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Fellowship of the Piston-Ring or A Wet Weekend in Mordor
date added: -0-03-20
When?- May Bank Holiday Weekend, 2003
Where?- Rowrah Circuit, Cumbria
Why the hell?- First meeting of the new season, so why not?
Written by Monkeygirl
You know how sometimes you wish you had done one last thing before you left the house. Properly switch off the TV, leave a light on on the landing (just in case), make sure you check the weather-forecast. All these things will play on your mind as you pack your bags, and without fail one will be forgotten. In our case it was the latter.
It seemed at the time to be the least important, better that than burglery or the house burning down, yet it was damn-near our undoing. The dark rain slashed the windscreen as we headed North, and into the night, but reports from those already at the circuit said that it was clearing up, so our enthusiasm was undampened.
After a dry night, we set up camp, as far as opening the side of a van and banging tent-pegs into solid rock could be called setting up camp, and got settled in for the weekend. As we ate our lunch, everything seemed peachy.Blue sky over our heads and the scent of spring and synthetic hi-octane 2 stroke oil in the breeze.
Suddenly, around tea-time, it turned evil.....The breeze blew ever harder, and the darkening clouds began a drizzle that turned to a downpour.
By six o'clock the tents were as good as destroyed. The wind had become so strong that you could hardly stand, the horizontal, driving rain felt like someone was hosing you down. People were lifted from their feet as they tried to prevent awnings and canopies from ballooning over the Scottish border. There was notlet-up as darkness fell, and it turned into the proverbial 'dark and stormy night'. Those unlucky enough not to have wheeled accomodation, huddled in the various buildings about the site, contemplating their soggy belongings, while outside a screaming tempest drowned the sound of the club-house band.
We ventured carefully outside in the morning, dreading another battering, our nervousness showing in stupid jokes about trench-foot and double pnumomia. It was overcast, featureless and still blowing a gale, but like us, thankfully dry.
The race got off to its usual manic start, a buzzing swirl of bikes, blue smoke and multi-coloured leather. Soon, small gaggles of people formed in the dark tunnel under the grand-stand, squinting at a tiny monitor showing lap-times and making friendly comments to each other about their own, and others (lack of) performance.
A depleted selection of the hardier spectators threw occational accusing looks at the clouds as they thickened, and the first few dreaded spots of rain fell. The track acquired a slippery sheen in little time, and the marshall's were kept busy with their yellow flags as riders came skidding off in the worsening conditions. As riders changed, a motley selection of wet-weather gear came on show, some looking as though it had been stolen from some passing council refuse-workers, XXL flouro is seemingly the choice of champions.
Pity poor Taffspeed Terry! Who came a nasty cropper on a bend and broke his ankle trying to perform a daring experiment. Testing man's ability to fly unaided! Will he return to wreak his revenge on Rowrah? We hope so, after all, now its personal.....
While the little god of inclement weather frowned, fortune smiled upon our sheer bloody minded persistance and our team had its best race yet. The next day our luck and the weather held. It was a jubilant team who posed ( with tankards! ) for the usual group photo, and as we packed our wrecked tents and started driving back South with the sun on our faces and the wind in our hair, we looked around us, smiled, and thought:
'Bastard weather, why wasn't it like this yesterday?'