I entered the ROC during a haze of lockdown madness around last March with the marathon being the main goal – a gruelling 85km race with 2300m of climbing and well outside my comfort zone. I’d heard only good things from other people about the ROC itself, I knew that no matter how hard the races were it would be good fun. I quickly enlisted my brother to come along – he does a lot of mountain running, so was fit and strong and was getting into mountain biking. The promise of sunshine, dry dusty trails and a swimming pool at our Air BnB did the trick. I also knew that Dave and Tara would be there along with John Doris – knowing some familiar faces would be there also helps and Dave’s pre-trip advice was invaluable.
Travelling over was all stress free and we got to the accommodation in St. Raphael in the evening after registering at the race headquarters on the way. First thing we were told by our host was that the pool was out of order. The good news was that a beach was located only 5 mins walk away. This would turn out to play a significant part of my racing as we will soon discover…
On most days there are a number of races to suit everyone’s taste, I intended on doing the short 23km/450m race to warm up for the big event the next day. As it turns out though, I was entered into a longer race (which I knew) but couldn’t transfer to this short race (which I didn’t know). So instead of a short 80/90 min race, we were on the start line for a 33km/1200m at 9am Thursday morning. I told myself I would just take it handy and I’d be fine but I quickly got caught up in the racing and in particular was enjoying attacking the downhill sections where I would be brimming with glee as I passed scores of XC riders walking down fairly tame descents. Later though the downhill sections converged with the local enduro trails – now they were fun! Also quite dangerous – a fast fall on rocks wearing only full lycra XC gear and it could be curtains for the rest of the trip! I nonetheless trusted my bike and myself and flew down the descents. Those pesky XC riders kept re-passing me out on the climbs though…Finally got around in about 3:30 but tiredness hit later…maybe I pushed it a bit too hard (narrator: “he did”)
Off home on a high, I ate a bit of lunch and had a nap (many naps were had over the trip). Then to the beach to help the muscles recover. I was in the water not 5 minutes when I felt the most excruciating pain on my right arm as something seemed to grab me. As I flailed about at the mercy of whatever deadly creature was attacking me, I spotted out of the corner of my eye my brother looking at me with great concern. “He’ll come help me” I thought. Instead, he was making a bee-line for the shore faster than Michael Phelps. “No point in the two of us being eaten by whatever that is” is what I assumed was his thinking…anyway within a few seconds I realised that it was a jellyfish, whose tentacles had wrapped around my elbow and then injected me with its non-deadly toxin, that was the source of the pain. I got out of the water and the pain was getting worse. The whole area was swollen and stinging the hell out of me. Turned out that our Air BnB host who lived next door was a retired pharmacist and he had anti-histamines and steroid cream to help. That evening the swelling had largely settled down and the pain was not too bad. However another, more deadly side -effect was about to take hold: I got the sh1ts. Badly. Didn’t know you could get this from a jellyfish sting but turns out you can… I spent that night and the next morning (marathon race morning) on the toilet. Nausea, another side effect, was also taking hold. But I was not going to let this onset of rusty liquid keep me out of the marathon after all the preparation I’d gone through. Not after this long. I donned my lycra and headed to the start line. Then I had to dash to a port-a-loo. Then back to the start line.
The race started and I spent the first two hours feeling pretty horrendous. I was thinking to myself that at this current pace, I could be here until nightfall. Literally. After two hours I began to feel better and upped the pace. My tactic was to go steadily until I reached the top of the highest peak, this was at about 48km. By then almost 1700 of 2300 metres of climbing will have been done. After that I was going to just give it my all. My 6hr time goal was literally flushed down the toilet but I still wanted to give it a good go. I ploughed on. It was a long slog and lots goes through your mind. I created a montage in my head of my training set to the tune of the 80s karate kid music – “you’re the best, around, and nothings gonna ever keep you down…”. It was inspiring stuff and kept me going. At 65km the fatigue was starting to take its toll. I kept checking my metres of climbing done – 2000. Can’t be much more left. But the hills kept coming. Short, sharp, steep and loose underfoot. The really energy sapping ones. The type of hills that break your spirit. One after another. At 75km I was at 2400. At this stage I was ready to launch a full legal case against the organisers for false advertising. They said 2300. More climbs. The descents were still my strong point but I came down very hard on a dusty descent when the front wheel washed out. I mangled my leg and broke a boa on my shoe. I had to wait a few minutes to make sure I was physically able to continue. After my battle with a sea-creature and the plumbing in the house just to get to the start line, I wasn’t going to throw in the towel at this stage. I just had to go on. I dusted myself down and got back on the bike. Thankfully apart from a few drags, the climbing was done (2500 metres – I’m still minded to write a strongly worded letter). I hit the last 5 km where you cycle along the restaurant front and along a section of beach, with renewed vigour and energy. The kms were counting down and I turned the corner to see the finish area. I’ll be honest, I was close to crying when I saw that finish. I continued on and crossed the line in just over 7 hours in total. At that stage, I didn’t care about the time, crossing the line was all that mattered. I was handed a small beer and it was the sweetest nectar I have ever tasted. Mission accomplished. Now, where’s the nearest port-a-loo.
