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I broke my balls on
Box Hill
Box Hill early on an autumn Saturday morning is
usually a wonderful place to take the air and throw a few
sticks for Fido. But not on the 8th November when the
place was inundated with slightly mad athletes of all
shapes and sizes preparing to take part in the "Box
Hill Ballbuster". Advertised as a hard-mans race it
even looked tough on paper; 5 eight mile loops of Box
Hill, the first on foot the next three on the bike and
most probably the last one on hands and knees.
The pre-race briefing mentioned tactics, yeah right. Run
the first loop slowly, keep a steady rhythm up the hill
on the bike and then go for it on the last run. Advice
which conflicted wildly with my preferred tactic of just
keep moving until struck down by the Gods of lactic acid
or the finish, which ever came first. One thing the
briefing didn't mention was the delicate matter of, well
how should I put it? Ah, urination strategy. I have never
seen so many runners deviating from the straight and
narrow for instant dehydration and weight loss. Was it
something in the tea?
The pessimist's view is that every descent is followed by
an ascent and when you start at the top of a hill it is
very hard to disagree. But what a descent! It was here
that the "cyclists" distinguished themselves
from the "runners". Brakes? Who needs them?
Aero position, all the time. Free wheeling, I think not.
The downhill was fantastic but the repayment for the
exhilaration was the climb of the zigzags. The front
runners made it look flat but it was anything but. Not
the alpine Col I had been lead to believe but still
painfully hard. I had to employ the age-old tactic of
wheel sucking to get me up at a reasonable rate. Let
someone else do the work and drag me up on their coat
tails. Cheating maybe but no one said you couldn't.
Finally, the lactic leg of death. I got off the bike to
be confronted by a man wearing a Tri and Run shirt; Run?
I'll try! Not so much a run more an ungainly shamble,
which I always seem to adopt after a bike ride. It was
hurting now and hurting a lot. One or two passed. One
prostrated himself at the altar of severe muscle cramp
muttering the tired runner's mantra of "Oh god I'm
buggered". And one patronised me. "It must
really hurt for you big blokes. There really should be a
handicap system," he said as he breezed past.
"Left handed web site user," I thought. Later
on the zigzags I saw him again, walking, yes walking. All
thoughts of doing the same left my head. I was going to
pass him, no witty remark needed here, just a slow steady
trot to reel him in. Handicap system short bloke. I don't
think so.
And then it was all over except for comparing muscle
cramps and general body pains with Euan, Daisy, Matt and
Bob over a welcome cup of tea before considering if I'd
ever walk up stairs again.
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