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Hare and Hounds anyone? Hare and Hounds anyone?
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Ride Tales Post your ride reports for a weekend ride or around the world. Please make the first words of the title WHERE the ride is. Please do NOT just post a link to your site. For a link, see Get a Link.
Photo by Hendi Kaf, in Cambodia

I haven't been everywhere...
but it's on my list!


Photo by Hendi Kaf,
in Cambodia



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  #1  
Old 19 Oct 2009
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Hare and Hounds anyone?
My only points of reference were an intimately placed tattoo and something that has been banned by our current government. And yet, here I was at 8am on beautiful autumn morning in October hoping to compete in my first ‘Hare and Hounds’. Was I willing to go through with the tattoo? Or was now the time to whip out my hunting horn and blow?
Two years earlier I’d ridden pillion on the back of a motorbike half a dozen times. Sixteen months earlier and after 6 days of intensive torture I had passed my motorbike test and bought an 800cc bike. Five months earlier I had ridden a motorbike off-road for the first time. Twenty one days earlier I had picked up my Yamaha TTR250. And now, here I was, dry mouthed, wondering when the hounds would be released and the traditional ‘stirrup cup’ would be handed around by a grateful serf to quench my thirst.
I felt like a fish out of its proverbial H2O. Not only was my bike sparkly clean, but I was also the only female that wasn’t either brewing coffee or ‘manning’ an important admin’ post within a cavernous awning. My cleanliness gave me away instantly as the novice I was. If only I’d taken the time to duff up the TTR before arrival, then I wouldn’t have aroused suspicion, but it was too late. “That looks a bit cleaner than mine”. It seemed impolite to check that he was indeed talking about his bike, so I just made that assumption, smiled knowingly and slunk away with my spotless tail between my legs.
The first task was to sign in. The second was to find a friend. The latter came in the guise of Ian who became my saviour, along with his friends Anthony and Stupid. Like a child abandoned by its parents, I clung to my new family hoping their obvious coolness would rub off on me. I also stood close to Ian because he was mucky and I though some of that would rub off on my gear. To this day he probably thinks I was just a bit weird and had no sense of personal space.
No, I hadn’t done this before. Yes, it was my first race. No, I hadn’t been riding off-road that long. Yes, I did by a TTR250, why? No, I wasn’t sure why I was here and yes, I was indeed crapping myself. With the initial interview over, I proceeded to shuffle my pit box around like a crazed bear in a zoo, packing and unpacking the three items that were contained therein. Inadequacy seemed to follow me as I realised that the large white vans and horse boxes lined up along the hedge were packed to the axles with ‘kit’. I looked down at my three items; two cans of petrol and a tool roll with two items secreted away inside, one of which wasn’t an official ‘tool’. It was a banana sandwich.
“That looks a bit cleaner than mine”. There was a theme developing and I really hoped that we were all talking about the same thing.
I was scrutineered, which apparently means peering down the exhaust and twiddling the brake and clutch levers before being given permission, by means of a significant but disguised nod, to ride towards my torturer. I was now also nothing but a bar code on the side of my helmet and it was, apparently, my objective to get scanned more than your average pack of Sainsbury’s carrots in the next three hours. So, here I was lined up behind four rows of bikes. Ian was by my side and after enjoying my obvious terror, gave me a wink. Normally a girl would be able to enjoy the odd wink or two, but this time I could barely see Ian’s face through the blue exhaust smoke of 100 plus two- and four-stroke engines.
There were instructions hailed from a loudspeaker – all of which remained a mystery to me as I had been deafened by the noise of the bikes firing up and was hallucinating merrily on fumes. When the rest of my line set off without me, I knew I’d missed the most crucial instruction of them all. The instruction to start.
“Let them all get on with it at the first corner, whatever you do, don’t wipe out” was Anthony’s advice. Yep. OK – easy. Be your own rider Liz. I looked behind to see who was with me. No one. I was last. My humiliated ego dismounted and left me to it.
The first lap was going fine; apart from the motocross jumps. And the deep, hard-packed ruts. And the wet long grass. And the logs. And the bog. And the other riders.
So, just to clarify. There were to be no tattoos and no releasing of hounds. I just had to do as many laps as I was able in the three hour race. A lap was 5 miles long. And I’d done three of them when I decided that I’d rather have the tattoo. I pulled into the pit, having an oral fantasy about the banana sandwich which was nestling between my fuel cans. Only five minutes of my extended and reflective pit stop had expired when John approached me with a rather cutting question. “You’re not thinking of quitting are you?” Inwardly I tutted, and hid my indignation that someone could doubt my commitment to finishing the race. “Erm, well, I was just... Yes, I was. But now I’m not because I’m detecting that that would be the wrong thing to do. I’ll just finish my sandwich and get straight back on it.”
Deep in my gut, my insides turned to lead. Banana sandwich lodged in my throat. My mind pressed fast forward and the picture showed my front tyre launching over that first log again, just before the rest of the bike toppled over and another fresh limb offered itself up to the God of Logs like a sacrificial slab of meat. The irony being that I could have cleared the damn things quite happily if I’d been following hounds on a horse.
Out I went again. Full of vim and vigour, grit and determination and all other positive words that showed that I was mentally strong and balanced. And strangely enough, something other than my banana sandwich had shifted. My riding was faster, my turns sharper, my line straighter and my ascent and decent of the logs absolutely perfect. And that’s what I came for – that feeling right there – the one that showed me that I could do it and I wasn’t losing my sanity.
It wasn’t the logs or the bog that did for me in the end. I was a very innocent looking brick. On a very easy corner. And I wasn’t paying that much attention to it, but it flipped my front wheel and the next thing I knew I was on all fours trying to catch my breath and wondering whether the imprint of the handle grip and clutch lever on my collarbone would shown up in an Xray.
In the end I completed five more laps before screaming to a halt next to the Sainsbury’s scanning machine and a clock that said my time was up. I’d finished. And secured myself a place in my own history marked by a plastic ‘silver’ cup. A roar went up from the crowd as I stepped up to the podium to collect... Ah, my ego had showed up as soon as there was a cup to be collected!
Back in the paddock, someone turned to me and said “That’s not seen much action judging by how clean it is”. How wrong can one man be?
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Hare and Hounds anyone?-h-h-18-oct-09  

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Liz Childerley
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Last edited by chiliz; 21 Oct 2009 at 22:13.
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  #2  
Old 19 Oct 2009
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Well done Liz! That first race is always terrifying - and something to be remembered forever.

Great writeup too - how about some photos?

Keep it up!
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Old 20 Oct 2009
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Liz,

Superb write-up.

So how long before you could move without hurting ?

You discovered the most important thing with hare and hounds events; Make sure you finish.!! You will normally triumph over half of the field if you just keep slogging to the end. It also gets easier as the track gets worn in and loads of riders have retired. This is when you start to put in the most enjoyable laps.

BYT
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Old 21 Oct 2009
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thank you!
Grant and BYT - thank you so much for the encouragement! Your comments made me smile, and Grant - a picture successfully uploaded of the plastic 'silverware' and the spotless TTR!

BYT - I was so thrilled to have completed the race, and I'm still on a high. Although my body isn't. I can raise my arms above my head today, and each time I breathe, my collarbone hurts less! Every bit of pain worth it. And you'r right - "just keep going".

Thanks both!
Liz
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