A little lacking in Conviction

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After my good showing the Sunday prior i was optimistic for backing up with a PB on the Convict 100, so named as the course traverses some of the original sandstone trails carved out of the Hawkesbury plateau by be-shackled labor.  Rough as guts.  Having netted 5th in the 40-49 bracket last year with a time of 4:39, I figured a 4:30 and possible podium might be on the cards.   The one thing that worried me was that despite only light commuting during the week my legs were still a bit sore on the Thursday - a reflection of how deep I had go the previous Sunday.  

I met the Salmon collective Friday night at the Wiseman’s Ferry Hotel, where dinner was followed by ferry passage and eventual arrival at St Albans, where we registered and erected tents, or in the case of Ben and Felix, just popped the top of Cheryl's fancy-pants VW camper.  Thanks to the advance party, Sara and GK for reserving some paddock real estate.

Got a reasonable nights sleep and ponied up at the start with the usual 3 liters on the back and another 750 on the frame.  Exchanged pre-race banter with Welch, among others.  Having consistently toppled him by 15-20 min in this event, he would be my litmus for the race, although I was fully expecting him to go way faster this year on the back of huge miles and 29er platform.  Not many 26ers around these days, especially on a course like this.  The pace along the opening sector was fast, but not stupid, although the size of the bunch was a little on the bloated size, which made for nervous moments through several paddock-gate squeeze points.  I should have been thirsty to be nearer the front, but somehow just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm, which came back to bite in the form of almost immediate blockage on the first big climb of the day at approx. 13 km.  Having never cleaned it before I was almost resigned to a bit of walking anyway so didn’t get too stressed about clipping out.  Welch cruised past 30 sec later, and was able to weave his way through the flotsam and jetsam, riding the climb for the first time. 

With the plateau gained I tapped away waiting for the heart rate to settle and cruising altitude to kick in.  Riders started to come back, including Welch’s group at approx. the 20 km point.  The serious rugger-bugger of the 30-40 km sectors didn’t seem so bad this time, but I could feel the fatigue starting to bite as I rolled through the 50 km checkpoint at 2:13, encouraged that I was roughly a minute ahead of last year’s split even though I wasn’t feeling super.  Hopefully I’d be able to deliver a bit more in the back third.  I forcefully gnawed my way through a cliff bar on the post-feed fireroad climb before hitting the second major section of rock gardens, which continued to drain both momentum and spirit..  Welch caught me again at the 55 km point, and that was the last I saw of him.  I was eating and slurping well but just couldn’t muster the pep or urgency to try to go harder.  In any case, best to survive the worst of the pavé, not to mention the baby-head descent before flaming the charred remnants of my matchbox. 

The canoe bridge was uneventful, and I popped out the other side at approx. 3:08, almost identical to last year.  Unlike last year however, I just couldn’t seem to keep the engine firing.  There was still no cramp at this point, but fatigue-generale seemed to have taken hold, and I was now just going through the motions.  I was cleaning the pinches on the remaining drags OK, but there was only the smallest of splutters I could muster when I tried to put on the gas.

Having plunged back to earth cramp finally did have its way, only about 5 km from home, with more riders streamed past, all looking in better shape than I was.  By this stage I realized I wasn’t even going to match last years time, but I was well over caring.  You can only do what you can do.  The second river crossing was pre-empted, like last year, by my only crash of the circuit, somewhere in that ocean of sand.  I hammered the remaining fire road with the usual swarm of 50 km riders scrabbling for my wheel – at least some consolation – before stopping the clock at 4:44, about 5 min slower than 12 months earlier.  Slightly disappointing given my recent form and base, but in any other year I would have considered it a cracking effort.

Perusal of the results indicated that even if I had lopped off another 10 minutes (as did Mr Welch, with a 20 min PB), the podium was still well out of reach.  More and more former top-notch roadies are discovering the delights of the dark side now, astride the BIG wheels, to the extent that even defending champ Mr Adams’ awesome 4:11 was only good enough for third in category, to Mr Fenner's 4:05, which would have been good enough to win outright only 5 years ago (At the pointiest end this year Lewis outkicked English with a 3:47!).  Hence, I finished 20^th in my age category (approx. 250 starters) and 76th outright (of 630 doing the 100). 

If the adage that you are only as good as your last race is true, this would suggest my meager powers in the world of non-professional cycling are definitely on the wane, although it has been pointed out by quite a few that freshness was certainly something I might have been lacking on the startline.  So perhaps the psychological wounds are still worthy of some saliva.  On the upside, pre-race I swapped out my old foam Rickey grips to some extra chunky BMX el cheapos from the bargain bin at Wooleys’ in an effort to cushion my already badly blistered hands.  Absolutely did the trick!  So the hand ailment seems to be one I have finally fixed!

But it’s not just about me :).  Sara did a terrific job representing the ladies of SBB persuasion, finishing her first foray into the 50 in good nick, and even sneaking home before Felix’s machine (and transponder name-plate), which like a wayward steeplechase horse, managed to somehow limp home without him.  To wit, a short way into the 50 Felix’s machine (Ben’s former and much troubled Scott 26 dually) suffered a rear hub implosion prompting a bike swap, whereby Felix now had free reign on Dad’s 29er dually.  Ben had to dive deep into his bag of Heath Robinson’s to get old less-than-faithful home.  Surprisingly, he with the dirt jump skills also struggled to get home, at one point playing to the camera a fraction too long and paying the price in units of gravel.  Three shekels for each elbow, and another five for the left knee, which fortunately required no stitching at the end.  Hope the grazes are well on the mend! 

Mikey and GK tackled the 100 together, eschewing the bedlam of the first wave (described collectively by the MC as “podium wankers” – after we’d departed, of course) and second wave (“packfiller”), and opted for the back of the more sophisticated third and final wave, where intelligent conversations on a range of topics could be engaged – as is typical of those with a healthy work-life balance.  So true when you think about it.  They cruised the course and looked to have enjoyed it immensely, reveling in the better value for money that 6 hrs provides.  Good to see GK back and master of his Fly, which upended him in a nasty fashion on the same course a few years back.  Felix’s bungle aside, the sublime weather, steak sandwiches, beer and chips in the shade by the pub at the end capped off another fine edition of the 3D sandstone brickpit that is the Convict100.