sesame Street videos on her iPad. When you have children you rediscover all the things you responded to when you were young, like Lego and remote-control monster trucks. Perhaps cyclocross fitted into that category of memories being dredged. Anyway, I clicked. Sporzas Belgian commentators began a heroic competition with Elmo and the rest of the Sesame Street crew.

My recollection of seeing cyclocross on television during the late eighties a rare event was of a grimly muddy, foggy and confusing affair. Quintessentially British, in other words. Yet here were pin-sharp images of brightly clad riders charging around a Belgian field, huge digital screens in the background, thick crowds and riotous advertising banners everywhere. This was something I could get into.

Soon a Sunday afternoon ritual developed. While a chicken roasted in the oven and rain trickled down the windows, Anya and I would sit together and watch the live feed from whichever Superprestige, Bpost bank trophy or World Cup race was on. I joked to friends that she was the only three-year-old in south-east London who could speak Dutch. They looked back at me with a mixture of scepticism and pity.

My daughter soon got bored, but for me the love affair took hold. I consumed everything I could find about the sport. My knowledge grew. I went to races at home and abroad, got to know people involved in the sport, began to write about it.

*

Thirty years after that first race near Oxford and Im standing on another patch of mud watching a cyclocross race, my wife and two young children are with me, and this time were in Milton Keynes, a mere 30 miles from the scene of my first race. Around us are ten thousand fans, all ringing cowbells and yelling and pumping air-horns. Ten thousand fans at a cyclocross race in Britain. Its a UCI World Cup race, the highest level of the sport, and despite the name its the first time a World Cup round has been held outside mainland Europe. Next to the coffee and doughnuts van there is a smart marquee, with diners inside enjoying lunch on pristine white tablecloths. A security man is stationed at the entrance, and a corporate banner flutters in the wind. A corporate tent. At a cyclocross race in Britain. I shake my head in disbelief.

On the faces of the crowd are expressions of delight, excitement, admiration. And some, those of a certain age, just look pleasantly stunned. Their sport and cyclocross does inspire passionate feelings of kinship has gone from the periphery to the mainstream. Its like your team being promoted from League Two to the Premiership overnight.

And the expansion hasnt only occurred in Britain. In America cyclocross is the fastest-growing discipline within cycling. The growth has been organic, built on the hard work of enthusiasts who organise and ride events across the country. A vibrant community has developed around the scene. As with all cult sports, cyclocross in America has its own identity, distinct from its European heritage. It has a party atmosphere, particularly on the West Coast, with beer hand-ups to racers, heckling and dodgy costumes. But underneath, the race meets have a sense of genuine camaraderie, a feeling of family. Basically, its great fun.

In Europe all paths lead to Belgium, the heart and soul of cyclocross. Here the sport is as popular as soccer. Professional races attract huge paying crowds and are shown live on television. The stars of Belgian cyclocross earn big salaries and are celebrities, their efforts followed by adoring fanclubs. And whereas watching road racing generally involves a long trek to a good spot, an equally lengthy wait, then a few moments of exhilarating whiz and swish, cyclocross is the perfect spectator sport. The circuits are short and accessible, there are several races on each day, and a plentiful supply of beer and friets is always on hand. The sport is expanding, changing. Once niche, its now becoming increasingly mainstream. Its heartland may be the woods and fields of Flanders, but across the world people are taking to the mud and letting their back wheel slide.