In recent months. I’ve been understanding the idea that photography should be about telling a story as much as capturing what’s in front of the lens. While I understand the concept, putting it into practice is more difficult.

I took these snaps at the Leicester Forest Cycling Club time trial on Saturday. I’ve cluttered my photostream previously with endless pictures of slightly overweight men in skinsuits, gurning away on their expensive bikes.
I’ve never looked at them after uploading them and so I can’t be surprised that no-one else has ever been interested either, other than the bloke in the picture.

Local time-trialling seems to be a thoroughly British thing to do. The dusty village halls, the home-made sandwiches and the results boards stuck on folding tables all add to the charm of events happening every weekend, up and down the country. I guess they are to the Sky team and their air-conditioned wonder-bus what Sunday League pub team football is to the Premiership.

On Saturday I should have been racing, but the crusty old tubular tyre on the back of my race bike finally gave up an hour before my start time and so I decided to photograph the event instead.

Whenever I’m not racing and am either photographing or marshalling events, usually on the same A46 (‘Six Hills’) road, it depresses the hell out of me. The flotsam (or is it jetsam) of discarded litter, the abandoned, half-built projects and decaying businesses that line the road make it feel like the end of the earth. The idiotic driving, huge volume of traffic and constant, buffeting wind do little to lighten the mood.

Looking back at the resulting pictures and the processing I gave them as soon as I got home, it looks like my feelings for the place and my disappointment at not riding are reflected in a gloomy set.

Still, it all helps tell the story…

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