Mount Donna Buang - Winter Ascent

There's slow business like snow business.

It only takes an hour or so of lurking around on Facebook to bend ones mind into doing less than sane things. Playing games without purpose or passion, reposting stupid comments, downloading another trojan, or deciding to climb a local berg in the middle of one of the coldest weeks in recent history.

In this instance, I was following the lead of a certain Ewen Gellie. Talented bike rider and excellent frame builder he is, but it'd be fair to say that - like me - he is not above failing to think through the consequences of what appear to be dubious recreational pursuits. In a moment of peer inspired sub-brilliance, we'd publicly committed to climbing Mt Donna Buang up the gravel roads from Healesville, in the middle of winter.

Early morning, early days

And so on the morning of the ascent, twelve intrepid riders turned up at the designated meeting point in Healesville ready to begin a relatively novel cycling adventure. Almost everyone, with the exception of myself and a bloke called Brian John on our 29ers had chosen CX bikes for the journey - the principle being that skinny, grippy tyres would cut through the snow to the gravel underneath.

We didn't have to wait long to test that theory. Garmins were reporting 650 meters or so of elevation, and already, we were in a couple of inches of white stuff. It was very pretty, pretty crunchy, in parts pretty slippery and for the most part, pretty good fun. And as we regrouped we were all pretty excited about getting amongst it. However, that was about to become pretty different - pretty quickly. The snow got deep quicker than a breakup conversation and our expectations of rolling to the top in happy harmony through 3 inches of talcum like snow were beginning to melt away.

Waiting for stragglers...still happy...ish

Within the hour we were spending efforts like they were post war deutsch marks and finding our speed dropping south of walking pace. The snow depth climbed with each kilometer. Our group had splintered. Off the 12 that started one had dropped off below the snowline, another four had already realised that this snow climb fantasy was a unicorn and the remaining seven of us were pushing on in the vain hope that at some point, this Christmas in July would let us open our presents.
There were Christmas trees, but no presents. We pressed on, reaching a saddle in the climb were the gradient fell away, but it seemed that the snow had chosen the same place to rest as us. It was so deep that even on a downhill, in granny, we were still returning only single digit speeds. At this glacial pace we passed a sign reading 9 kilometers to go - indicating the halfway point. Another three from our party pulled up stumps right there. We were down to four.

Cold feet? Love some

As the road began to regain climbing status we were beginning to walk a lot more than ride. Those on CX bikes were without the wide bars and deep cassettes that we on 29ers had and struggled to not only get over the gear but to get control of their rides. Having walked the last hour, out of food and water and getting pretty sick of wet, freezing feet, the last two CX bikes decided that the glory on offer was not worth the investment -  and turned back.

Twelve was now two, with only Brian John and I remaining. He's a tough old bastard Mr John. He too has done every Odyssey, he's an expert in distance racing and took a win off me at the Beechworth 6 hour almost a year ago (way earlier blog post). What this meant is that nobody was going downhill until we'd got to the top.

Smile..frozen on 

We'd noticed that a couple of intrepid riders had attempted to get to the top the day before.Their tyre tracks and accompanying footprints indicating that like us, they had found the term 'push bikes' to be particularly apt. We struggled on, our speed now reduced to no more than three kilometers an hour. Feet, backs, hands, legs were all hurting - a pain sometimes numbed and sometimes amplified by the freezing conditions. This slow-snow march seemed to last for hours, our halting conversation based largely on trying to figure out what caused these strange tracks in the snow and where the other previous days riders had gone. Their tracks had disappeared some distance down the mountain. 

Suddenly, appearing on the trail was a bloke on skis, his wife in ugg boots and their labrador. It was a strange encounter. A quick chat, a pat of the happy lab and a snack (thanks to Brian for sharing his Cliff bars) and we were fired up for the final assault. Our off piste pals had informed us that we were only a couple of kilometers from the summit, something that made us very happy indeed.

Before we knew it we had punched out of snow and were on the tarmac, cautiously spinning our way to the summit across the black ice. It'd be fair to say we, as a couple of soggy mountain bikers stood out a little amongst a swathe of wobbly snow tourists, trying to stay upright as they shoved their children into short bursts of toboggan-run terror. We took a couple of celebratory photos and began preparing for the descent. This included four buckets of hot chips and a couple of hot chocolates - all the fuel a slightly twisted bike rider needs.