By Sunday I was ready to rock again. I was feeling good, the pains and aches were largely gone and I was really looking forward to the final race – the ROC D’Azur, 49km and 1300m climbing. Given what had happened with the marathon my goal here was to just go out hard and keep a hard pace for as long as I could, and then try to hang on to the end. I saw John Doris and Dave in the starting grid – they were around 5-10 metres ahead of me. The closest I’d be to either of them all race. I did what I set out to do in that I went out hard. The first climb was at around 6km and I was feeling good as I started up the steepest section. Then disaster struck. The crunch of a tangled rear-mech, the twang of a broken spoke and the hiss of a burst tyre. Great. After trying to figure out what had happened I set to work on getting myself back up and running. The rear mech must have been slightly out of line from the crash on the marathon and when I went into the big gear under load, it went into the spokes. I broke two spokes and one went into the tyre. I stuck a tube in, wrapped the two dangling spokes around adjoining spokes and pulled the rear-mech out to try and straighten it. Once I set off it was apparent that my gears were a bit fcked. When I needed to go up or down one, I had to shift around 3 times and back another and maybe the chain would fall on the correct sprocket. I lost around 20 mins between that and then stopping at the next mechanical service stop where they snipped the broken spokes completely off. I was up and running but mentally it was tough to get the mojo back. I made a new goal of trying to catch my brother who now had a big head start on me. It was unlikely but it kept me motivated. I went as hard as I could up and down, even despite losing my water bottle on a particularly gnarly downhill at 25km. I was living off gels and the few mouthfuls of water I could get into me at each feed station. I pushed hard all the way and got around but didn’t catch my brother in the end, however it turned out he had finished less than two minutes ahead of me. I was delighted to get around despite the mechanicals, knowing I pushed as hard as I could. The moving time was around 3:35, total time of 3:55. We met John and Dave at the finish and some other Irish competitors, everyone was happy, there was a great buzz around the place. Ever the thoughtful husband, Dave waited for Tara who was due in very soon. Dave decided it would be a nice gesture to jump back onto the course on his bike and cycle the final 300 metres together. Tara came along and whizzed by Dave not looking back. She was on her sprint finish and nothing was stopping her! Dave had to sprint back up to catch her and they both crossed the line together.
We all headed out for food and more drinks than usual that night including night caps back in Dave and Tara’s. It was a great end to a great few days of biking.
What I loved most about the whole thing was so many people, young and old, from all over the world, coming together to share in this great experience. Everyone had different goals - some are pure performance/race oriented but most are there to challenge themselves and enjoy some great biking with like-minded people. There are races for everyone – long and short. I’m looking forward to next year and it seems to be an annual event for Dave, Tara and John. Hopefully we get some more club members to the ROC next year – it really is a case of the more the merrier. Maybe steer clear of the sea though!
Travelling over was all stress free and we got to the accommodation in St. Raphael in the evening after registering at the race headquarters on the way. First thing we were told by our host was that the pool was out of order. The good news was that a beach was located only 5 mins walk away. This would turn out to play a significant part of my racing as we will soon discover…
On most days there are a number of races to suit everyone’s taste, I intended on doing the short 23km/450m race to warm up for the big event the next day. As it turns out though, I was entered into a longer race (which I knew) but couldn’t transfer to this short race (which I didn’t know). So instead of a short 80/90 min race, we were on the start line for a 33km/1200m at 9am Thursday morning. I told myself I would just take it handy and I’d be fine but I quickly got caught up in the racing and in particular was enjoying attacking the downhill sections where I would be brimming with glee as I passed scores of XC riders walking down fairly tame descents. Later though the downhill sections converged with the local enduro trails – now they were fun! Also quite dangerous – a fast fall on rocks wearing only full lycra XC gear and it could be curtains for the rest of the trip! I nonetheless trusted my bike and myself and flew down the descents. Those pesky XC riders kept re-passing me out on the climbs though…Finally got around in about 3:30 but tiredness hit later…maybe I pushed it a bit too hard (narrator: “he did”)
Off home on a high, I ate a bit of lunch and had a nap (many naps were had over the trip). Then to the beach to help the muscles recover. I was in the water not 5 minutes when I felt the most excruciating pain on my right arm as something seemed to grab me. As I flailed about at the mercy of whatever deadly creature was attacking me, I spotted out of the corner of my eye my brother looking at me with great concern. “He’ll come help me” I thought. Instead, he was making a bee-line for the shore faster than Michael Phelps. “No point in the two of us being eaten by whatever that is” is what I assumed was his thinking…anyway within a few seconds I realised that it was a jellyfish, whose tentacles had wrapped around my elbow and then injected me with its non-deadly toxin, that was the source of the pain. I got out of the water and the pain was getting worse. The whole area was swollen and stinging the hell out of me. Turned out that our Air BnB host who lived next door was a retired pharmacist and he had anti-histamines and steroid cream to help. That evening the swelling had largely settled down and the pain was not too bad. However another, more deadly side -effect was about to take hold: I got the sh1ts. Badly. Didn’t know you could get this from a jellyfish sting but turns out you can… I spent that night and the next morning (marathon race morning) on the toilet. Nausea, another side effect, was also taking hold. But I was not going to let this onset of rusty liquid keep me out of the marathon after all the preparation I’d gone through. Not after this long. I donned my lycra and headed to the start line. Then I had to dash to a port-a-loo. Then back to the start line.
