West Head

Convict100 Chain Gang 2012

My main focus for the year, the Convict100 (nee Dirtworks100), has come and gone, fortunately without incident, although whilst I was swabbing myself down post-finish the sound and sight of a chopper passing overhead did make me nervous for the rest of the Soggies still out there.  Ham had done the course a few times previously – it would simply be a long grind for him given his preparation, but Mikey and Kev would be seeing the course for the first time.  Mike I also wasn’t too concerned about, as he has enough experience under the belt to know what he can/can’t go over/down, although the 100 is a considerable step up from the 50. 

Kev, however, has only just crossed to the dark side, so for him this was more than just dipping toes in the water.  But he had just completed a skills course the weekend before, so what could possibly go wrong?  Plenty, in my mind's eye.  Although I had given my best prognosis of what to expect, every time I do this race (6^th time now) I am shocked by the roughness and frequency of the rocky sectors – too many to sensibly catalogue.  At least he had the right machine – a 29er Anthem should get him through the course provided he didn’t panic, stayed loose and let the thing have its way.

I was actually in pretty good condition this year; lots of kms under the belt (6000), pretty fit, correct weight, and, more importantly, healthy.  Had a consistent buildup of events; 3peaks, Mont24, and (dare I mention it) B2B.  The last couple of years I’ve managed to shave the 5 hr mark (to the winners 4), finishing in the 50^th-60^th bracket overall (of 600+), and 10^th (both years) in the 40-50 year age bracket.  I knew that from past experience I’d have to find another ~20-30 min to step up to the age category podium.  Given that in past editions I have been pretty balls-out just nailing 5 hours, this was going to be no mean feat.  Additionally, of the 9 who beat me last year, 8 had re-entered, and a gun from the ACT (Mr McAvoy) who is the world 24solo champion in my age group had also entered for the first time.

Come race day word was that the track was in good condition.  Fast, but with deep pools.  The track was indeed quick; firm and mostly dry, with not too many clay bits, but with just enough moisture to instill texture into the numerous sand traps.  Additionally, approx. 0.5 km of the first big descent of the day had been graded – this bit used to be gnarly to the extent that I’ve been over the bars there before.  But fast doesn’t mean void of ob-stacles. The rest of the thing seemed just as unforgiving as ever. 

The last few years I’ve always gone hard at the start in an attempt to hold the leaders but blown badly by halfway, coupled with all sorts of lower back issues.  This year I’d done some running and core work in preparation, and planned to go a little easier for the first ¼.  I started mid-field in the first wave – keeping my nose out of the wind along the flats till the first main climb of the day.  I was keen to ride the entire thing this year, but the approach speeds were such that a few hundred meters in I started to blow and unclipped, content to walk for another few min, before riding out the rest of the climb at a more manageable pace.  [NB:  Felix and Ben, who did the 50 this year, both cleaned the climb, so well done!].  With the climb dispatched, I started the process of attaining a comfortable rhythm, with thoughts of overhauling the 100+ that had streamed ahead of me during the climb.  I knew I was behind where I was for the last few years but didn’t panic, and waited for the condensation to clear from my goggles, and for the legs to tell me they were ready to go harder, which they eventually did.  I rode the 2^nd quarter (= rock garden sector #1) much better than I have before, pulling back riders, one by one, and went through the 50 km split in ~2:14, about 7 min quicker than I’ve managed before, and 10 min quicker than last year.  Most encouraging – no sign of cramp just yet, although like previous years my lower back had been an issue up until this point.

I chomped down a cliff bar and ground my way to the second major sector of rock gardens, getting through without incident, although I didn’t ride many of the little downhill runs particularly well, and had to dismount for a couple of the uphill stepped sections.  But at least I didn’t crater out like one of the riders a minute in front of me who was felled in “baby-head alley” towards the bottom of the first major descent.   I got spat onto the road at the same time as three others, two of which stopped at the feed.  I was again running a no-stop strategy and should have jumped ahead of the other chap who I allowed to gain the canoe bridge first.  Having let him on, I should also have given him another 10 meters, as the cavitation from his presence ~20 m ahead almost undid me.  I kept my eyes on the exit but knew I was running a bad line near the edge.  The guys manning the exit were encouraging me but with a tone betraying their belief that I was a certainty to be swimming the rest of it.  Somehow I held on to the edge for the last 1/3^rd and exited to considerable applause.  That was close!