Brian John, trying to smile...I think

We decided to take on another extended period of exertion in the deep snow rather than accept the almost certain broken collarbone that the icy blacktop offered.

And while we still walked a lot, the trip down was altogether more rewarding. The snow had softened and gravity was helping a little too and despite still being hammered like galley oarsmen we were making reasonable progress - and even having some fun.

We got over the saddle and down under the snow line and wound our way back to the carpark - still freezing cold and using whatever energy we had left to keep up our average speed, and hopefully, our core temperature.
When we got back to Healesville it was a circus. It was a total contrast to when we started and moreover, so totally different to where we'd just been. We'd just returned from something so quiet and so exceptionally beautiful that all the bustle around us seemed a little surreal.


                       Helmetcam Video from the day
       Some would say arthouse, others would say crap 

A great day out. Thanks to Ewen Gellie and Jason Johnson for getting us involved. A huge shout out to all those dudes who came along and mad ups to Brian John for getting to the top with me...because I probably wouldn't have done it without him.

Great bikes too. 29ers, take the win in the snow!

A late edit - Tough guy Gags, up for the ascent on the day, matching his bike skills with supreme video editing. He's what the day looked like from the perspective of a good camera-handler.

Gippsland 6 Hour - Blores Hill

Gippsland - God's Country, with singletrack.

The best thing about racing is where one can find oneself. The Gippsland MTB event - the 6 Hour at Blores Hill takes me to Gippsland. And of all the great places I get to in Victoria, Gippsland is up there with my favourites.
Heyfield is the kind of place you'd imagine European based ex-pats dreaming of. Its clean, quiet, calm and quintessentially Australian without reeking of defensive jingoism. As you drive into Heyfield it sort of wraps its arms around you, inviting you to casually listen in to the jovial conversations of the locals and to witness school kids taking the long way home on their rebirthed bikes. In a strange way, it feels like a home.

Kyllie and I had been to Heyfield before, fine dined, finer wined and left feeling like we'd been given a healthy rubbing with a loofah made of clean fresh air.
During last years incarnation of the BLores Hill 6 Hour I was nursed around the course at break-neck speed by a certain Kevin Skidmore, turned myself inside out, suffered like a quitting smoker and crossed the line in a exhausted, lactic infused third place in Vets.

                    Recon ride video, shake it like you mean it.

This year, I wanted to win. I'd taken open podiums and category wins in the last three six hour races I'd competed in (missing race reports for Albury and Forrest coming soon) and despite an upset stomach and a fledgling cold in the week prior, I was enjoying the way that '3 from 3' sounded in my mind.

Shhh...I'm being relaxed. Abington Farm

Swanning around our little beautiful little apartment at Abington Farm after an enjoyable recon ride of the course I was feeling pretty comfortable. Confident even.
Come race day and I was excited. I always am, but this time I thought that all my ducks were lining up.

On the starting grid I bantered amiably with Corey Davies and relived the opening 200 meters over and over in my mind - having repeated it as my warm up.

And when the gates were opened, I was one of the first birds through the chute and found myself hitched to the wheels of the team elites, flying through the opening stanza, getting prepped to power through the kicking singletrack that is the Blores Hill circuit.

Fifteen minutes in and I was feeling like my own tailwind. I was bouncing around in the red zone but I could have been bouncing on a jumpy castle for all I cared. I had more free speed than a corrupt customs official and was living the mid-race equivalent of the high life - but unknown to me, I was under surveillance - and the bonk-police were closing in. After two laps leading  the solo category I glanced back and saw Tobias Lestrell leading a group of low numbers right up to my back wheel. Corey Davies, Phil Orr and sitting in like a syringe hidden in beach sand, was a very composed and altogether scary 40+ hitman Tim Jamieson.

Tim Jamieson, frightening from any angle

On the third lap, mostly out of desperation I suggested that Corey and I attack. We flew over the technical Trigg Point climb and swept into the singletrack. We may have opened a gap of about 20 seconds, but the effort had punctured a hole in my energy reserves. I burnt the last of my matches attempting to stick with Corey as he took a turn, only to see the fire go out as he rode off me. I made it to transition before the chase group caught and passed me. I had been nicked...guv'nor.
I spent the next few laps sitting in a cave. Both my hip flexors were killing me, I had stupidly let myself food flat, get dehydrated and knew that ol' TJ was mashing the pedals like they were root vegetables. I would see him heading out for a new lap as I came in - meaning about a 40 second gap - and infuriatingly thats where it stayed for the next 3 or 4 laps - but despite refuelling and replenishing and I couldn't bridge over to him.

