Photos Digby Shaw Words Owen Hughes

As the sun rose -or as the day went from black to grey, eight or so blokes trudged around a park, stringing tape, shouting to each other through the murk, driving pegs into the ground, equipping an otherwise ordinary patch of pleasant, mixed terrain grassland for another cycling maelstrom.

Early arrivals emerged from their cars bleary-eyed into a cool southerly, dithering with jackets, hats and boots, acutely conscious of the flurries of precipitation approaching from the south. The first consortium of hopefuls signed on and gingerly put tyre to grass, the disorder of mud and mechanicals from two weeks prior fresh in their minds.

The piercing howl of the race master’s loud hailer soon set trepidation aside, as a raucous pack of C graders pedalled themselves ragged in order to ascend Upper Hutt’s rarest beast, a grippy grassy stop-bank. A few early leaders even allowed smiles to escape their grimace-taut faces as they found grip under foot and tyre. The rally cries of children and partners, safe in their cocoons of fleece and Gore-tex, could be heard from the other side of the course tape.

After Metallica’s pulsating arias again faded, the unabashed competitiveness of the whippersnappers in attendance was unleashed on the course, the weather all the while settling into a rhythm of keen crispness and gusts of bone chilling breeze.

A somewhat inflated pack of B graders lined up, aware now of the favourable conditions. A slew of colourful lycra flowed onto the stomping grounds for a showdown of bravado and fortitude. But it was in the mid-pack where the most exciting stratagems were played out, friends and rivals gained over the previous weeks of competition were tested, but only a few resolved, leaving open the possibility of further fracas at the following races.

As the rabble of B grade faded, a modest pack of A grade riders lined up for the final showdown of the day. The sea of patterned clothing and smiling, familiar faces soon became a background feature, as riders grappled with rapidly eroding traction on the now traffic weary course. Gains were made on the flats, and lost in the twists, power versus technique, strength against cunning.

As the clock ticked down it’s relentless minutes, the formerly baying pack of spectators turned instead to reassurance and encouragement, willing participants to overcome accrued oxygen debt and fatigue in their quest for ascendancy.