After Delaney had come back from the portaloo, sweating and wearing far fewer clothes than he went in with, he announced "I think that's got the little bastard." After getting changed and donning all of his eBay bargain down clothing, he took us through his joyful lap. Under the lights he had found his lap highly entertaining and was already planning a long distance trip, where he only rode at night or with a blindfold on. After talking him down from his high, we forced cup-a-tea into him and the three of us settled down to a good hour and half of shivering, poking and giggling. In the next 90mins we covered many topic and discovered many facts, Including that you can get the train anywhere in the world from Crewe, Defeet gloves will dry on red hot coals without melting and that gortex ski mitts don't. After the sad loss of one of his hipster lobster hands, Richardson slipped away into the icy night, like a GORE covered penguin, carrying and empty 5L water bottle. Delaney and McAuliffe set the world to rights until Tobin appeared around the side of the van in a steaming heap. In the dark you could normally see a rider approaching as the SUPERMOON lights alerted you to their presence long before they arrived. The reason for Tobin's clandestine entrance through HMS MasterVan's porthole was soon revealed as our head torches picked out the USE 6pack light dangling off his bars, upside down.
"Fuck me lads I just properly stacked it!"
It looked like it as well. Tobin soon seated and heated filled us in on his two lap stint, which seemed to have gone well timing wise but had involved numerous offs and one biggy. The light loosener had occurred on one of the longer downhill sections on the second part of the course where you could carry a fair bit of speed into it, if you wanted too, were feeling brave, or were already sliding around the corner on your ribs screaming "SWEETBAABYJESUS". No prizes for guessing how Tobin entered the section then. This hit and subsequent 20 yard down hill slide had totally knocked his bars off centre and loosened the stem, walloped the light bracket clean off the bit of the bar it was shimmed on to and caused some large, feline like scratches to Tobin's cheek, ribs and other cheeks. Some of that Btwin kit was not making it back across the border. It seemed that Tobin had been scrambling to make up time that he had perceived he had lost on the first lap and had completely over cooked it. Tobin also stated that there were a lot more ice tyres out there now and that conditions on the trail were starting to freeze up in certain patches. All of this was exactly what McAuliffe knew he would hear, but exactly what he didn't want to.
As we had two sets of lights, we were swapping them between the bikes, but as McAuliffe had the biggest head it was easier just to use his helmet and keep the Flare attached to it permanently. That helmet saw a lot of action. The wounded Six pack now had to be assessed and pulled off Tobin's bike. In the dark with freezing fingers and a £1 Btwin head torch this was no mean feat. Luckily the light and bracket were made of tough stuff and we nearly had all the bits left to attach them to the vintage Ti wonder bike, that was McAuliffe's steed. Not having all the bits meant that McAuliffe had to go and see the nice USE folk in the nice big warm tent, before making 'the exchange' with Richardson. They were delightful, and fixed both the Six Pack bracket and the Flare fitment which Tobin's fat head and fingers had conspired to "nearly make work". They also gently took the piss out of the Cotic's 'silly little wheels' clad in trail tyres, it's Iger head tube angle and its owners Rapha jacket. "Want to sell that jacket and buy a Tarn matey." he agreed, the bike heard and that might not have been great.....
All of this faffing actually helped McAuliffe's pre double lapper nerves. Already 12hrs into the race, the old chap was a bit tired, having woken up a 'tad jaded' at Inverness Youth hostel some 20hrs earlier and hadn't thought to have a sleep since. Adrenaline and worry were keeping the hope of that hour lap at the forefront of the hairy mind. After meeting a suitably chilled and understated Richardson for 'the exchange' the fire road climb and two hours on the trails beckoned. Deciding that the best way to measure the effort over the two laps was to ease up the first fireroad climb and then attempt to speed up on whichever bits of the trails weren't bloody impossible, then once the measure of the course had been taken, gun that second lap and get back in around two hours, have a nice cold pint and wait for it all to blow over.