Mrs Archer - bringing sweetness to the
steepness

Despite the crushing disappointment of watching the win get away from me, there were brighter moments. My talented wife Kyllie was out racing in the 6 hour pairs and I managed to pass her prompting a little on bike affection which was a parting of the clouds.

Eventually I was able to get some rhythm, and actually started enjoying myself a little more. I was having a bit of a yarn with some of the three hour riders when my back end started feeling a little squishy. Way squishy.

One CO2 bulb burnt and I was on my way again. Squishy though had decided to come with me. There were another four stops for air/CO2 before I started my last lap. By now I was scared again. Being the first loser is bad enough, but losing to the first loser is worse. So I powered up for my final loop and prepared to withdraw everything from the account. 
With squish still floating around under my saddle and having already chewed up another CO2 I thought that brutal pace would be the better part of valour. I spent that last lap out of my saddle, weighted up over the front wheel, listening to my rear tyre burping through the corners like a hick at Oktoberfest. To cap off the paranoia, team racer Richard Vrins had caught me with 300 meters to go and challenged me to a sprint finish - which after 40 minutes out of faux-sprinting I needed like having my lips stitched together.

A lines - A study in marginal returns on investment

I haven't collapsed from bike after a finish line since my first melodramatic races almost 10 years ago, but I did then, as it turns out only a few minutes in front of lactic addict Scott Nicholas - on a goddamn singlespeed.

When all the numbers were counted, Tobias Lestrell had pipped Phil Orr and Corey Davies for the open win, Tim Jamieson towelled me up to the tune of 8 minutes (a shellacking) relegating me to 5th and 2nd in Open and Masters categories respectively. Kyllie, partnered up with Jimmy Lefebvre crushed it to finish a category second. Golden.

A big shout out to everyone who had a crack at a super-honest loop, to the Gippsland MTB club for turning on a super friendly but killer race, to Cycles Galleria and Pro4rmance Sports Nutrition for all the wicked kit I need to belt myself in such a fashion and to Kev and Kenny, Jimmy, Craig and Ross for packing away all the kit when I was still shuffling around like a zombie.

Times. In the words of Malachi Moxon, people only remember the times. Check-em out. Race results and Vic Enduro Series results. 

Giant Odyssey - April 2014

Giant Odyssey

If you've not ridden this race, you should. Its like Wimbledon for marathon mountain biking. Its one of the biggest races in Australia and attracts the A-listers of rough rubber royalty. Its long, fun and scary hard to boot.

This event and me have a long, chequered past. I form one of 15 or so masochistic psychopaths who have completed each Odyssey since its inception some bazillion years ago. In achieving this dubious milestone I have burnt as many calories as McDonalds Ararat sell in 20 minutes, sweated near to 900 litres in human seawater and been vigorously, consistently, mercilessly punished like a small full back playing in Tony Lockett's return to country football. 

And despite the years of mad heat and relentless rain I have fronted up again and again, usually under-done,  to stupidly drag my scarred cadaver over climb after climb, hoping that this would be the year that I would gain something resembling glory. To date? Nothing.

But this time - with the event date moving later into the calendar year, I was ready. A little altitude training, a little attitude training and more than a little wallet emptying and I was fit, awash with kit and ready to rip.

Even my wife, Kyllie had her race face on, having let me shoehorn her into her maiden 100km entry some 6 months earlier. Moving through the starting chute I even had enough sparkle to rev up marathon-mudder hardman Simon Goninon for settling into a mid-pack beginning.

And there I found myself, high heart rate and cold legs, three back from sharp end of a skinny and hungry pack, straining against the start line like wild eyed greyhounds - yearning for the gates to open. And when they did...

Holy shit.

Go that way...really fast.

I held on, bumping elbows and rubbing tyres as the group rushed through the opening five kilometers like bogan crowds at Boxing Day sales. Occasionally I could see my rivals in the 40+ category, bobbing to the surface like flotsam and then disappearing again under the torrent of dust and lycra. Then, as we swung off the tarmac and hit the first of the sandy climbs I saw them all quite clearly. Riding off into the distance.

Climb it like you stole it

At this point all sorts of voices started howling in my head. Those harsh, hurtful ones that seem to enjoy puncturing holes in your soul, just to watch the strength leak out. I was hunched over my bike, head down, to the casual observer trying both to draw out my breath and slow down my heart rate. But in truth, I was trying not to let my heart break.

