The Niseko Classic, or 'Le Tour de Niseko' as us aficionados of all things two wheels refer to it, was held last Sunday week. It was the first time the event was held and about 200 hundred of us pedaled up to the start on a bright, warm morning. Or rather starts as there was a 140km course and a 70km course. I had toyed with the idea of doing the longer run but after a 40km practice ride up to Forest Kozan and back my arse said definitely 'no'. And it wasn't too keen on the 70km course either.
The longest I had previously ridden was 50kms last year in the Cavan kayak-run-ride competition. My training this year had consisted of two there-and-back rides to Forest Kozan, one in June, the other earlier this month. With Cian's help I figured out that came to 80km and after Cian and myself had mentally wrestled with the double figures subtraction we finally concluded that that was 10km more than the race distance.
No problem then.
So last Sunday I woke up at 4:20, ate a power breakfast and motored off to Rankoshi where the 70km race was due to start. It was to finish at Hirafu in a sort of loop-and-a-bit course, which turned out to be a bit problematic. According to Google maps it would take me 2 hours to get there so I left just after five to ensure I was there in plenty of time for registration.
Google maps is a lying sack of shit.
I was there by 6:30. The only thing earlier than me was the dawn. Eventually the organizers and other competitors arrived and we got ourselves set for our 8:30 start. Prior to this the officials gave a run down of the race details and safety guidelines none of which I paid any attention to as it was all in Japanese. Plus, I was too busy eying up my fellow racers.
They all had shaved legs.
By comparison I looked like a wooly mammoth stuffed in to a pair of too tight bicycle shorts. But a manly mammoth, happy with his hairy hetrosexuality.
We assembled on a sloped slip road just off the main road. There were cameras, an incessantly chattering man with a microphone, and some local people gathered to see a little bit of history. The starter raised his pistol, BANG! and we were off!
Or rather everybody else was off. I, on the other hand, fell off my bike.
No, seriously, I did. Right at the start, I fell of my bike. It was the feckin clip-in pedals; I couldn't get my shoes slotted in properly, couldn't gain enough speed to get up the slip road, so instead I toppled over sideways and down the ditch. Meanwhile the man with the mike was going "Good jaysus would ye ever look at the hairy legged foreigner! What an arse, ladies and gentlemen, what an arse".
I finally managed to get back up on my bike and get some going-forward going, but left my dignity behind me in the ditch. The main group, or le peloton, were already half a kilometre ahead and disappearing around a bend in the road. I, still at kilometer zero, put the hammer down and sped up and around the bend only to find that everyone had disappeared. It was like all the riders had been instantaneously whisked away to heaven in cycling's equivalent of the rapture while the hairy legged non-believer was left to sweat it out on the empty roads between Rankoshi and Iwanai. Spooky.
I continued pedaling and after a while some stragglers/fellow sinners began to appear in the distance. First up was the fat guy in sandals and beach shorts on a 1970's Peugeot racer who looked like he'd tagged along in the hope that we were all going to the beach.
And swooooshhh, I put the hurt on him.
Next up was a guy wearing the complete Team Cannondale kit. As I caught up with him he gestured towards his arse and said "一生に?" ("Together?"). This was my first road bike race, ever, so I wasn't not too sure what to make of this. I hadn't seen such a gesture since those glittering evenings in the Imperial Hotel in downtown Sydney, where as an only recently lapsed Irish Catholic fresh off the plane, I was introduced to a whole other pink world I hitherto never realized had existed. I can definitively say that the impression Oxford Street and its environs made were 'indelible'.
I pointed towards my legs, the intended message being "Hairy you see. Comfortable with my hetrosexuality". But he gestured towards his arse again.
And then I got it. He wanted to draft, work in turns leading into the wind which was, it had to be said, blowing pretty stiffly in off the Sea of Japan.
I'd never drafted before so I wasn't too sure what it involved in terms of technique, speed, timing, pretty much everything. So I tucked myself in behind his rear wheel, counted to ten, pedaled like a mad bastard to get in front of him and continued to pedal like a mad bastard, until he cut in front of me again. We continued like this for a few kilometres until we were both absolutely knackered. I was subsequently talking to a biking friend of mine who explained that drafting is about pacing. You do it to conserve energy whilst still maintaining a fast pace. It is not, apparently, about cycling like a 'mad bastard' or 'bâtard fou' as we say on le Tour.
We eventually split. I didn't realize it at the time. It was only after I had counted to fifty and wondered why the lazy fecker wasn't taking his turn in front that I turned around to see Team Cannondale wasn't there any more. On and on I wended my solo way along side the Shiribetsu river. I was pedaling into the sun by that stage and combined with the wind I could feel by skin begin to crispen. The cool waters of the river looked very inviting.
Back in to Rankoshi, past the man with the mike; "Look its the hairy legged foreigner! He's still on his bike! Unbelievable!". And then into the hills.
I liked the hills. We spent a fair amount of time climbing them, a good 15km or so on an average 7% slope. And this was where the legendary Gaynor engine, honed on the playing fields of St. Finians GAA pitch all those years ago (and yes, I did cover every blade of grass), asserted itself. Going uphill was when I put the hurt in and hauled myself from somewhere in the low 90's to a top 80 finish.
Yes!
Plus when I finally reached the crest and plummeted downwards I managed to go faster than I ever had on a bike before, surpassing the speed record I achieved last year on the hill outside of Lubbinlee during the Cavan race (an event I highly recommend by the way. The sponge cake you get at the end...). There were times on the descent when I swear I could hear the first rumblings of the sonic barrier. I was like Chuck Yeager on a bike.
And then my arse started to get sore and no combination of saddle shifting, short tugging, or pedal standing could get it to stop being sore. And I still had 20kms to go.
And on I went dear reader in an increasingly solipsistic world of posterior pain which, no, wasn't reminiscent of those heady nights on Oxford Street in Sydney. I may have been a lapsed catholic getting off the plane but I was, by God, still a hairy-legged hetrosexual!
I rode on past the nice policeman who wished me good luck in English and all the cars waiting patiently for us riders struggling by while the traffic is temporarily halted on our behalf. That last 20km seemed a lot longer and tougher than the first 50.
The final hill up to Hirafu hoved into view, I put in a last frenzied burst of pedaling and passed some diminutive female rider with whom I had my own private race over the last 5km or so as we yo-yoed back and forth in front and behind each other. Yes! I am the man. The hetrosexual man. Albeit with an arse like a homosexual (though I really wouldn't know).
It took me 2 hours 57 minutes to complete the race at an average speed of 23kph. The winner, by contrast, came in 2 hours 11 minutes and averaged 31kph. Now, I don't mean to be a bad (73rd placed) loser but I think you'll agree that a time and average speed like that demands a blood test. Or at the very least a sniff of his water bottles.
After the race we had to wait on the bus back to Rankoshi. This took nearly as long as the cycle as we had to sit through all the announcements, speeches, awards (in all 17 categories!) and the cupla focail from each of the award winners. And no after race massage facilities. Even Cavan has those.
But yes, as my mid-life crisis gathers pace, I will no doubt be back for more. But before that there is a little something called 'Gaelforce West' in three weeks time.
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