Why not give it a go? I could be a cyclist for a day

In anticipation of starting the Gifford Road Race for the second time next month, Ryan Sweeney has given his account of his first attempt at racing last year. If this has inspired you to try your first race then entries are open on the British Cycling website until the 2nd of March.

I knew about the Gifford RR, so last year, I thought—why not give it a go? I could be a cyclist for a day.

I coach with ERC, teaching kids aged 5 to 11 bike skills every week. We have fun, we ride, we learn. Surely, they’d like to look up to someone who leads by example?

So, I entered through British Cycling. I’ve got a race licence now. Does that make me a cyclist? I mean, I’ve done sportives—heck, I’ve even won one. Twice!

If I get into the break and we work well together, maybe I stay out in front. Maybe I make the jump and hit the line first. Do I go classic—both hands up? Or do I hang up the phone, show my wife what I can do? If I have time, maybe even a Superman. My thoughts can race faster than my legs.

Race day

A rolling start, in the peloton. Hey, this is fun—I think I might actually be a cyclist. Then the race starts properly. I stick with them, I'm not fighting for position.

First ramp. Everyone goes. I don’t—I’m spat out the back. Oh, this isn’t good. I watch them disappear around the corner. Oh, this really isn’t good.

Alright. I like chasing people down. At least, I think I do. Normally, they’re on commuter bikes and I fly past them. Head down, I start reeling in the other stragglers. Soon, we form a group, working together, taking turns. Spectators cheer. My biggest fan—tiny cowbell in hand—rings it with all his might.

Are we catching them? Who knows. Am I having fun? Absolutely.

Halfway through the last lap, something shifts. What just happened? Why am I leading them out for the sprint? My legs are empty. They fly past me on the way to the line.

I remember—1st, 2nd, and 3rd get prizes. So does last.

I smile as I cross the line. I've had a great time.

Back at race HQ, I hand in my number with my biggest little fan. “I think I might have a prize—I was last!” I tell them. They check my number. “Sorry, second last.”

No Lantern Rouge prize for me. But I did get free soup, a sandwich, and cake. So did my biggest little fan—and he didn’t even do any work.

So, this year, I’ve signed up again. “Why would you do that?” my wife asks. “Weren’t you last?”
“Second last, actually.”

Maybe I’ll pretend to be a cyclist again. Scratch that. I don’t have to pretend. I already was one. Just a little slower than the ones on TV.

See you at the start line. Let’s hang out on the road.