Racing is a funny thing. The expectations we place upon ourselves seem never to be met and those we place on others are regularly exceeded. The Odyssey is my benchmark, my high and low watermark, almost a fucking birthmark. This time I went into it expecting a category-win, or at least podium - and while I never said that openly, lest somebody else's expectations of me not be met, I had rehearsed my acceptance speech, such was my level of commitment. To watch the podium ride off me, and easily, like I was a roadside mailbox, was one crushing little moment in my usually pretty jovial history of racing. First world problems yes, but problems none the less.

Dudes, podium, dudes on podium...somewhere up there...

Eventually, all that shit stopped. Largely prompted by a gentle realisation that bitching to myself about myself was probably going to get old pretty quick - reinforced by knowing it would certainly not bring the finish line any closer. Racing called and I got back to business, kinda embarrassed by my little internal moment. I got up and over the Sledgehammer and made up a few places barrelling down the long fire road descents. Hollow little victories but at that stage I was happy for whatever scraps I could get. Post the first stop at Forrest football ground and I was in a better place. I was refuelled, refreshed and had my racing is fun fire rekindled. Moreover - I was in singletrack...and I like singletrack almost as much as mid morning sex.

This section went all too quickly, which, due to having a plate zip-tied to my bars suited me just fine. Marriners run, Grass Trees, Foxtail - some of the sweetest trail in the country was being very nice to me indeed. By the time I'd reached transition for the final loop, I'd made up a handful of hard to get places and was feeling like this race wasn't going to be so bad after all. I think I even let out a 'WooHoo!'

The course, rough, course even

Post the final transition and we were all faced with a bit of a grind. 7 or 8 kms of tarmac smooth fire road ascent, straight up Kannglang road. I was forcing down an Odyssey sandwich. Some sweet singletrack corned-beef in between two stale and hard to stomach slices of HTFU.

Women give birth with less moaning than what I did dragging my arse up that climb - and by the time I'd got to the top I'd almost forgotten - again - how much fun all this racing should be.

With more than just a little resolution I attacked the timed Red Carpet descent and while it was largely ceremonial, with nobody immediately in front or behind me I still ripped through it like a beer bottle goes through a grocery bag.

Turns out I made up a little time. I had descended through the ferns, deep into the belly of the beautiful Forrest undergrowth and had climbed up one of the last painful dirt ladders to gain a little altitude again before getting onto the final 25kms - beginning near the famed West Forrest trailhead. While the climbs had hurt me, I was still in the ring with more than a couple of punches left to throw - and having ridden this section more times than I eat cheese (which is a lot) I was looking forward to finishing on a high.

Not smart - or attractive. Baby air.

But there was more fighting to come. West Forrest trail is a deceptive beast. At recreation pace its a mostly sweet, occasionally savoury section of singletrack with arousing features and lines that will make a grown man wish he'd worn shy-shorts. But at race-pace, it can be a piercing howl as every meter seems to demand more and more tech prowess to get by. I got by OK, and also got by a few cats who were more writhing than rhythm. And as this wonderful section came to a close I caught Liam McCrory - a hardass mofo holding down 5th in 40+. A place I was more than happy to relieve him of. 

Mrs Archer - flying

I popped out of that section knowing it was only 5kms or so to the line, but also fully aware that I needed at least 1.5 of those kilometers to hold off a certain Mr McCrory who goes up hills like a bushfire...and sure enough, as I crested the first of three small climbs, there he was. Right behind me. I bombed the resulting descent, hoping that the ultrafast downhill would put enough space between us, and while there was 'space' - I was a little short on 'enough'. On the next climb he went by me like helium, and despite licking the paint off the inside of the hurt box to hold his wheel -he had gapped me, easily.

With only a time trial kilometer to go - with nothing technical or vertical between us I tipped everything in. I mashed the pedals, flicked up gear, mashed them again. It felt like I was gaining on him, and the odd furtive glance he shot back confirmed it, but with 200 meters between us - I needed him to be getting bigger in my vision a lot faster than he was. As is would turn out, I made up almost all of that space in the final approach - hitting the last gravel turns brakeless and gunning it over the grass to come in only a bike length behind. No podium, no glory, but the best result I've had in the Odyssey and a cracking balls-out finish to boot. A total time of 5:07:03 - 34th overall, 6th in Masters.
Kyllie also had a flyer - storming home to finish her first full distance Odyssey in a touch under 7 hours...a feat many of my riding buddies are yet to manage. So proud.

