I hadn't expected to win the Strathpuffer, and had entered knowing I didn't stand a chance, assuming it would be good for me to try my hardest with no hope of distinction. I needed to blunt that overpowering fear I'd felt as Zara and I climbed up the fire road the previous year, side by side, unable to veil our intent and our exertion, since I knew I was unlikely to lead by as great a margin in the next Transcontinental (if I led the race at all), and would need to get my head around the proximity of my rivals, the constant scrutiny of the spectators and the overall likelihood of failure.
The pit crew, and the other racers resting between their laps, were alternately firm and sympathetic, some greeting me with hugs and offers of tea, others turfing me back out into the cold with terse reminders of what I was here for. These were the finest twenty-four-hour racers in the country, I reminded myself, as I glimpsed Lee Craigie swapping stories with Mike Hall, Rickie Cotter darting back and forth with cups of tea for the mechanics, and Naomi Freireich scanning the white board on which one of the crew was keeping a tally of each rider's laps. None of them was racing solo, so they had time to lounge in their camping chairs, sharing jokes and passing hip flasks like some living breathing cyclist' hall of fame.
"I wept with exhaustion, openly begging the pit crew to let me stay there, and not to make me do one more lap. Outen got a camp chair and sat me down by the side of the fire road, crouching in front of me with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich and entreating me to consume them as I sobbed at her like child. Rickie held my bike, insisting that I had it in me to go back out."
Emily Chappell, Where There's a Will
© 2026 James Robertson