The first lap was actually a beautiful thing, it was taken at sedate pace and was very enjoyable. Grip seemed to have returned and in a nice group, 90% of the course was ridden and not a get down was even heard of. Pausing for a second in the group we shared a moment at Rock View as below us riders lights slalomed through the dark forest, occasionally punctuated by the nocturnal screech of a Sintered Pad Owl. There were a few moments during the 'puffer which are genuinely new experiences, seeing the squirming lights and ghostly trees was definitely one that will be remembered. On entering the transfer area, McAuliffe realised that he had been enjoying himself so much he hadn't bothered to look at the time that first lap had taken. Indeed he couldn't remember if had even looked at the handover time with Richardson. Doing some quick maths, the type of 'quick maths' that only someone without a puffer jacket and with 4 GCSE mathematics fails can do, he concluded he had shipped 40mins in the first lap. In fact the timing at the end showed he'd had only been 4 mins slower than his last lap. As a small consolation at least his maths was getting better and at least he had got the first number right......
Without being able to remember times or do fashionable maths, McAuliffe now panicked and reverted to type. 'Type' being 'bull in china shop'. Knowing his own type, McAuliffe had tried to park this part of him knowing that in mtb, it tended to end in expensive failure, both egotistically and financially for him. But now with the Sharpe theme tune coursing through his veins and Biffy Clyro for some reason stuck in his head. He attacked the fire road. Burying himself, progress was good, the small bridge of bus queue came and went, a few more tricky bits were negotiated well and confidence was practically boiling over. This was how you did it, you at Attacked it, nothing to be scared of. This was completely and totally true until he reached that stream which in more cautious times McAuliffe had mentally marked as 'Bastard for later'.
Upon reaching the small stream that had been ridehoppableonefootdownable previously he just launched the bike at it, now drunk on his own invincible confidence. Unfortunately all the hopping and footing had meant water and ice had been spread over the entrance and exit banks. This meant that both wheels slipped, one foot ended up submerged and a leg got trapped in between the TT and turned bars. Sadly with the bike on top of him in the river, one leg pinned and the other literally playing Bambi on ice on one bank, McAuliffe was stuck. On his own. After what seemed around 30mins, but must have been 2, another rider appeared. Laughing he helped untangle a mess only usually seen on Russell Brands pillow and said "Aye that is a hard bit" rather charitably. Thanks given and blood still up McAuliffe was off again. This lap was not lost,yet. CHAAARRRGGGEEEE.
Running, yes running up the hill after Bridge of Thighs he remounted and threw himself down the snowy and grippy descents determined to limit that '40min' loss. On one descent a tank slapper was held with a foot dap and a bloke (gender fully assumed) who looked like a real-life-proper-MTBer complimented the save, this just threw petrol on the lack-of-ability bonfire. Now fully committed to the #fullsend ethos/lifestyle/religion he launched it down Tobin's baby Jesus descent. The back of the now angry Cotic sniggered and stepped out again, trying the same foot dab save, McAuliffe realised that the bike was now straight, which was great, but that the trail went right, at about 90 degrees. Shooting straight off the small berm in the corner he flew quite far and landed in the nice soft Broom bushes that were covered in snow. After a small battle to free himself and check that nothing hurt or had things stuck in it, he went in search of his bike, which he found in a bush nearby, the 6 pack slowly melting the snow around it, but it was now a unicycle. Loosing rear wheels has happened before as Gorse bushes seem strangely attracted to the geriatric Mavics. Must be their European open minded filthiness and odd aero spoke kinkyness.
With the help of, yes you guessed it, the chap from the stream. McAuliffe was away again. With no descents left really and the flowy bit of the course left, that he felt he could hold speed on, he was still stupidly confident. Now rushing and thinking the lap was basically over, when it still had 15mins to give was the biggest error of the lap.
Gunning it through some muddy, undulating forest single track and then out onto a more open section, the trail became noticeably icy, slowing a little he tried to keep his head up to see down the trail as far as possible, but in doing so neglected a large Icy lump slap bang in the middle of the trail. What happened next is probably only known to the bastard Bike and the local wildlife, but the last thing McAuliffe remembers is a massive SMACK on the left side of the helmet, then stream man on his knees infront of his face asking if he was ok. How long McAuliffe had had an icy sleep for was unknown, but stupidly he shot straight up and pedalled off after assuring Stream man he was golden. He wasn't golden, unless it was a golden stream of piss that was threatening to escape down his leg as the impact of the crash started to sink in.
Limping back to the transfer zone, he suffered the embarrassment of falling off on the last corner before the transfer zone, in front of everyone. Now feeling stupid, angry, dazed and like he had messed up the whole teams timings he sought out Delaney.
"Sorry I just had a massive smash, have you been waiting long?"
"No, only 5mins, like normal, maybe 10"
"Eh, I thought I'd lost an hour or at least 45mins?"