With the major ob-stacles accounted for it was now just a matter of getting to the end as fast as the pistons would allow.  The chap just ahead of me on the bridge cracked big time on the paddocks before we even re-gained the tarmac.  There was another rider further ahead who decided not to wait and join forces into the headwind.  So the road sector I rode by myself, along with the second major climb, and the interminable series of pinches that eventually gain the top of the course.   The odd rider was picked off here and there, but they were now far and few between, so the finishing order had basically been decided, it was just a matter of holding position.  It was about here, with all the climbing dispatched with, that I realized the 750 ml bottle on the frame was not going to get touched after all, so I ditched its contents.  The mega-plummet back to earth was fast but successful – in spite of some nasty sectors on the lower ramps.  The dude I caught just before the drop gapped me by 200m on the descent but I eventually brought him back just before the second river crossing – where both of us comically keeled over simultaneously in the sand traps – and again on the other side of the river!  This lightened the mood and we worked the last few km together, grateful that it was nearly over. 

I stopped the clock at 4:39.  Good enough for 42^nd overall, and 5^th in the 40-50 year age category (a field here of 240).  Now I only need to find another 7 minutes of speed to gain the podium.  However, if improving is like sliding down an asymptote, maybe it’ll always be just out of reach.  We’ll see what happens next year.  Incidentally, 4 riders went under the race record, the winner by an incredible 10 minutes, to stop the clock at 3:48:11!  It was a nervous wait for the other Soggies to finish, but Ben and Felix informed me that they’d started together at the tail of the third wave, and come home together they did, all with smiles, soon to be followed by beer, steak sandwiches and chips.  Ham showed great courage to hang with the dudes despite preparation comprising zero kms.  Mikey seemed to have enjoyed the course most, reveling particularly in the challenges that each rock garden presented.  Ride of the day should go to Kev, IMO who, green as England, had an Oz experience he won't forget in a hurry.  I think he was a little shell-shocked at the end and, "not quite sure what to think of it".  Once again the weather gods obliged, with perfect cool conditions for racing and a warm afternoon for the dismantling of tents, swapping of stories and contemplations of next year.  How quickly the mind forgets.  Rock Wallaby anyone?

 

B2B, 2012

The Blayney to Bathurst is a cyclosportif that I’d heard about, mostly from climbers-turned-cyclists, as a pleasant well-natured country event.  Being 2 weekends before dirtworks I thought it would be a good hit out.  Enthusiasm from Fletch (in Melbs) also encouraged me to get online and tick the 160 km box.  In the end the Mudge, GK and Carl (who hails from the ACT) followed suit.  I was expecting a relatively small event – maybe 500 riders tops, but when we got to the “scene of the crime”, about 2300 had registered, making it one of the biggest road events I’ve been to.  Front page of the local rag parochially proclaimed it the “BIGGEST CYCLE EVENT IN NSW”.  Although an absurd statement (the Gong ride nudges 10 K, and the Mont and Scott 24s both cut entries at 2500), it was still a big number, and I’m now thankful I didn’t bring the mtb as intended.  I needed every ounce of fast-rollyness I could garner.

The Mudge and I did 2 valleys (50 km) on the Sat morn before bunging everything in the car for the three hour trip west, to a town I’d earmarked more as petrolhead-bogan-central (Bathurst 1000 etc) than western cycling mecca (despite it being Mr Renshaw's town of origin).  Registration was in the pit area of the race track which we subsequently drove, being open to the public.  Both the tightness and steepness of the climb, as well as the views from skyline are impressive.  I can understand why the motorists love it.   We stayed overnight in Bathurst with GK before strapping bikes to the wombat-mobile in the morning for the short transit to Blayney where we also found and introduced ourselves to Carl.   As we rolled up to the start the event was already underway, with a constant stream of riders disappearing quickly into the distance.   Any semblance of voluntary seeding seemed to have gone out the window – it was one large group.  My plan wasn’t to start at the very back of a mass field, but that is what eventuated. 

The field started splintering immediately.  Carl and I were keen to get a wriggle on and jumped from group to group, till about 10 km in we hopped to one with about 15 riders whom didn’t want to let us go.  Eventually some organization and cohesion set in, with a rolling paceline mostly staying intact despite some very pot-holed patch-work-quilt sectors, cobbled corners, and the odd slow learner disrupting the rhythm.  Another group eventually came into view, about a minute up the road, which gave us something to aim for although never did catch them.   Carl had a little bad luck on the run back to Blayney, with what sounded like a classic case of broken spoke.  I was hoping he’d quickly bend it out of the way to eliminate slap, and maybe rejoin us or pick up the next group, which can’t have been too far adrift.  [In fact his cadence magnet had slipped to a position where it was plucking spokes, and required a bit of a fiddle to fix].

