Andy Whitehouse's image from British Cycling.
Stupid, miserable, shit day out all in all. I'd been looking forward to Bradford, as I always do. It's where I got my first okay result at Trophy level, the year of the infamous mud-chute. This has since been vastly scaled back and rarely garners the interest of more than a couple of spectators. Basically, the less challenging the course, the faster the race and the greater my disadvantage.
This wasn't helped by some weird brake jamming incident whereby my front wheel seemed to have shifted in warmup. I didn't notice anything untoward riding up and down the Tarmac but from the a certain point on the first lap, everyone else proceeded to leave me for dust. I'd had a good few weeks and felt alright, but all of a sudden, I was ploughing everything I had into the pedals and watching everybody else sail off into the distance. The guys in the pits said my front wheel wouldn't turn when they went to jet-wash it.
Then the water pump failed in the car 25 miles south and we got home 8 hours later on the back of a recovery truck. Big up to the RAC and Daryl the recovery driver though, top service all round.
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