Vatternrundan · 8.07.06
How It All Began:
I have been training for this race. It’s called Vatternrundan. 300km around a lake in Sweden. It was Irish Ross’s idea, about 9 months ago he emailed me and Greg about it and since we were all stoked and feeling invincible, having just done the Dunwich, we signed oursleves up.
One night at the Duke, Greg was talking about it in Vinehill in between shots of whiskey and spliffs and beers and bullshit… he ropes Isti into coming. Cool. We all met a few times and sorted flights and entry fees and the rest and then we all set about doing our own thing.
Now Ross is The Great Irish Hope, you don’t know him. He’s from Oxford and we met him on last year’s Dunwich. He rides and races and takes care of himself thoroughly. No one questioned that he was going to finish the 300kms. We’ve seen the man stay up all night, eat nothing and do a 70km road race with the Cat 2-3 group and not be an embarassment! He’s an athlete.
Greg was pretty confident, he’s got alot of distance rides under his belt and he’s got a saddle that fits him like a glove.
Isti is just about the hardest mother-fuck£r I have met. He can do 100 miles of rolling hills chain smoking and not feel a thing. He’ll play games with you while he’s doing it too, more than once Isti has ridden up beside me, unclipped and sat buhuda-esque on the bike going up (or down) a hill… he has no fear, he has no brakes. Enough said.
Me, I was worried. I am not a good climber. I am weaker than the boys. Every time I went out to train with Greg he criticized me. Two weeks before the ride I was so nervous I nearly chickened out. I was secretly training with Therese, doing push ups in my room and climbing hills by myself in an attempt to improve the faults Greg had pointed out. I was angry and determined by race day. I had saddle sores, from the new Stella Italia going in to the race. NEVER A GOOD SIGN. I got chamois cream and new padded shorts. I was not letting a bit of pain get in the way.
At the Airport:
We accidentally nicked two bottles from the duty free when we could not find an open cash register. It wasn’t until we were well and clear of the shops that the boys asked me to put the bottles in my bag to avoid suspicion.
There Should be a Car here, Right?
After much too-ing and fro-ing and back and forth about bike bags and boxes and padding and after I purchased a bag*, we decided to rent a car for the 4 days we were in Sweden. Ironically, the country holds the largest yearly amateur distance race of Europe and it doesn’t allow cycles on the trains! (WTF?!)
It took us a while to clear customs into Sweden and when we got to the other side there was no vehicle waiting. We paid and reserved a station wagon. Greg took care of it. They took the money, they promised us a car. I go to a bank machine and find that my card does not work… I have not taken out money in advance, broke with 4 days to go.
At 1am it became clear that the “24hrs bus service” to the car rental sign was outdated and the one right next to it, stating that service commenced every day at 7am was infact the accurate one.
When we finally got a hold of someone at the rental place, they had no record of the rental and not car to give.
We had planned to spent the night before the race hanging out with Raf (ex-creative) and his girlfriend Erika. Instead we ended up sleeping rough in the airport. It was not good. The entire place is uber modern, beautiful and clean lined. Marble and steel and glass, not a cushion to seen and at this time of year it doesn’t get dark. Man, was it horrible. I reckon at best we each got about 2hrs sleep.
In the morning we got a slightly bigger shoe-box labelled “station wagon” for our pains. I had to leave my bike bag at the car rental place because 4 bikes, 4 bags of kit and 4 adults didn’t fit so well.
*The bag did nothing to protect my bike. It came out of the plane with massive gashes on either side where the axles and nuts went completely through. My right stay is nicely scarred all the way down to the steel for its entire length… Grrr. Greg, who took his bike out of the bag seems to have been the smart one. His bike was in mint condition. lol.
Its 7am and we are off to Upsala to meet up with Raf and Erika. Isti and I have our first shot of Jager, Ross is dead asleep, mouth agape. Greg is getting driving. Classic rawk is blaring, and scenery out the car window reminds me of Ontario.
At a gas station we ask for directions. The local says it’s 2kms when he reads Erika’s emailed directions. We get lost. After 20kms we think we may be on the right road and stop in the parking lot of a grocery store. We get a phone call from Raf, and he assures us we are 5mins away. An hour later we find their flat! The Swede’s are very good at signage, however the signs are small and the names are long and all sort of look the same which resulted in us passing through intersections before actually reading them.
On the road again, there is more sleep for Ross, more Jager, more beer. I am nervous and my plan was a couple of quick shots to put me out and I would get the sleep I missed. Didn’t happen. I am conservative with the shots, Isti is not. We’ve drank 2/3 of the bottle and now Greg is getting tense that it may be all gone before we set up camp in Motala.
It’s been a couple of hours on the highway, we have just seen the sign to Motala. I’m excited, scared and anxious. My stomach is flipping. I am determined that i will not fail. its 26 degrees before noon, cloudless sky. Isti is well pissed. I am giddy. Ross is cranky. All of us are exhausted. The number of cars with bikes is increasing. We start to perve them as we pass them. Alot of Bianchi, alot of aluminium. The best was the ancient hippy tour bus with at least 20 bikes strapped to the top.
In Motala its a scramble from one line to another and another to get our race cards and registration sorted. We get seperated as Isti goes in search of Swedish girls, Ross goes looking at the stalls and Greg and I try to sort the race stuff. No one really speaks English so when I hear the guys behind us in the queue my first question is, “Have you done this before?”
He sees my nervousness and tells me the hills are hard but not as bad as the Lake District. Be prepared for pain and suffering he says, shaking his head when I tell him we are riding fixed, good luck. I start to panic.
The best thing about Sweden is the 300 meter law. You can camp anywhere so long as you are 300 meters from the nearest house. We found space in a local square, and began sorting our bikes. Ross “sheldon browned” a brake with tube washers for Isti when it was realised that the fork he’d brought was not compatible with the brake he borrowed for the race. We got some curious looks once the bikes were built but lack of a common language halted all but the most rudimentary of bike perving. We did however get one group of men who came over and asked if it was a joke.. (having one gear that is) and were told it was impossible.
The Race:
It was not impossible. Five out of six fixed gear riders made it. Ross dropped out with a pulled groin after 100 kms, but only after riding an average pace of 42 with a super fast group of geared riders who didn’t realise he was fixed until near the end. They were impressed that he kept spanking them up the hills! Go Ross go.
We lost Isti in the first few kms, as he was well drunk still and wasn’t in the mood to race. I lost Greg to a faster gear ratio but ended up meeting him at the rest stops. We crossed the finish 20 second apart, with him in the lead. Isti came in shortly after. My total road time was 11.5 hrs. Chamois cream was my friend.
18 000 registered for the race. Every year several 100 never show. 1/3 quit becaue of saddle sores (Chamois cream was my friend). Isti chatted with some veterans who told him the first year all the riders were fixed (and men) as far as we know in 41 years I am the only woman to complete the race fixed. Nice.
by Jacqui email