The initial Blayney-Blayney 50 km loop soon came to a close, and I was hoping the surface for the remaining trip to Bathurst would be kinder, which it mostly was in the sense that the pot-hole frequency was dramatically reduced, although the dead surface and ever-undulating nature of the course persisted.  About 5 km out of Blayney my group stopped working although I didn’t understand why so I just tapped away at the front.  As a climb of a few kilometers approached the whoosh of a powerful bunch then started coming past.  WTF?  I had no idea where this mob had come from, but it was all shaven legs, club jerseys, race numbers, the “voom voom voom” of seemingly ubiquitous deep dish carbon.  This was no cyclosportif cohort, but perhaps a concurrent road-race part of the weekend I wasn’t privy to?  I upped my tempo hoping to stay with them but they just kept filing past – akin to B-grade being passed by A-grade at Heffron, x20!  With at least 100 riders having passed I knuckled down and latched onto what must have been the tail, only to realize there was probably another 50, no, another 100 riders behind me!  I clung on desperately over the climb as the pace quickened over the other side.  Before long we were doing 55-65 km/hr on the downs, and mid 30s+ on the ups.  I hung tough over every ripple and fart, gradually filtering towards the back of what would easily rate as the biggest and scariest bunch I have ever been part of – well over 200 riders, for the next 30 km.

My senses were reacquainting with sights, sounds and smells I haven’t been exposed to in some time on the bike – the spine chilling squeal of brakes, smell of burning rubber, cursing and swearing, and the repeated torturous accelerations that accompany a bunch breathing concertina style in response to compressions on the rises, and to accommodate the odd car approaching in the opposite direction!  These were by no means closed roads but the bunch was using every part of them.  Some extremely nervous moments ensued – reminding me of all the reasons I disliked road racing, particularly on a course that made relatively little selection, and all over nasty pock-marked blue metal which was going to take a chunk out of you given the chance.  The way I saw it this was a TdF-sized bunch, but on much worse roads, with less skilled riders.  It seemed only a matter of time.

I finally blew at the 90 km mark where a sharp LHT yielded an acceleration I just couldn’t respond to.  Having put in lots of work during the first 50, then been wagged by the tail of this mega bunch for the last 30 I popped big time.  It was pretty demoralizing actually.  I pride myself on being at the fit-end of the pool, and here I was, comprehensively shelled by a bunch of country bumpkins (although very well manicured and kitted-out bumpkins) in a cyclosportif.  Anyway, it was down to survival now, as I still had 70 km to go.  At the top of the next climb was a feed zone populated by dozens of people holding bottles for their chosen riders – so this was a road race after all?  Also at the feed, still lying in the middle of the road surrounded by worried onlookers was a casualty of the bunchasaurus just passed – a rider prostate on the ground, the second one I’d seen thus far.  Ironically this occurred on what was probably the slowest part of the last 40 km!  But as Paul and Phil keep telling us, feed zones are dangerous places.

I had a bit more to eat and drink, and then in ones and twos picked up the odd riders being shelled from the tornado ahead.  Occasionally we’d get some flow going but everyone was shagged so our rotations were fairly sloppy.  Fresh horses were required, and they arrived, 5-10 minutes later in the form of another huge bunch.  Probably “only” 100 strong, this second bunch was too big and powerful to purely represent the dregs of the first bunch.  It must have had its own start.

It was about here that the penny dropped (I am a bit slow).  The bulk of riders doing the event were doing the 110 km version (about 800 riders in this category), which used a later start.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the first year that the 160 km version was offered (only 300 riders).  Hence, when initially passed I had 55 km in the legs to their 5.  The fact that there is a purse for the fastest rider in each age category has effectively reduced the event to that of “road race”, as evidenced by the waves of club jerseys on offer, even though one didn’t need to be licensed or affiliated with a club to enter – a very dangerous mix in my opinion. 

In any case, I was still not quite in shape to hold the tail of this 2^nd bunch for long, and let it slip by without much fight.  Not to worry, however, as 5-10 min later a third bunch came through, probably 70 strong this time, and without quite the venom of the first two.  It was like a group handicap, but in reverse order, with the scratch bunch leaving first.  Having recovered sufficiently I sat in for another ~20 km.  I even found a few people in here I recognized – again, all club racers.  I finally got shelled from this lot with about 23 km to go as the last and most pivotal climb got under way – five km at ~5% but with pinches up to 18%. 

