Riding the Cockchafer at Kirroughtree

"Can you have too much of a good thing?" I asked Anthem, my trusty XC full-bouncer as we prepared to ride solo at 10 at Kirroughtree.

I don't normally talk to inanimate objects of course, but 10@Kirroughtree is no ordinary event- as I was soon to find out.

They say that mental preparation is all important and I felt pretty relaxed. Ride, eat, ride, eat - does it get any simpler? My target was 8 laps. For each lap, I assigned a member of my family (myself, my wife, 5 kids and the bike). Basically, everyone is trapped in a burning building and I need to get everyone out - one per lap (Ok, it’s a slow fire) - starting with myself and ending with my youngest son. I knew that as the legs started to hurt, I would need some powerful motivation to keep riding. After the Family, I rescue the bike - that way she knows she'd better not fail me round the course.

AND THEN WE'RE OFF.

I've never seen a police car chased by so many riders. People are shoving each other in the excitement, and I get knocked into several times. My computer falls off. No time to pick it up, so I'll have to complete the race without the comfort of statistics. DOUBLE DRAT.

I keep riding, and end up towards the front of the pack. This allows me to avoid too much overtaking round the early laps, without tiring my legs out with a sprint start.

The early laps are comfortable - easier than training as I'm trying to save my legs. I've opted to stop at the end of each lap to eat and do a few stretches. The problem is that this all takes time as it always takes a few minutes to get going again, and I reckon I would have been better off doing double laps initially.

After about 5 hours, I realise that I'm starting to dehydrate badly. Despite my camelbak, I just can't seem to drink enough. I just seem to be too hot.

At the next stop, I change into a little vest - it feels a lot better.

At six hours, I realise that I can't feel my thumb any more. Too many gear changes? My legs are starting to tire, so I have a massage at the next change. Like everything, it takes time.

Legs refreshed and re-hydrated, I'm back on the course. Overtaking riders everywhere (there's 402 !!!) and rarely being overtaken myself.

It's cool riding - mainly bits of twisty red route and lengths of muddy, rooty, natural trail, but at 7 hours its all starting to merge a bit.

My legs hurt and I'm starting to find the hills a strain. You can now clearly identify who is riding solo, and who is in a team. The blood, mud and sweat mark me out clearly as a solo, but it's those staring demonic eyes, the thousand yard stare that causes the team riders to move aside, as I grind my way up the hills. Or could it be the profuse, uncontrollable sweating?

There are 14 grammes of padding in my I-fly C cross country saddle, but after 8 hours, I'm darned sure I got short changed by a gram or two.

Despite the number of riders, it's sometime eerily quiet on the course and, for a while, you can wonder if everyone else has already gone home.

Some time ago, I started to talk to my bike, but after 9 hours of riding, she starts talking back. We swap humorous anecdotes and philosophical musings.

9 hours. I've saved all my family, and just need to save the bike.

She's still sweet, but the gear shift seems incredibly hard.

The legs really hurt now and I starting to run out of energy.

I'm in top gear, riding down a fire-road slope. About to enter a natural bit of trail (the slippy one with the off-camber rocks), when the shifter packs in.

OOOOPS. Stuck in top gear.

The b***ch waited until now, knowing that I had to save her to get back to civilisation. I'll show her. I adopt a new pace - recklessly fast over rocks and around trees... and a bit of pushing up hills.

I start to pass riders laying by the side of the trail- in a worse state than me.

AND THEN ITS DOWN THE TWISTER, one last time.

It still feels fast and before I know it, I'm hammering past the kids park to the finish, racing no-one but myself. I hear the blaring music and I shout like a maniac, waving my arms as I approach the line.

I cross the line and people shake my hand and congratulate me. Someone pulls my timing tag off and someone else thrusts a small whisky bottle in my hand and directs me to the bar.

Elated, but exhausted I ride to the car. I change out of my sweat soaked shorts and pull a shirt over my vest and wash the dead midges off my sweaty face. I brush my teeth to take away the (now) sickening taste of energy juice.

I eat a burger, and chill. Supremely relaxed, but maybe a little light headed. Whisky is not a good idea just now.

I achieved my 8 laps, making me the 22nd solo, but I think I also worked out where it earned its unofficial nickname of 'the Cockchafer'. I wondered why it was named after a beetle.