"What? Just give me the dibber, oh and Tobin has let the fire go out, bye"
Now feeling broken and dejected, he scooted down the track to see what the fuck Tobin had done and to see if he could sort his head out.
After alighting on platform one of Barhaul Junction, he found Tobin and Richardson sitting in front of a raging inferno, now really confused and obviously a bit pale, McAuliffe slumped down onto some patio furniture and tried to work out what had just happened and how he was going get the white dots out of his eyes. Sensing that McAuliffe may be vulnerable, Richardson and Tobin went in for the kill and started a massive wind up about burning garden furniture as they had no more wood. Throughly confused, McAuliffe retreated to the van to get changed, check his helmet and seriously question what the fuck he was doing, how he would do two more laps and wonder what else he could eat.
After regaining some composure and eating a few of Richardson's painkillers he pieced the laps together for the others. After much laughter and merriment, he felt better, but no nearer to getting his head around another lap. Richardson, being a clever, but never an awkward, sausage decided to get his head down in the van. This snooze would prove to only aid his superpowers later on in the race. It was now 0230 and well into the -10's, there had been muttering of -14, but what ever it was the irn Bru was frozen and that just wasn't normal. In fact it was so cold the grease in the pedal bearings was seizing and the spindles were tough to move when left for a bit. The spd mechanism on the pedals would also freeze. This wasn't due to being clogged with snow, that had stopped happening early doors, but because the springs and clips would actually freeze. This made bike maintenance while resting up important. Luckily with some hot coals, a rubber mallet and a brush we managed to work out and fix most things, apart from why McAuliffe's bike obviously wanted to kill him. Tobin had recovered well from his slide and his face now looked at least explainable to his partner, but he was suggesting that after Delaney returned, we should go back to one lap stints. This meant that he had had 6 hrs off but wanted everyone else to have 5, not that mattered as he only used that time to make jokes at our expense and not sleep.
As the freezing night wore on and we learned just how frozen things can actually get, (Ti-foon to wood anyone) how you burn a 9ft bit of glutam on a 3ft BBQ and that actually Whiskey isn't what you want at 0330 with a raging headache. Richardson emerged from the van, seemingly indestructible in his youth and still full of beans, he agreed to Tobin's one lapper plan and offered to do a double lap stint if required as
*"it will be good practice for when I do it solo next year". *
A lot of 24yr old men must have been making odd decisions concurrently at 0330 on that Saturday evening, but Richardson's was surely the most jaw dropping. At least his Dad would approve of this one though. Tobin soon started to saddle up as 0400 approached, he reckoned he had one more good lap in him and was determined to get it out. For the first time MastVaner Camp was out of water, so Tobin promised that at this 'exchange' he would get Delaney to bring back supplies, as melting snow was a ball ache and quite a bad investment in cold fingers.
As Tobin Headed off for the the graveyard shift, Richardson and McAuliffe talked around the world, destroying empires (well Clapham) in the flash of a fire-poke. Delaney soon returned through. He skidded into Camp, dropped his bike on the floor without a word and sprinted to the toilet, as we saw his ample behind disappearing past the motor home, we noticed a large rip in his £340 influencers shorts and a large bloody, gaping hole, slap bang in the middle of it, certainly if he had ripped himself a new one then the toilet was the best place for him. Richardson and McAuliffe knew that a good story was about to unfold from the depths of the Portaloo, but that there would be no pasta tea to wash it down with, as in his anal haste to get back to his walrus cave, he had abandoned our water supply.
Staggering out of the now smoking cubical, Delaney made his formal Camp return.
"So what happened then?"
"Got a bit cocky on one of those descents, it was buffed up into shiny ice on the top of the rocks and I lost it, went over the bars and went arse first straight into a tree. I had to pull a stick out of my cheek. Look at my fucking bibs, how can I Instagram these now?"
"Yeah but why the mad toilet dash?"
"Ah, I hadn't 'got the little bastard' as I thought after my last visit and when I landed on the tree I winded myself, and my guts dropped, properly, I thought I would shit myself the whole of the second half of that last lap, in fact I think people behind me were slowing down to lessen the snow and view, someone definitely groaned and turned their light off."
"But why not go up at the loos at the start"
Rather sheepishly the reply came,
"Well, you know, this is my toilet, my safe one, its special now"
The mind boggles.