Once over the climb the last 18 km were a real pleasure, nearly all gently down-hill to the finish, with a nice group of ~10 guys to roll with.  Before this little group got going, however, on the descent we had to first pass the sickening sight of another rider not moving in the middle of the road, very nasty head wound, blood everywhere.  Police and ambulance vehicles came blazing by in the opposite direction as we worked the flats.  It was apparently quite a crash with 20 riders down, 4 of which were carted off to hospital, one by air.  Not long after we got through the road was actually closed and all following riders were re-routed via a short-cut to the finish.  

Of the three of us doing most of the work on the run in, “Jim” was about 10 years my senior, on a Columbus steel frame and fork (Peter Bundy), 7 speed down-tube shifters, and like me had 150 km in his legs.  It was obvious this dude had done a bit of road racing in his time.   And obvious that he knew the finish, as once inside the grounds of Mt Panorama he gave us the slip on a short steep rise and managed to hold us off to the pit-lane finish.

After such a grueling experience (4:33 for me), I was quite worried for Anita, in particular, who hates the big bunch experience.  Coupled with the dead road I was expecting tears at the end but instead got a smile, and only 25 min after I rolled in.  By the time she passed through Blayney at the 50 km mark she had missed the madness of the 110 km heavy hitters, and at the end had been diverted by the above-mentioned crash.  Carl looked pretty cooked in the end but did a good time in spite of his mechanical; “Personally, I would take Sydney traffic over some of the riding I saw”.  Gerard had also been diverted, but made a point of riding the length of the climb before turning back, just for good measure.  

BTW, winner of the 110 was Ben Kersten (former USPro champion and track sprinter), who was paced back on after losing a minute on the last climb.  His ride was even more impressive when you consider that his “buildup to this race consisted of nothing more than a half an hour training ride” – more quality journalism from the Western Advocate.  Winner of the 160 rolled round in ~4:05!

Will I be back?  Not sure I will, to be honest.  Although I enjoy the thrill of bunch riding, the sheer size of these bunches really rattled me.  Maybe I’m just showing my age; “racing was never this dangerous back in my day”, when I know full well it was probably on par or worse.   Having never done an “Etape de Tour” or similar event, maybe this is the norm for cyclosportifs?  Maybe 3peaks, which had a completely different friendly vibe, is an anomaly.  Yes, rock climbing and mountain biking have their obvious dangers, but it's the randomness of the big-bunch spill, and frequency with which they happen, or nearly happen, and the severity of the consequences, that both leave me cold and rekindle respect for what the pros deal with every race.  Maybe my opinion will soften in time, but at this stage of the game I think it would take considerable arm-twisting to get me doing this sort of event again.

A Soggy take on the 2012 Mont24

Pappy O’Daniel; “And furthermore, by way of endorsing my candidacy, the Soggy Bottom Boys are gonna lead us all in a rousing chorus of "You Are My Sunshine."

And well we might have, for the sun certainly shone in the days preceding, and for the event itself, delivering a perfect near dust-free track, with only a few boggy bits to remind us that only 2 weeks prior another mtb event “Capital Punishment”, which starts on the same trails, was cancelled due to the mega deluge which has hit inland Oz of late.

In last years edition the Soggies fortunes were a bit of a dogs breakfast and included a broken shoulder, a busted knee, bruised ribs, 2 cracked helmets, an eviscerated rear derailleur and 4 punctures – all before the heavens opened at the death, gleefully sloshing milk over a sea of powdered Milo to produce the inevitable.  

Certainly most of us were expected a slop-fest, as attested by E's inquiring email;

Mikey was first on the scene to (yet again) establish camp and raise the “Taj”, with the rest of us dribbling in on the Friday eve or Saturday.  This year the Soggy BBs comprised Mike, Ham, Craig and myself.  The Soggier BBs comprised Ben (resplendent in full kit), Felix (now officially old enough to be doing these things), Alex (his first 24) and the dynamic duo of Giles and Sara.  A gaggle of additional kids (Jeremy, Fraser, Moira and Eva) completed the picture.  Another LeMans start had the event under way, with Ham and Ben suffering the inevitable fire-road dust and congestion of the opening loop.  The first rotation went without a hitch, where Craig posted what would be our quickest collective split for the event of 57 min, easily besting my 59 min posted just prior.  We concluded that Craig, still with issues after shoulder surgery, only knows two speeds; on and off.