The race started and I spent the first two hours feeling pretty horrendous. I was thinking to myself that at this current pace, I could be here until nightfall. Literally. After two hours I began to feel better and upped the pace. My tactic was to go steadily until I reached the top of the highest peak, this was at about 48km. By then almost 1700 of 2300 metres of climbing will have been done. After that I was going to just give it my all. My 6hr time goal was literally flushed down the toilet but I still wanted to give it a good go. I ploughed on. It was a long slog and lots goes through your mind. I created a montage in my head of my training set to the tune of the 80s karate kid music – “you’re the best, around, and nothings gonna ever keep you down…”. It was inspiring stuff and kept me going. At 65km the fatigue was starting to take its toll. I kept checking my metres of climbing done – 2000. Can’t be much more left. But the hills kept coming. Short, sharp, steep and loose underfoot. The really energy sapping ones. The type of hills that break your spirit. One after another. At 75km I was at 2400. At this stage I was ready to launch a full legal case against the organisers for false advertising. They said 2300. More climbs. The descents were still my strong point but I came down very hard on a dusty descent when the front wheel washed out. I mangled my leg and broke a boa on my shoe. I had to wait a few minutes to make sure I was physically able to continue. After my battle with a sea-creature and the plumbing in the house just to get to the start line, I wasn’t going to throw in the towel at this stage. I just had to go on. I dusted myself down and got back on the bike. Thankfully apart from a few drags, the climbing was done (2500 metres – I’m still minded to write a strongly worded letter). I hit the last 5 km where you cycle along the restaurant front and along a section of beach, with renewed vigour and energy. The kms were counting down and I turned the corner to see the finish area. I’ll be honest, I was close to crying when I saw that finish. I continued on and crossed the line in just over 7 hours in total. At that stage, I didn’t care about the time, crossing the line was all that mattered. I was handed a small beer and it was the sweetest nectar I have ever tasted. Mission accomplished. Now, where’s the nearest port-a-loo.
By Sunday I was ready to rock again. I was feeling good, the pains and aches were largely gone and I was really looking forward to the final race – the ROC D’Azur, 49km and 1300m climbing. Given what had happened with the marathon my goal here was to just go out hard and keep a hard pace for as long as I could, and then try to hang on to the end. I saw John Doris and Dave in the starting grid – they were around 5-10 metres ahead of me. The closest I’d be to either of them all race. I did what I set out to do in that I went out hard. The first climb was at around 6km and I was feeling good as I started up the steepest section. Then disaster struck. The crunch of a tangled rear-mech, the twang of a broken spoke and the hiss of a burst tyre. Great. After trying to figure out what had happened I set to work on getting myself back up and running. The rear mech must have been slightly out of line from the crash on the marathon and when I went into the big gear under load, it went into the spokes. I broke two spokes and one went into the tyre. I stuck a tube in, wrapped the two dangling spokes around adjoining spokes and pulled the rear-mech out to try and straighten it. Once I set off it was apparent that my gears were a bit fcked. When I needed to go up or down one, I had to shift around 3 times and back another and maybe the chain would fall on the correct sprocket. I lost around 20 mins between that and then stopping at the next mechanical service stop where they snipped the broken spokes completely off. I was up and running but mentally it was tough to get the mojo back. I made a new goal of trying to catch my brother who now had a big head start on me. It was unlikely but it kept me motivated. I went as hard as I could up and down, even despite losing my water bottle on a particularly gnarly downhill at 25km. I was living off gels and the few mouthfuls of water I could get into me at each feed station. I pushed hard all the way and got around but didn’t catch my brother in the end, however it turned out he had finished less than two minutes ahead of me. I was delighted to get around despite the mechanicals, knowing I pushed as hard as I could. The moving time was around 3:35, total time of 3:55. We met John and Dave at the finish and some other Irish competitors, everyone was happy, there was a great buzz around the place. Ever the thoughtful husband, Dave waited for Tara who was due in very soon. Dave decided it would be a nice gesture to jump back onto the course on his bike and cycle the final 300 metres together. Tara came along and whizzed by Dave not looking back. She was on her sprint finish and nothing was stopping her! Dave had to sprint back up to catch her and they both crossed the line together.
We all headed out for food and more drinks than usual that night including night caps back in Dave and Tara’s. It was a great end to a great few days of biking.
What I loved most about the whole thing was so many people, young and old, from all over the world, coming together to share in this great experience. Everyone had different goals - some are pure performance/race oriented but most are there to challenge themselves and enjoy some great biking with like-minded people. There are races for everyone – long and short. I’m looking forward to next year and it seems to be an annual event for Dave, Tara and John. Hopefully we get some more club members to the ROC next year – it really is a case of the more the merrier. Maybe steer clear of the sea though!