After much piss taking and feeding of pasta, RIchardson and McAuliffe actually asked Delaney if he was ok. It turned out that he couldn't actually stand up. Not wanting to make stereotypical jokes about the Irish, they just took pictures of him, head in his hands, next to the fire, with a bottle of Jameson next to him. Soon after this Delaney retired hurt, his back in a sorry state, not to mention his now double entry bowels. This was manna from heaven for mental Richardson as it meant he could 'take' Delaney's remaining laps. It was a nightmare for McAuliffe who had privately talked himself out of ever getting on his stupid MTB again and now he found himself offering to do more laps on top of his own.....luckily Richardson's happiness quickly disappeared off into the gloom at 0500 to go and make 'the exchange' with Tobin and to get the sodding water that holy excrement bibs Delaney had abandoned.
McAuliffe now faced up to his demons on his own around the fire. He was scared, fair enough we all get scared, but of a sodding hill walkers path with some hard water on it? Do me a favour, you muppet!! I'm 'avin this next lap, pain is only weakness leaving the body!! COME ONNNN!!!!............But should you, you know, because you were actually unconscious for a bit and you are shit at this and what happens next time you crash and....
"Well fuck me bays, stick a fork in me, oim fucking done"
Tobin was back and had neatly shattered McAuliffe's conflicted feminal thought pattern to bits, so he had to really do another lap, didn't he, the big sexist.
Tobin's plan was simple. He was done, blown, Delaney was actually broken and actually asleep and if McAuliffe 'Christophed' a lap out, it would let the mentalist that is Richardson rest, before he then got let loose to do as many laps as he could between 0700/0730ish and 1000/1100 (it was a 'long' 24hrs, google it if you are normal person, if you are an Mtb weirdo, feel smug now).
"Have you spoken to Luke about this Colm?"
"Nah, no need, I can see it in his eyes, in fact I can see it in his thighs".
After explaining Delaney's unfortunately stick intrusion to Tobin, McAuliffe togged up (over the stricken Delaney) and took a deep breath. He set himself no other target for the lap other than to stay conscious for all of it. With that he cycled off to meet Richardson and to pass on the new game plan. All was not lost and 24laps in 24hrs was still on, nearly.
@Rob
After Delaney had come back from the portaloo, sweating and wearing far fewer clothes than he went in with, he announced "I think that's got the little bastard." After getting changed and donning all of his eBay bargain down clothing, he took us through his joyful lap. Under the lights he had found his lap highly entertaining and was already planning a long distance trip, where he only rode at night or with a blindfold on. After talking him down from his high, we forced cup-a-tea into him and the three of us settled down to a good hour and half of shivering, poking and giggling. In the next 90mins we covered many topic and discovered many facts, Including that you can get the train anywhere in the world from Crewe, Defeet gloves will dry on red hot coals without melting and that gortex ski mitts don't. After the sad loss of one of his hipster lobster hands, Richardson slipped away into the icy night, like a GORE covered penguin, carrying and empty 5L water bottle. Delaney and McAuliffe set the world to rights until Tobin appeared around the side of the van in a steaming heap. In the dark you could normally see a rider approaching as the SUPERMOON lights alerted you to their presence long before they arrived. The reason for Tobin's clandestine entrance through HMS MasterVan's porthole was soon revealed as our head torches picked out the USE 6pack light dangling off his bars, upside down.
"Fuck me lads I just properly stacked it!"
It looked like it as well. Tobin soon seated and heated filled us in on his two lap stint, which seemed to have gone well timing wise but had involved numerous offs and one biggy. The light loosener had occurred on one of the longer downhill sections on the second part of the course where you could carry a fair bit of speed into it, if you wanted too, were feeling brave, or were already sliding around the corner on your ribs screaming "SWEETBAABYJESUS". No prizes for guessing how Tobin entered the section then. This hit and subsequent 20 yard down hill slide had totally knocked his bars off centre and loosened the stem, walloped the light bracket clean off the bit of the bar it was shimmed on to and caused some large, feline like scratches to Tobin's cheek, ribs and other cheeks. Some of that Btwin kit was not making it back across the border. It seemed that Tobin had been scrambling to make up time that he had perceived he had lost on the first lap and had completely over cooked it. Tobin also stated that there were a lot more ice tyres out there now and that conditions on the trail were starting to freeze up in certain patches. All of this was exactly what McAuliffe knew he would hear, but exactly what he didn't want to.