Our splits confirmed impressions that the course was a few min slower than last years (officially 18.8 km).  Although only a little longer, several of the previously fire-road bits were now replaced by wiggly single track.  A pleasure to ride and in great nick!

Like last year, it wasn’t until the second rotation that the SBBs became a little unhinged.  I was waiting for Mikey in transition when I got a phone call informing me that Mikey had carked it about 6 km from home.  He was OK, but unable to get back to transition unassisted.  Hence I should embark upon my lap, which I duly did, unaware of the true extent of his injuries.  I finished my lap in the dark, handed over the Craig, and found Mikey in the Emergency tent, in good spirits but with a swollen upper shin.  Whilst passing a slower rider the door had suddenly closed leading to an off which involved shin impacting bars, or some such ob-stacle.  In no time a fat hematoma (BTW blogger spell check wants this word changed to potato - which might be more descriptive!) had ballooned just below the knee roll.  By the time I saw him much of the swelling had waned, however it looked like his goose was cooked.  After a hot shower and application of a compression bandage it was off to bed.  

This left Ham, Craig and myself in a bit of an conundrum.  Ride as a team of three through the night and for the rest of the event or catch some Zs and do some laps the next morn, as we did at the Scott24 last year?  Rotating as a three through the night is hard graft, especially if the campsite is as bleak as ours had become.  Fresh winds throughout the day had forced downing of the sail-like Taj, which allowed a heavy due to coat every thing in a layer of droplets.  The oncoming night was clear but pretty damn cold. Without dry digs, let alone a mushroom heater, hitting the sack early was starting to look pretty alluring.  Soft I know, but it’s not like we had ambitions of winning the thing.

With the order shortened we decided we’d do one more rotation then retire to the hay.  Craig figured that while out for the last time in the eve he’d do a double, which would take us through to 1 am.  I toyed with the idea of a following lap, but joined the collective slumber party at approx. 11:30.  Took me ages to get warm before dozing off. I awoke a few times to muffled conversation and strobing torchlight, and eventually got up at 6 to ablute.  I checked the lap board and was most impressed (actually more than that – more like shamed and inspired at the same time) to see that he-with-the-busted-leg had upped, done a lap, then headed off with brother Ben for another at 5:45!  “We thought you was a toad!”  Apparently the swelling had completely disappeared under the persuasive compression bandage.  He even gave it another good whack on one of these laps to test it further.

I vowed to be ready for the next shift.  Whilst prepping myself Craig rolls into camp having also just done a lap, unaware of Mikey’s Lazarus-like recovery. “I can never sleep properly at these things”. A sopping white-board had precluded clear communication.  So we were a bit naughty there, unwittingly running two riders concurrently, which is why the official lap count will differ from ours.  But we don’t care, we were having fun.  

Having done a few of these now, something strange happens to single track at night, even on more exposed tracks like Stromlo.  For some reason moisture seems to be drawn to the surface, the result being a tackiness that makes contact between hard-pack and tire even tackier – excellent for railing corners. The only caveat is to be wary of the odd exposed and lubed root. In short the course at night was a little heavier in places but overall riding beautifully.  Some early am cloud cover also drifted in and raised the temp by a good few degrees.

I completed my dawn-shift lap and handed off to Ham.  Craig decided that a tally of 5 was sufficient for him.  If we kept the rotation going sans Craig, the rest of us would also clock 5 by race end.  So, a cheeky 20 laps was accumulated, including 3.5 hours when no one was on track.  My last lap proved to be my quickest (58 min), with improved handling skills compensating for general fatigue.  For the record, fastest day lap was ~49 min, and quickest night ~52 min.  Ham finished the race off for us as the 24 hr mark expired, and in brilliant sunshine as it had begun.

The SerBBs had an event-free but good run, with ambitions on returning with bigger muscles (Felix will start to fill out that impressive frame) and possibly new bikes for next year (Giles and Sara).  Although technically a team of 5, Alex managed to squeeze in a few laps when he wasn't working for the man (Treasury was cracking the whip), and Giles and Sara acted as a dynamic duo using the same rig.  As mentioned earlier, Ben did us all proud modeling for the first time the full glory of the SBB bottoms.  A great look and attracted many comments, as did the jersey tops in general.  It appears that the SBBs are becoming another small staple of the 24hr scene.  Many a time we’d roll out of transition with calls of “go the soggies”. Might be time for another print run, and a few more bottoms in the order.