And big thanks go to Rapid Ascent for another surgically precise event, to Cycles Galleria for not only my epic Pivot Mach 429 Carbon, but Kyllie's very cool Trek Fuel and to Pro4mance sports nutrition for fantastic foodstuffs all day. Mavic can take a bow for the excellent Crossmax SLRs I was rolling with and SRAM for the XX1 group that ran better than flawlessly.
Moreover, thanks again to everyone who came out and pushed themselves, dug deep, grimaced and grinned to make an event like this so much more than a bike race. And finally, while we all race for one reason or another, uber-hardman Simon Goninon races for a really good one. Check out his work for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME)/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) over at MudRacingMechanics.

Full Race results should you like numbers. I know you do. We all like numbers.

Geelong Crazy 6 Hour

Oh...my word... I love the You Yangs. Oftentimes at endurance races I'll turn up and hope that I can learn a trail fast enough to - in turn - be faster than everyone else on that trail. In the case of the Crazy 6 - held at the You Yangs MTB park near Little River, I am more familiar with this trail than I am my own face.

There we all were. Packed in, rubbed down and fired up.  I was so up for this race it was getting peculiar. But I wasnt alone in that sentiment, and as the gun went off, the speed at which the pointy end opened up pretty clearly indicated that most of these dudes were not only hungry to race but were sons and daughters of this trail too.
Generally the starting speed of a race is usually directly proportional to the number of elites, divided by the  length of the race in hours. I don't know what the numerical representation of "fark-king-hell!" is, but it appeared that most cats in this race had been on their bikes when they should have been in maths class. A wave of riders 12 wide and 25 deep poured towards the valve that was the opening to the single track - with me getting tossed around up in the middle like a tourist in the surf. 

It could have been an explosion in a bike shop, but testament to the mad-skillz of my fellow races, we all squeezed in and opened our respective racing accounts over this very, very sweet XC race course.

Each lap started with whip through the Kurrajong trees and a small climb with a gradient about as steep as a sea breeze. We would then get loose with some big spandex air through with what constitutes a jump park in XC terms, hit some more fast berms, wind up the heart-rates on the fire roads and hurtle fire back towards camp. 
Hot laps were being cut, people were popping, others were attacking and all I trying to do was hang with the team elites for a while. This worked out, I managed to stay within complaining distance for the opening couple of laps - and hoped that had given me a handy start over my solo 40+ competition.

The race progressed to plan. I pulled in some of the elite solos, mistook a dude for another dude, and turned myself inside out catching him - only to realize that all I'd done was burn a bunch of matches gapping the 40+ category cats trying to get to me. 
Matches however, I had many of. I was running purely on Pro4mance gels and bottle mix - and despite yearning for a vegemite sandwich - I was jumping out of my skin with energy. My legs were spinning like government marketers and my mind, usually sulky with pain and suffering was gibbering like a grade 3 class who'd discovered a big stash of teachers Koolaid.

Five hours in and I was still time-trialling the fire roads, tearing up the quasi climbs and having the time of my life tweaking out the big jumps at the top end of the loop.

My raceday lines on the YYs jumps

 I was having obscene amounts of fun. This was turning into that one in a dozen race, where there was nothing but free speed and glory. And I love glory, almost as much as I like obscenity. 

Turns out there was a bit of it going around. I managed to cross the finishing line in first of the old buggers and sneaked my creaking carcass into 3rd overall - covering about 157 kms in a little over six hours. It not only meant 80 arbitrarily valuable points in the Victorian Enduro Series, this being the first of seven six hour races that make it up - but it almost meant two big bags of grocery trophies. Yum!

Gradient profile that looks like a pump track - sweet!

Big thanks go to all those excellent cats who make my racing life so much fun. Cycles Galleria deserve props for looking after me and my truly epic Pivot Mach 429C, Pro4mance Sports Nutrition for 6 hours of power, to the GMBC for an absolute chuckle-fest and to J Lefebvre, GT, K Skidmore et al for all their help pulling down camp while I was bathing in category adulation.

Racing! Groceries! W000t!

