I can come over quite giddy kipper whenever I receive an invitation and sometimes I later regret that I have hastily confirmed my attendance before undertaking due diligence. Note, I am not talking about the unique experiences born out of my 60th birthday escapade, but rather your standard, ‘are you doing anything next Sunday?/would you like to tag along?’ type invite. While I am always delighted to have my company requested, in future I might be wise to check the weather forecast, the terrain and the catering options before confirming my attendance.

Reader I give you Cyclocross. No? Me neither.

On this occasion I felt obliged to accept an invitation to spectate at a Cyclocross event because Himself has spectated and cheered me on at numerous running events and is actually quite good at it. It takes a certain type of person to excel as a spectator and it turns out that I may not be that person.

Firstly I have to have Cyclocross explained to me and learn that it is a bike race of sorts involving mud, hilly terrain and many testing laps of a woodland route to keep road cyclists fit through the Winter months when tarmac is too slippy to be a cyclist’s friend. I also learn that we will be travelling to the Forest of Dean for this adventure and, as I love the thought of a drive through Chepstow, I ask no more questions.

On the morning of the race Himself comes across as very laid back about the whole event, to the extent that I mistakenly believe there to be no rush to set off and get to the track. I disappear for a little jog before I start faffing around over a shower and getting breakfast; it is only when I am trying to source a matching pair of socks, that I notice that Himself has started to pace up and down in his lycra. He is not eating breakfast with me because apparently he ate his nutritional feast at the crack of sparrow in order to be race ready. Himself later tells me that he was not pacing, but was just incredulous that I was choosing to wear ankle socks and some ankle-grazing jeans and inappropriate footwear on the coldest day of the year.

I eventually take the hint, put on three coats and a scarf and stuff my pockets with snacks. I chat for the whole car journey, believing that Himself will appreciate the distraction from his pre-race nerves. He remains very quiet.

We arrive in a field in the back of beyond, and the friendly car parking marshall assures me that Cyclocrossers do use inside toilets and that they are also partial to hot coffee and pie – both of which he assures me I will find in the club house. Things are looking up.

I assume that, as in any running race, we will just sit in the car with the heating on full blast – perhaps eating bananas – until about 5 minutes before we are called to the starting pen. I am wrong. Apparently we will first walk the course and then Himself will warm up by attacking the track for a thirty minute warm up. I will be allowed to hang on to my three coats but apparently it will be poor show if I return to the car.

Himself does allow me to take a slight detour to the club house to check out the facilities and to buy a coffee. As a seasoned runner I commend Cyclocross for their indoor lavs and the total lack of queue – a refreshing change from any pre-marathon portaloo chaos. I also welcome the helpful notice above the toilet cistern – directed at males I assume , ‘Stand closer, it’s not as long as you think’. Cyclists have something to teach the running fraternity.

I walk the course, using my coffee as a hot water bottle and pretend that I know which side of the flags to walk. I wonder if I should have brought a set of cow bells as a lot of other spectators seem to be shaking these loudly and shouting, ‘Allez, Allez!’. I share my course expertise with Himself, and observe that the tracks look ‘pretty scary’, that someone needs to move that ‘nasty tree trunk out of the way’ but that he should be just fine if he follows my advice . He does not hear my encouragement because he is speaking in another language to fellow cyclists, ‘PSI, PBH and VO2, blah, blah, blah’, so I go off and get another coffee, leaving my ARGEIL (All Round Good Egg in Lycra) to bond with his fellow ‘crossers’.

I am summonsed over to the starting pen and note that most of the other cyclists have their +1 waiting diligently in the Pits with a spare bike – I see no other spectator chewing the fat over a cheeky coffee at the start line or shouting encouragement at their beloved. Himself is finally called forward and he flings his cycling jacket in my direction. My one job is to catch this item of clothing but it falls in the mud; I retrieve it and wonder if I can fashion it strategically around my ankles because by now I cannot feel my feet and my coffee has gone cold.

I watch Himself complete a couple of laps of the course before realising that there is a totally separate field that the riders also have to cycle through. I am cheered to see that there is spectator entertainment in this field and I position myself – with my third coffee (by now I am a firm favourite with the ladies in the kitchen) to watch the veterans in this category deftly bunny hop what looks like a very high jump. I am duly impressed; when you run a marathon (have I told you that I run marathons?) it is a challenge to even negotiate a kerb, but these wiry mountain goats are balletically dismounting their charges and then throwing themselves back onto the saddle with some impressive pelvic aplomb. I guess the cycling shorts must have the padding placed very strategically and they must have read that notice over the toilet cistern.

Despite the lack of feeling in my feet, I gamely cheer Himself each time he cycles past. I am not convinced that he is enjoying himself because, although I run beside him offering encouragement and priding myself that my coffee remains in the cup, he just seems to grimace. I am not even sure that he sees me. Only later, when I tell this story to his son, is it explained to me that to smile in a race is an indication that you are not trying hard enough. This may explain my poor marathon finishing times but at least I have some charming photos as souvenirs.

At the end of the race I am hopeful that Himself will let us feed my inner soup dragon by purchasing some hot stodge from the lovely ladies in the club house, but he tells me that he is ready to throw up and that I would be better to meet him back by the car -if I can find his muddy vehicle in a very large field of cyclists’ vans. He does seem to be putting the cross back into cycling, but then he looks so good in lycra that this grumpy chops demeanour is arguably attractive. I am too cold and hungry to be a judge and I am a guest at this event.

Now that I have completed due diligence, would I accept such an invite again? After purchasing a Dryrobe and some thermal socks I might just allow my giddy kipper back into my inner tubes again – at least it would get my circulation going. My enthusiasm should remain unpunctured.