Ham putting finishing touches to his post-3peaks tapering

Even John Howard made an appearance

3peaks three times lucky

Finally, a trilogy of 3peaks has delivered a GOOD, having already dished out the BAD (last year) and the UGLY (the inaugural year, 2010).  Good perhaps doesn’t do it justice.  Conditions for this year’s edition were sublime.  Clear skies, light winds, even on the tops, and mid 20’s at best.

So at least the weather delivered.  As to whether the body delivers, well that is another matter entirely.  My build up was not ideal, but not terrible, despite the crappy weather that has repeatedly sloshed Sydney.  The commute over the last few months has frequently been a wet affair.  Changing tyres 2 weeks out allowed approx. 20 mL of water to be drained from each of my rims, courtesy of the Lane Cove weir crossing, which has been in overflow mode for weeks.  Missing first the Johnny Warren Classic, then the Otway mtb enduro due to sickness a few weeks ago was also disappointing, as I was kind of counting on the Otway to deliver a good dose of “gravel in the knicks” and put some major sting into the legs.  However, countering Chris’s attacks up Galston the weekend before 3peaks seems to have been an ample substitute, given that my legs were sore for the following three days.  The week prior was a blissful one of tapering, which simply means not stressing the legs at all, and staying out of trouble.

Anita disobeyed the rules of tapering by having an altercation with a car on the Monday whilst riding home from work which resulted in some impressive bruises and grazing.  Unlucky, and very lucky!  Close inspection of the bike and steerer failed to reveal any fractures, splits or points of impact, so at least the bike was going to be able to deliver should the pilot be able.  Time would tell.

Come “race” day I ended up actually having a cracker, but, as with Anita’s situation, it almost didn’t happen at all.  On the Friday eve before the big drive down to Falls Creek, having disassembled and reassembled Anita’s fork, and ferried the stuff we were taking down the stairs, I noted a dull pain in the lower left part of my back.  Over the next three hours this got progressively worse till I could barely move.  At some point of the evening I must have pulled a nerve/muscle or slipped a disc.  Anita, wearing her physio’s hat and after much prodding thought the disc scenario unlikely.  This was little comfort though, given that the pain was so severe even rolling over in bed was excruciating.  By morning it hadn’t improved.  On reflection Anita and I both concede we close to bailing getting into the Hamster-mobile.  She wasn’t feeling confident about the whole affair either (underdone and accident-sore).  BT had pulled out with knee issues, GK was  also out with a leg injury, and it was looking like Anita and I were next.  But Ham was hardly on top of his form either and he was going, so get into the car we did.  I juiced up on anti-inflammatorys and over the ensuing hours managed to get a good massage out of a blanket I had jammed between the lower crook of my back and the seat. 

Accommodation at the Falls Creek Country Club turned out to be our best digs on the mountain yet.  In total we were 7.  Chris and Kev had departed on Friday and stayed en route in Canberra.  Tim had work complications and thus flew down to Albury on the Saturday.  Matt, new to most of us, came up from Melbourne. Having registered at the event center, dinner at the apartment (yummy risotto, lasagna and salad - many thanks to the chefs ) turned out to be a jovial and relaxed affair.  Having tweaked kit and attached numbers, we were all in bed relatively early in anticipation of the big day. 

We awoke to crisp  mountains air and lovely star-lit skies.   My back, although still extremely sore, in part due to lots of massage the night before, at least allowed enough movement for me to consider starting, although Anita was not convinced this was a good idea.  I wasn’t either, but I knew I had good legs, and I also knew that if I didn’t, she wouldn’t either.  Despite her apprehension I knew she had the depth to get through the course again. 

We assembled at the start area joining 1000 others on this unique challenge.  The buzz of excitement owed as much to the bone –dry conditions as to the knowledge of what was to come.  Wave after wave of riders set off down the mountain.  Anita and I agreed that we'd descend the 30 km to Mt Beauty together and take it from there.  Chris, Kev, Matt and Tim were a little too speedy for us and slowly drifted out of sight.  This descent was a real joy – rather than the wet nerve-wracking ordeal of previous years, although it was cold – which contributed to the painful rattling of my lower back.  But on the few sections of up where spinning was engaged, providing I kept the same position the legs felt good and the back wasn’t too bad.  It was changes of position that were going to hurt more than anything.