As we had two sets of lights, we were swapping them between the bikes, but as McAuliffe had the biggest head it was easier just to use his helmet and keep the Flare attached to it permanently. That helmet saw a lot of action. The wounded Six pack now had to be assessed and pulled off Tobin's bike. In the dark with freezing fingers and a £1 Btwin head torch this was no mean feat. Luckily the light and bracket were made of tough stuff and we nearly had all the bits left to attach them to the vintage Ti wonder bike, that was McAuliffe's steed. Not having all the bits meant that McAuliffe had to go and see the nice USE folk in the nice big warm tent, before making 'the exchange' with Richardson. They were delightful, and fixed both the Six Pack bracket and the Flare fitment which Tobin's fat head and fingers had conspired to "nearly make work". They also gently took the piss out of the Cotic's 'silly little wheels' clad in trail tyres, it's Iger head tube angle and its owners Rapha jacket. "Want to sell that jacket and buy a Tarn matey." he agreed, the bike heard and that might not have been great.....
All of this faffing actually helped McAuliffe's pre double lapper nerves. Already 12hrs into the race, the old chap was a bit tired, having woken up a 'tad jaded' at Inverness Youth hostel some 20hrs earlier and hadn't thought to have a sleep since. Adrenaline and worry were keeping the hope of that hour lap at the forefront of the hairy mind. After meeting a suitably chilled and understated Richardson for 'the exchange' the fire road climb and two hours on the trails beckoned. Deciding that the best way to measure the effort over the two laps was to ease up the first fireroad climb and then attempt to speed up on whichever bits of the trails weren't bloody impossible, then once the measure of the course had been taken, gun that second lap and get back in around two hours, have a nice cold pint and wait for it all to blow over.
The first lap was actually a beautiful thing, it was taken at sedate pace and was very enjoyable. Grip seemed to have returned and in a nice group, 90% of the course was ridden and not a get down was even heard of. Pausing for a second in the group we shared a moment at Rock View as below us riders lights slalomed through the dark forest, occasionally punctuated by the nocturnal screech of a Sintered Pad Owl. There were a few moments during the 'puffer which are genuinely new experiences, seeing the squirming lights and ghostly trees was definitely one that will be remembered. On entering the transfer area, McAuliffe realised that he had been enjoying himself so much he hadn't bothered to look at the time that first lap had taken. Indeed he couldn't remember if had even looked at the handover time with Richardson. Doing some quick maths, the type of 'quick maths' that only someone without a puffer jacket and with 4 GCSE mathematics fails can do, he concluded he had shipped 40mins in the first lap. In fact the timing at the end showed he'd had only been 4 mins slower than his last lap. As a small consolation at least his maths was getting better and at least he had got the first number right......
Without being able to remember times or do fashionable maths, McAuliffe now panicked and reverted to type. 'Type' being 'bull in china shop'. Knowing his own type, McAuliffe had tried to park this part of him knowing that in mtb, it tended to end in expensive failure, both egotistically and financially for him. But now with the Sharpe theme tune coursing through his veins and Biffy Clyro for some reason stuck in his head. He attacked the fire road. Burying himself, progress was good, the small bridge of bus queue came and went, a few more tricky bits were negotiated well and confidence was practically boiling over. This was how you did it, you at Attacked it, nothing to be scared of. This was completely and totally true until he reached that stream which in more cautious times McAuliffe had mentally marked as 'Bastard for later'.
Upon reaching the small stream that had been ridehoppableonefootdownable previously he just launched the bike at it, now drunk on his own invincible confidence. Unfortunately all the hopping and footing had meant water and ice had been spread over the entrance and exit banks. This meant that both wheels slipped, one foot ended up submerged and a leg got trapped in between the TT and turned bars. Sadly with the bike on top of him in the river, one leg pinned and the other literally playing Bambi on ice on one bank, McAuliffe was stuck. On his own. After what seemed around 30mins, but must have been 2, another rider appeared. Laughing he helped untangle a mess only usually seen on Russell Brands pillow and said "Aye that is a hard bit" rather charitably. Thanks given and blood still up McAuliffe was off again. This lap was not lost,yet. CHAAARRRGGGEEEE.