Bendigo Golden Triangle Epic - March 2014

I have history with this race. The last time I turned up I spent 8 and a half hours essentially wandering around with my head in a plastic bag full of cat shit pretending to be a bike racer. I had mechanicals on masse, got dehydrated, got lost, food flatted and for all money basically had a (non-free range) pig of a time.

This year, using my free entry into the race I scored at the Bendigo Six Hour, I was back to avenge my pride. This raced owed my ego a debt and collection was due. I was coming into some form, had some kick-ass SRAM Roam 60 carbon wheels on my ride and a bunch of race food from Pro4mance that was handing out the big power. Boxes were all ticked and I was going to get all Ninja on this shit.

Not a Ninja, or a bike racer. You cant race with hair like that...
unless you're Tim McGrath. (Stolen from the Interwebs)

The day before race day was spent milling with Jimmy Lefebvre and his water ski mates on the banks of the Lodden river in Bridgewater. The weather was totally random, one minute calm and balmy and the next howling with cyclonic winds and wine-bottle sized raindrops.

It meant good and bad things...good in that it should water down a notoriously dusty course and bad in that it may have deposited the Pivot marquee I'd set up at race central earlier that day in some arbitrary Bendigo suburb.

The course was looking just like...what I like. Flat (ish), technical and with the rain bedding it down, fast and tacky. The start list however was not. Generally reserved for masochists this race was stacked with strong names, none more so than Shane Roberts - the two time champion, who I'd previously seen disappearing into the forest from the get-go like he'd mixed up his miles with his meters.
We were each up for a three-peat of a twisted 52km circuit, largely made up of the same bloody rocks that Bendigo make most things out of (breakfast for one) and a fair swathe of brutal, off camber singletrack. (Course GarminConnect link for trail geeks). We knew it'd be a long race. The marshals were suggesting a winning time north of 8 hours.

We all milled around, shared stupid nervous jokes, got a ceremonial race briefing and in the yawning light of a modestly beautiful Bendigo morning, we were released into our event.

As expected, Shane Roberts lept off the line and bolted up the road. He did that last year and for all I knew he did it the year before. I thought it best to hang with him as long as I could, just to see what he had. Quite a bit as it turned out. I had been on his wheel for about 10 minutes when I looked behind me to see nothing but  an empty and eerily quiet forest. We began taking turns, eventually breaking into conversation - and while still mashing the pedals having a pretty good old chinwag at the same time.

We tested each other occasionally during that first lap, quietly and half-heartedly flicking on the power or the speed to see if it would dent the other, and for 99% of that first 2 and a half hours, it did absolutely nothing. In the last 1% however, Shane took some sick skills to technical section just before the start of the second lap and began getting smaller and harder to see - eventually crossing the pads about 10 seconds up.

About to cross the timing pads for the start of their race however were the 50km riders. Shane relived his race start by sprinting up the strait and before I knew it I was gapped by about 30 meters and surrounded by the 50km elites. I chewed on some tough love as I fought to stay on their wheels - wheels which pretty quickly had locked back onto a certain Mr Roberts, some 60 seconds later.

A Zoolander moment "All he had to do was turn right"

Strangely we'd all caught some of the slower riders from the 100km race and during the ensuing hilarity - involving comically relaxed beginners and super-pro XC whippets from the 50km race, I managed to pass Shane as he found himself caught behind a suddenly prostrate backmarker. And as I tried to stay on the vicious wheels of the guys who had brought me up to him, I managed to create a little gap between us.

I was bouncing off the rev limiter staying with this one guy. He lacked finesse in the singletrack where I took a ceremonial turn at the front, but he would open the taps on the open sections, dragging me along some 10 kms an hour faster than I otherwise would have. We were burning past and burning off guys in his category, let alone mine and I was in that sort of enjoyable place where the pain is actually fun. Eventually I was jettisoned off the back - but by that stage I was only 1500 meters from the start of my final lap - but critically about 1500 meters in front of Shane.

The commentator was frothing as I came through. I swapped into a fresh Camelbak and bolted up the hill to what sounded like him revving up the prospect of a 'changing of the guard' - or somesuch.
It did provide big inspiration though, and with relatively clean and clear trail ahead of me I attacked the last 53 kilometers like a birthday party kid attacks a Pinata.

Sometimes in long races, it gets quiet. There was nobody out on the trail except for the odd 100km rider who would initially freak out as I approached and would fire up the encouragement as I passed. I too was a little edgy. As one point I took a wrong turn and ended up burning valuable matches tearing up 500 odd meters of wrong way trails. In a rare moment of clarity I managed to u-turn and get back on track before too much damage was done, but it did nothing to soothe my nerves.