With Mt Beauty attained Anita and I wished each other well as the Tawonga climb started and I got the engine rev’d up – as much to get some heat into my system as anything.  Last year I remember holding ~16 km/hr up much of the 6 km climb.  This year I seemed to be sitting on 17-18.  The legs felt good.  I soon passed Tim, and about a km from the top passed Chris, Kev and Matt.  I soft pedaled down the other side, expecting to be caught by the guys, but instead fell into a small group who didn’t mind rolling it over along the valley road up to Harrietville – in stark contrast to last year when in driving rain no one wanted to work.  The numbers in our group swelled, and soon we had a paceline of 20 guys rolling over, soon catching another bunch up the road.

At Harrietville I didn’t stop, bottles being mostly full, and got to the business of gently getting that first steep km out of the way before settling into a rhythm on the 30 km Hotham climb.  A fyxomatosis clad “Archie” attached himself to my wheel, along with “Rohan” and one or two others, where they sat for much of the next 15 km.  I was riding my own tempo, but it was nice to have a few in tow for when the climb went flat in the middle, where the load was shared by 3 or 4.  Funnily enough I would share the work with these guys again over the last 20 km. 

My initial strategy was not to stop at the lunch stop (Dinner Plain, 110 km), butat the feed 10 km below the top of Hotham, with the hope that full bottles at this point would carry me through to Omeo (at ~160 km).  This turned out to be a mistake of sorts (although I did enjoy my first piss for the day – confirming my state of dehydration), as I ended up downing another bottle before the top, whilst still having a full bottle to spare – which I had to lug all that way only to stop again.  The last 10 km were significantly steeper and harder than I remembered.   Additionally, I lost the company of some really solid wheels, with whom I probably could have shared more miles.  By this stage my back – remember my back? – well as long as I didn’t shift position too badly the back increasingly ceased to be the issue.  It was now legs that occupied my thoughts.

The brutal finish to Hotham done with, I rolled into Dinner Plain with the clock at 4:15, filled bottles with the Powerade on offer, and was probably gone by 4:18.  My plan between here and Omeo was to ride tempo, not stressing the legs but refueling on the assortment of bars I had with me, letting gravity do most of the work such that I would be in the best possible condition for that dreadful hill at the end. The “Winners” bar I had from last year proved almost inedible, but I forced it down anyway.  I was disappointed to discover that I had another of these – which was subsequently jettisoned at the Omeo feed.  A “Cliff” bar, on the other hand, proved far more palatable (as were my supermarket grade chocolate fudge bars), but somehow i'd only packed one of these (I actually had a second but my pockets were too full of crap to find it).   During this frenzy of tortoise-like eating and drinking I patiently waited for the next fast group to come through.  Much to my astonishment, that fast group – or any group for that matter, failed to materialize until about the 150 km mark.  Of four who crept up on me, two looked like rank amateurs (as did I, with non-matching kit, my hairy pins and a stuffed animal under the saddle) and two looked pro, one in full Rapha kit.  I swapped turns with the two “pro” dudes, until on the last big climb before Omeo it all split to pieces.  I wasn’t about to burn myself up at this point, with my bottles close to empty and a planned pit round the corner.  I stopped atop a crest just before Omeo to ablute.  A clear stream of urine indicated that my hydration was somewhat back on track.  Much to my astonishment, of the four others who rolled into Omeo just ahead of me, only one (Mark) stopped to refuel.  Again, I filled bottles and discovered the delights of the “Cadel” gels on offer – much more palatable than the paste-like GUs.  I grabbed three. 

I waited for Mark on the climbs that followed, on the understanding that we’d work the flat over the next 30 km on the way to Anglers Rest.  This proved to be a good decision.  As well as affording me another chance to piss, we worked the flat wiggly bit sensibly, just tapping away at 31 km/hr whilst drinking and nibbling.  We didn’t see another rider.  What a sublime piece of road (you just have to ride it), soon to be followed, of course, by the diabolically awful bit of road known as the “back-of-Falls”.  What a juxtaposition.  As Mark and I approached Anglers, I pulled up short to (again) take a piss.  Whilst relieving myself, Archie and crew (from the Hotham climb) came past drilling it to the Anglers pit. 

