Past Bikedown!
4th Annual 5th Annual Pig Roast Derby
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SSWC 2001: Anarchy in the U.K.
-on the road with Thomas "Hurl" Everstone
Wakeman & I arrived to Gatwick at 9:00 am London time after the all night flight and several Heineken's. We spent two days in Cambridge with Lloyd and Clive from U.K. distributor, Ison, then headed to Bath, the home of Future Publishing (Mountain Bike UK, Cycling Plus) to meet up with SSWC race promoter 'Chipps' Chippendale. Chipps was commandeering a 1959 Cadillac Sedan DeVille. We're talking the largest vehicle in all of the UK, I swear. We jumped into The Batmobile for the drive to Chipps' home in Bradford at Avon. "The Flat" as it is known, is above a market. As such, beer is never more than a stumble away. Convenient, especially for a couple of Luddite Americans such as ourselves. Beers procured, Wakeman and Chipps took turns rocking the jams on Chipps' guitars.
Jam session completed, we piled into Chipps' other car, a '68 Volvo wagon, and aimed for Bristol. For being such a 'shonky' bike journo, Chipps sure does have some nice wheels... Once in Bristol, we checked into the TravelLodge, and walked over to the Mud Dock, de facto headquarters for the SSWC '01. The Mud Dock is the type of shop you wish you had in your hometown. The main floor is the bike shop, featuring high ceilings, exposed woodwork, excellent lighting, and cool displays. The second floor is where things get interesting: a full service bar and cafÚ, featuring a deck overlooking the water; complete bikes and frames hang from the rafters. The SSWC mob had taken over the bar by this point, and after several beers, as well as the destruction of both of Chevil Knevil's wheels in a walking derby, we absconded into the Bristol night for some curry.
Day two in Bristol, and it's back to the Mud Dock to find the action. Walking up the block, in his "I'm with Honky" tshirt, is none other than defending 2000 Single-Speed World Champ, 'Hollywood' Jay Flanderson. "Dude, the airline lost my luggage and my bike," is how Hollywood greets me. Bummer. Wakeman's bike has also yet to arrive, being held up in customs, so he borrows a Santa Cruz Chameleon from Miles at Mud Dock, and we set off on an urban blaze through Bristol. Old school architecture and lots of hills greet us as we explore the city. Found a cool, crusty local bike shop, Bristol Bike Works, take in all the cool fountains and rolled back to the Travelodge.
Friday night's registration party was held at the 3-story Klub Kute. The one speeders drank all of the available beer, and when the DJ played Slayer, madness ensued. Hair farmers, moshers, and an air guitar contest erupted simultaneously. Saturday, up at the crack of noon, we met back at the Mud Dock, to caravan to the race venue, 60 miles to the south in South Wales.
Hollywood showed up with his own bike. After countless phone calls, the airline delivered it to the Mud Dock at the 19th hour. The defending World Champ was stoked and commenced assembling his Cannondale, much to the delight of the peanut gallery; a crowd of onlookers which gathered to watch as he pieced together his ride. About two hours later, after returning from a mellow group ride, Hollywood abruptly ended any chance of defending his title when he "came off" in some gnarly singletrack and tore the ligaments holding his neck to his scapula and clavicle. An ambulance was called and soon arrived to whisk Hollywood away to some hospital.
Chipps had rented a circus-sized tent and arranged for a DJ to play some "ambient house music" as Chipps called it. Apparently the DJ didn't get the message; nothing but crap dance shite filled the tent. After several requests from the crowd, Chevil Knevil produced his cd collection, and Fu Manchu's "King of the Road" came blasting from the speakers. Soon, the cry of "Derby" filled the air. The Mpls. Mafia did not disappoint. After a few short-lived efforts to vanquish the Surly mob, including some bikes being lofted airborne, Wakeman vanquished all. Hollywood returned from the hospital, arm in sling. By 3 am the revelery had abated only slightly, but eventually, all was quiet, save for the belching Canadians, whose pink tshirts proudly proclaim, "Gears are Gay."
Sunday morning campers stirred, and preparations were made for the race, which for most involved drinking another beer, or smoking a cigarette. No one was moving too quickly, as the night before was still vivid in most people's heads, nevermind that no one can recall what happened exactly...
A brief race meeting was held, and in a touching gesture of International camaraderie, Chipps handed out airline bottles of Jack Daniels to all the Yanks. And then, as is custom at these events, bikes were laid prostrate for the LeMans start. As is also customary at these events, the promoter slammed his beer and upon finishing, the motley crowd was off in a frenzy to find their bikes and to begin the first of two 10 mile laps. Each lap featured 1700 feet of climbing per, all on fire roads, and then the most technical, rocky singletrack descents, featuring pointy, sharp baby-head rocks, and tree roots like criss-crossed forearms the size of Lou Ferrigno, all vying for your attention. Hollywood started the race and completed one lap in a valiant effort, proving he ain't no wuss. Bristol local Jeff Wherlock won the rainbow stripes in 1:34:15, wearing his Hawaiian shirt, while pro racer Alison Rushton took the honors for the women. Spot Brand Honch/World's Skinniest Single-Speeder Mike G. rode the race on his Spot cross bike, and was later called a "daft cunt" by a noted UK bike manufacturer. Surly riders were seen wearing skirts, WW I trench helmets, and riding bikes with Star-Spangled paint schemes. There was no shortage of swag. Prizes were handed out to nearly every rider. No tattoos were given at the race venue to the victors, but the ink has since been administered. With that, the entire caravan again absconded back to Bristol and the Mud Dock for some decompression, before catching various trains, ferries, and flights back to whence we've came. Next year's event appears to be headed to NorCal, where Sweet Steve, Robert, Ferrentino, Richter, Hunter, et al are sure to come up with some serious pain. Stay tuned...
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