I was terrified of getting caught, and in such situations the cup of my imagination runneth over. There were the three CO2 cartridges I had in my Camelbak. Every so often they would clink together and through the fabric and over the noise of the trail, it sounded exactly like somebody - ie Shane Roberts - was changing gear, right on my wheel. So I would periodically hear this click/clink, look behind me in panic and bolt off as if I'd actually seen some errant big cat.

Thats me...on the right

The I kept checking my watch, looking behind me, pretending not to be totally freaked out as I passed dudes on the trail and dug right into the hurt bank trying to reel in the finish line. The 8km to go sign heralded the start of some 'I might win this' sentiment, but also the start of some 5km of new and very technical trail. Even though I had already gone over it twice before and despite going as hard as I could, I was still only creeping through it. Race HQ felt like miles away - but soon enough, the trail opened up and I laid down heavy pedal strokes in a desperate attempt to remove whatever space there was between me and the win.

And win I did, thankfully.

I win something! Get the shakas out

It must be pointed out that the Bendigo MTB club has much to be proud of. All categories of the Golden Triangle Epic attracted very deep gene pools of MTB racers, the trail was a fantastic mix of tacky hardpack, tech-rocks and flowy whippable turns and like always, the race was run with the efficiency of German arms factory with the vibe of a community garden.

A big thanks again to Bendigo MTB for a cracking race, to Jimmy Lefebvre who put me up at Casa dela Lefebvre in Bridgewater and to my awesome sponsors, Cycles Galleria, Pro4Mance Sports Nutrition and Jet Black for all the things they do best.

More stuff to follow should you be remotely interested (photos are quite good).

Strava malarkey - Results - Photos from the day

Mount Buller MTB Festival

Big mountain bike riding has something a little more to it. While quasi-urban trail builders actively seek out gradients to provide the pulse raising rushes we're all after, trail artisans at altitude, when they pull out the tools are already building on gradients well in excess of double figures - hoping that what they build doesn't dramatically increase flight time for local rescue helicopters.

Or in less eloquent terms: Riding mountain bikes on actual mountains can be scary as fcuk.

I know Buller well. Over the last five years I've ridden its rapidly maturing and altogether brilliant trail network, and despite the fact it will scare the bejesus out of me at any given moment and command more hardness than six months in the Foreign Legion - the riding at Buller is big 'A' awesome. 

And so it was that Rapid Ascent took their twisted minds to Buller and created the Mt Buller MTB Festival and that their version of an all-in race weekend, 4 contrasting events over 3 days of racing was going to be brutally hard and quite possibly - shit hot fun.

Having raced this event before I had my expectations. Last year I was half as fit and earned a Vets 4th, but this year - tooled up with some confidence and a kick ass carbon 29er I was ready to lay some smack down. Interesting to note that smack (whatever it actually is), wasn't really in the mood to lay down, and in fact came out swinging like a gibbon.

In the first race Rapid Ascent loaded up a 50 km short-marathon with about as many high meters as you could fit in a Dubai hotel and with the addition of a sneaky opening climb up around the Arlberg we were all deep in oxygen debt within about a kilometer of the starting gate.
I was holding onto the pointy end in about 6th or 7th wheel as we powered over One Tree Hill and track and pointed ourselves downhill, towards the Corn Hill and the very honest Stonefly climb. Tim Jamieson was the only visible threat in my category he was only 20 meters or so up the trail - well within striking distance should I not pop or blow something up. 

Just so happened that I may have been in the suburb adjacent to popping, but I was in the immediate vicinity of blowing something up. On some of the steeper sections of climbing I would feel what appeared to be a slipping chain - which would herald its momentum theft with a crack like a bullet hitting a shipping container. 
I'd change gear - hope I wasn't about to snap a chain and continue, but the sounds and symptoms also continued, becoming more pronounced and regular. Eventually, as I tried to rip into the fire-road that summits Mt Stirling - my hub, which by that stage was sounding like a SWAT team hunting the waterside workers union - totally gave way. Halfway up a gravel ladder I was spinning forward like I would be if spinning backward. Pedal spins - wheel doesn't, crazy - and as my rivals crested the hill and disappeared - totally heartbreaking.