I still had a full bottle, and another 10 km till WTF corner so saw no reason to stop at Anglers for fluid.  Hence I rolled over the pick-a-plank bridge and proceeded along the next gently climbing 10 km at an even gentler pace (20-23 km/hr).  Just ahead of me, another hairy legged chap in a Z-team jersey (Kiwi Tim, who flew past me up Hotham, BTW), was maintaining a similar tempo, and presumably strategy, but for a slightly different reason.  Whilst I had 39*25 up my sleeve, Tim only had 39*21, and had even more to be nervous about (The climb starts at 19% for half a K before leveling off to a mere 8-9 % - for about 5 or 6 km).  Tim and I didn’t see a soul on this stretch until, once again, just before THE corner was turned, Archie, Rohan and Glenn rolled up.  Hence, with exactly 200 km and 7:15 on my clock, and 35 km to travel, it was game-on.  But climbing the back-of-Falls is a very personal and internal game – one that had been playing on my nerves for some time.  Even though last year I cleaned it in 39*23, I sensed that being way ahead of last year at the same point, and probably more spent, cramp was not far away.

I was expecting an almighty grovel and was not disappointed. In the end I had to ride most of it out of the saddle, which was the only way to keep on top of the cramp just below the surface.  Especially on that upper sector where the ~8-10 grade is constant.  The soreness of my back also became a bit of a factor here.  Archie and co ever so slowly disappeared ahead of me, as did Tim, but with a mixture of riding then running the steeper sections that were too much for the 21! Luckily for him he was/is a top runner in a former life.  I adopted Archie’s method of weaving to get me through the steeper sections.  Rapha dude eventually came back to me (the one who missed the feed at Omeo), and Archie and “Glenn”, who I would get glimpses of around the corners, were gained again at the Trapyard feed, where I again refilled bottles and grabbed a slice of awesome fruitcake.  Both Archie and Glenn still looked strong and I was hoping I’d be able to hang with these two till the end.  Fortunately this was the case. 

It was a pleasure to work the last 20 km as a group of three.  We even picked up a straggler just outside the last km who had hit the wall big time.  We rolled into the finish with my clock saying 9:09 – way faster than I thought I was capable of, and, remarkably, just inside the top 20 (19^th in fact), of the 900+ who finished the event.  The fastest time, by BTW, was set by Nick Mitchell, who last year posted a 7:51, but this year could ‘only’ manage an 8:08.  Amazing ride!  To say I was pretty happy was/is an understatement.  Even with the back issues (it took quite a while to straighten the thing after getting off the bike), it rates as one of the best days I’ve had on the bike.  Just one of those magic days where good legs collide with good lungs – I usually succumb to sickness as I ramp up to such targeted events.  Rohan, one of Archie’s crew who was a little stronger than the rest on the last climb, remembered me from the Hotham pace-setting and thrust a beer into my hand.   We had a couple of these, basking in the mid-afternoon sun, washing down pizza and sausage sandwiches.  How grand life can be. 

I wasn’t sure who of our bunch would be next to arrive.  I suspected Chris, who was showing ominous punch in the lead-up, but was not surprised when Kev, who seems to excel in long events, popped out of the finishing tent, at 9:50, some 25 min quicker than his time of last year.  Chris was only 10 min adrift (with a similar improvement), basically smack on 10 hrs – a great ride by both of these guys.   Whilst Chris and Kev hit the showers I was anxious about the others on course.  Even though I didn’t suffer as badly as last year, I was still shocked by how difficult the top of Hotham and the back-of-Falls had been.  Both Ham and Anita had less Kms in their legs than last year, but like all of us, the combination of knowing the course and having great weather might conspire to get them both home in good time. 

It was a bit of a wait, and required donning the finishing jersey as the sun lost it’s pep, but first Matt, then Ham, Anita and Tim showed up together with the clock at ~11:40, all safe inside the 13 hr cutoff.  They had ridden much of the course together, keeping an eye on each other, sharing the ups and downs of what is a pretty arduous journey by any measure.  It was great seeing them home, Anita in particular, as she could easily have succumbed to the lure of a lazy day watching Flame Robins and drinking coffee, had I not cajoled her out the door.  Well done Mudge!  Fingers crossed the scabby sit bones heal quickly (what were you doing?)  This meant that all 7 were returned safe and sound.  Super effort guys!  And a super course too.  It was nice to be able to actually see the high plains country, and lovely Omeo valley this time.  We retired to the hotel for hot showers, then to the pub for hot chips, steak, beer, and a forensic deconstruction of the days horrors and triumphs, and perhaps even thoughts – or not – of next year.

 (L-R); Tim (Z), Archie, Rohan and Glenn