Running, yes running up the hill after Bridge of Thighs he remounted and threw himself down the snowy and grippy descents determined to limit that '40min' loss. On one descent a tank slapper was held with a foot dap and a bloke (gender fully assumed) who looked like a real-life-proper-MTBer complimented the save, this just threw petrol on the lack-of-ability bonfire. Now fully committed to the #fullsend ethos/lifestyle/religion he launched it down Tobin's baby Jesus descent. The back of the now angry Cotic sniggered and stepped out again, trying the same foot dab save, McAuliffe realised that the bike was now straight, which was great, but that the trail went right, at about 90 degrees. Shooting straight off the small berm in the corner he flew quite far and landed in the nice soft Broom bushes that were covered in snow. After a small battle to free himself and check that nothing hurt or had things stuck in it, he went in search of his bike, which he found in a bush nearby, the 6 pack slowly melting the snow around it, but it was now a unicycle. Loosing rear wheels has happened before as Gorse bushes seem strangely attracted to the geriatric Mavics. Must be their European open minded filthiness and odd aero spoke kinkyness.
With the help of, yes you guessed it, the chap from the stream. McAuliffe was away again. With no descents left really and the flowy bit of the course left, that he felt he could hold speed on, he was still stupidly confident. Now rushing and thinking the lap was basically over, when it still had 15mins to give was the biggest error of the lap.
Gunning it through some muddy, undulating forest single track and then out onto a more open section, the trail became noticeably icy, slowing a little he tried to keep his head up to see down the trail as far as possible, but in doing so neglected a large Icy lump slap bang in the middle of the trail. What happened next is probably only known to the bastard Bike and the local wildlife, but the last thing McAuliffe remembers is a massive SMACK on the left side of the helmet, then stream man on his knees infront of his face asking if he was ok. How long McAuliffe had had an icy sleep for was unknown, but stupidly he shot straight up and pedalled off after assuring Stream man he was golden. He wasn't golden, unless it was a golden stream of piss that was threatening to escape down his leg as the impact of the crash started to sink in.
Limping back to the transfer zone, he suffered the embarrassment of falling off on the last corner before the transfer zone, in front of everyone. Now feeling stupid, angry, dazed and like he had messed up the whole teams timings he sought out Delaney.
"Sorry I just had a massive smash, have you been waiting long?"
"No, only 5mins, like normal, maybe 10"
"Eh, I thought I'd lost an hour or at least 45mins?"
"What? Just give me the dibber, oh and Tobin has let the fire go out, bye"
Now feeling broken and dejected, he scooted down the track to see what the fuck Tobin had done and to see if he could sort his head out.
After alighting on platform one of Barhaul Junction, he found Tobin and Richardson sitting in front of a raging inferno, now really confused and obviously a bit pale, McAuliffe slumped down onto some patio furniture and tried to work out what had just happened and how he was going get the white dots out of his eyes. Sensing that McAuliffe may be vulnerable, Richardson and Tobin went in for the kill and started a massive wind up about burning garden furniture as they had no more wood. Throughly confused, McAuliffe retreated to the van to get changed, check his helmet and seriously question what the fuck he was doing, how he would do two more laps and wonder what else he could eat.
After regaining some composure and eating a few of Richardson's painkillers he pieced the laps together for the others. After much laughter and merriment, he felt better, but no nearer to getting his head around another lap. Richardson, being a clever, but never an awkward, sausage decided to get his head down in the van. This snooze would prove to only aid his superpowers later on in the race. It was now 0230 and well into the -10's, there had been muttering of -14, but what ever it was the irn Bru was frozen and that just wasn't normal. In fact it was so cold the grease in the pedal bearings was seizing and the spindles were tough to move when left for a bit. The spd mechanism on the pedals would also freeze. This wasn't due to being clogged with snow, that had stopped happening early doors, but because the springs and clips would actually freeze. This made bike maintenance while resting up important. Luckily with some hot coals, a rubber mallet and a brush we managed to work out and fix most things, apart from why McAuliffe's bike obviously wanted to kill him. Tobin had recovered well from his slide and his face now looked at least explainable to his partner, but he was suggesting that after Delaney returned, we should go back to one lap stints. This meant that he had had 6 hrs off but wanted everyone else to have 5, not that mattered as he only used that time to make jokes at our expense and not sleep.
