Grey
Days
Wednesday 24th January, 2008
by Ed Hood
It's drizzling in Kirkcaldy at 06.15, mild, damp,
depressing.
The 07.50 train to Edinburgh and no one speaks,
not a word. I'd sooner be in the old Transit, with Terry Wogan prattling-on
about sausages.
The carriage rocks past the Forth Bridge approach
road at 08.10 and like Talking Heads would say, the tailback is "same
as it ever was".
There won't be much chat down there either.
At least there's a little daylight now, a few weeks
ago at this time, it was "as black as the Earl o' Hell's waistcoat",
as my dad used to say.
Haymarket, the game plan was to leave at 08.30.
One of the boys has missed his train, whilst he's on the mobile explaining
this, he misses the next one too. It's 08.50 now, and our man ambles
sheepishly across to the car - I'm really glad I got that early train.
Drum Brae, 09.10, and we pick up our sixth man.
He's got the short straw and is in the rear-facing seats in the back
of the estate car.
Calendar, 10.00. The last time we were here it
was a glorious autumn day and Jason was flying to another course record
in the Trossachs; I would only see him once more after that, at the
hill climb - he won that too.
Lix Toll, 10.30, and our 'tail-gunner' feels sick.
We stop, haul him out, and I climb in.
As we crossed Rannoch Moor it looked briefly like
the rain might stop, there was a bit of sun shining through the gloom,
despite the torrents in every little valley.
We made it with about ten miutes to spare, the
rain had turned serious; the church was full, and we were shepherded
into the hall at the back, which was 'standing-room-only.'
The service was as good as these things can be,
the minister had done his homework, and Bob Taylor struggled manfully
through his speech; "our hero". Aye Bob, I never
though of it that way, but that's right.
And the British champion's skinsuit, on a Scottish
rider's back in Scottish races, it was marvellous, you're right, Bob.
The minister read out a letter from Caroline which
will accompany Jason on his final journey; that was hard and the tears
were close.
Outside, the rain was dramatic; the coffin in the
back of the hearse; the big crowd, familiar faces and strangers alike,
still stunned and with the rain dripping from their black clothing.
Caroline, her pretty face twisted in grief but still taking time to
make sure the twins' seatbelts were fastened - and all under the watchful
eye of the TV cameras. It just didn't seem real.
As we drove homewards, back along Loch Linhe-side
in that downpour it finally sunk in that we'd never see that tall
figure; back flat, still and composed in the saddle, the cranks flying
around and that chiselled, focussed face, skinny - but healthy and
handsome, ever again.
I'm lucky. I took the time to tell him he was 'special'
when I did, for some people, it's too late.
We'll all miss you, Jason.
As Ed mentions above, we've done our best here
at VeloResults to support Jason, and to
get out there and witness as many of his rides as we could. Here's
our complete list of stories and interviews featuring Jason, we hope
you enjoy reading about the man.
Jason MacIntyre R.I.P.