As the freezing night wore on and we learned just how frozen things can actually get, (Ti-foon to wood anyone) how you burn a 9ft bit of glutam on a 3ft BBQ and that actually Whiskey isn't what you want at 0330 with a raging headache. Richardson emerged from the van, seemingly indestructible in his youth and still full of beans, he agreed to Tobin's one lapper plan and offered to do a double lap stint if required as
*"it will be good practice for when I do it solo next year". *
A lot of 24yr old men must have been making odd decisions concurrently at 0330 on that Saturday evening, but Richardson's was surely the most jaw dropping. At least his Dad would approve of this one though. Tobin soon started to saddle up as 0400 approached, he reckoned he had one more good lap in him and was determined to get it out. For the first time MastVaner Camp was out of water, so Tobin promised that at this 'exchange' he would get Delaney to bring back supplies, as melting snow was a ball ache and quite a bad investment in cold fingers.
As Tobin Headed off for the the graveyard shift, Richardson and McAuliffe talked around the world, destroying empires (well Clapham) in the flash of a fire-poke. Delaney soon returned through. He skidded into Camp, dropped his bike on the floor without a word and sprinted to the toilet, as we saw his ample behind disappearing past the motor home, we noticed a large rip in his £340 influencers shorts and a large bloody, gaping hole, slap bang in the middle of it, certainly if he had ripped himself a new one then the toilet was the best place for him. Richardson and McAuliffe knew that a good story was about to unfold from the depths of the Portaloo, but that there would be no pasta tea to wash it down with, as in his anal haste to get back to his walrus cave, he had abandoned our water supply.
Staggering out of the now smoking cubical, Delaney made his formal Camp return.
"So what happened then?"
"Got a bit cocky on one of those descents, it was buffed up into shiny ice on the top of the rocks and I lost it, went over the bars and went arse first straight into a tree. I had to pull a stick out of my cheek. Look at my fucking bibs, how can I Instagram these now?"
"Yeah but why the mad toilet dash?"
"Ah, I hadn't 'got the little bastard' as I thought after my last visit and when I landed on the tree I winded myself, and my guts dropped, properly, I thought I would shit myself the whole of the second half of that last lap, in fact I think people behind me were slowing down to lessen the snow and view, someone definitely groaned and turned their light off."
"But why not go up at the loos at the start"
Rather sheepishly the reply came,
"Well, you know, this is my toilet, my safe one, its special now"
The mind boggles.
After much piss taking and feeding of pasta, RIchardson and McAuliffe actually asked Delaney if he was ok. It turned out that he couldn't actually stand up. Not wanting to make stereotypical jokes about the Irish, they just took pictures of him, head in his hands, next to the fire, with a bottle of Jameson next to him. Soon after this Delaney retired hurt, his back in a sorry state, not to mention his now double entry bowels. This was manna from heaven for mental Richardson as it meant he could 'take' Delaney's remaining laps. It was a nightmare for McAuliffe who had privately talked himself out of ever getting on his stupid MTB again and now he found himself offering to do more laps on top of his own.....luckily Richardson's happiness quickly disappeared off into the gloom at 0500 to go and make 'the exchange' with Tobin and to get the sodding water that holy excrement bibs Delaney had abandoned.
McAuliffe now faced up to his demons on his own around the fire. He was scared, fair enough we all get scared, but of a sodding hill walkers path with some hard water on it? Do me a favour, you muppet!! I'm 'avin this next lap, pain is only weakness leaving the body!! COME ONNNN!!!!............But should you, you know, because you were actually unconscious for a bit and you are shit at this and what happens next time you crash and....
"Well fuck me bays, stick a fork in me, oim fucking done"
Tobin was back and had neatly shattered McAuliffe's conflicted feminal thought pattern to bits, so he had to really do another lap, didn't he, the big sexist.
Tobin's plan was simple. He was done, blown, Delaney was actually broken and actually asleep and if McAuliffe 'Christophed' a lap out, it would let the mentalist that is Richardson rest, before he then got let loose to do as many laps as he could between 0700/0730ish and 1000/1100 (it was a 'long' 24hrs, google it if you are normal person, if you are an Mtb weirdo, feel smug now).
"Have you spoken to Luke about this Colm?"
"Nah, no need, I can see it in his eyes, in fact I can see it in his thighs".
After explaining Delaney's unfortunately stick intrusion to Tobin, McAuliffe togged up (over the stricken Delaney) and took a deep breath. He set himself no other target for the lap other than to stay conscious for all of it. With that he cycled off to meet Richardson and to pass on the new game plan. All was not lost and 24laps in 24hrs was still on, nearly.