I took up Sam Maffetts generous offer to use his event sanctioned toolkit from the back of his ute at the top of Stirling, and despite removing and resetting the cassette I was getting myself ready to chew into the bitter reality of a DNF.

DNF-ing is F-ing crap. I was getting all bi-polar, yelling 'Allez' at passing racers when I saw them and when alone, ripping out torrents of obscenities as I tried to manage my frustration.
Eventually I found my way back to the village with some help from Rapid Ascent and set about trying to get my wheel sorted.
I had no luck at bike shop at the top (XX1 freehub bodies aren't in great supply yet) and despite the efforts of Dan at Jet Black and Phil at Cycles Galleria - no help from the mountain was forthcoming. In short, it meant a day spent behind the wheel and not on the trail if I wanted to race again that weekend.
First world problem, yes, but I was gutted. DNF-ing is bad, DNS-ing is something I've never done. I was consoled by Kyllie and endurance hard-man Simon Goninon (think 24 hour Tough Mudder - he did one) while we drank cider and watched the very excellent pump-track comp put on in the village.

Sunday morning came around with me under a seat belt and eight hours later, as the sun set on the cracking Buller day I'd missed - I was back on the mountain with my BH Ultimate 29 hard tail, with nothing more to do than lament a lost day and to take a couple of hours to ride out some frustration in preparation for Monday's hitout.

In the starting chute for the final race of the weekend, some were showing signs of fatigue more than others. I'd pretended to earn my stripes by thrashing out a bunch of descents and ascents late on Sunday, but I was really only doing course reconnaissance. There were bandages a-plenty, mismatched wheels, tubeless tires with tubes in them, and grips and gloves sharing new damage from the weekends frivolity. Not that it made much difference, because there were sheep stations on the line apparently - and when the horn sounded the mob bolted out of the gates like death-row rams with a chance at freedom.

I was able to hang with the top ten as we shot off toward the start of Copperhead trail. I had ol Tim Jamieson sitting on my wheel and another bloke in front who was strong as neat rum but handled a bike like he'd been drinking too much of it. So with the goal of getting a little clean air in front of me for the technical descent approaching, I attacked.

Are you kids crazy starting at a pace like this? Show the old man some respect...

As I'm getting older I've realised that whatever 'laying the smack down' is - it is definitely a finite resource that needs to be handled in little gambles, and in this rare instance, it paid off. By the time I got to the bottom of the run and up the resulting climbs leading to Corn Hill, I had gapped Tim (rivale numero uno) by about 2 minutes and was sitting about 6th.

I got over Corn Hill OK, did alright on the climb up to Misty Twist and then started to feel decidedly average. The kind of average you feel when you know that the decision to not eat on the last section of clear trail was the wrong one. Add that to the Burke and Wills moment on finding that there is no more water in that bottle and things were beginning to  look pretty bleak. I was food flatting, dehydrated and the brutal climb I was on at the time was bouncing me around like I was a cocktail party waiter trying to offload hors d'oeuvres made of crab-shit.

I think I can, I think I can. The Little Red Engine getting over Corn Hill climb.

From that point on I was riding through a wall of noise. A veritable cacophony of heavy breathing, strained grunts and terrible gear changes all mixing with the fear and self doubt that swims into ones mind when the warning lights start flicking up on the dash. In my oxygen deprived and sugar depleted state I was passed by two guys who had the wherewithal to not only ride fast but eat and even occasionally drink. I knew that Tim Jamieson was probably catching me but I could do nothing but tip in more than I thought I had. In desperation I set about adopting a mindset akin to the kind that I adopt in the finale of really long races. 'Hurt yourself son - it helps to pass the time'.

And so as the final few kilometers climbed and went - I was still grovelling around in the cockpit, chewing the laminate off my stem trying to imagine that anyone who would take my little piece of category glory was still two minutes away. As it turned out, they were.

I crossed the line 1st in Vets, 8th overall and with a little north of two minutes in front of Tim Jamieson - (who had comfortably won overall vets honours) and after a little post victory exuberance settled in for a period of relatively relaxed breathing.

It hurts to DNF, and kills me to DNS but in the post race glow of a little win at the dead-rubber end of an event I still let myself enjoy a few warm and fuzzies - and it is in these moments that I remember why I race and what it means to me. Moreover - to thank all those cats that make racing - racing.

Mad ups to Phil at Cycles Galleria and Dan from Jet Black for all their help, Simon Goninon for being around and true to form (ie larger than life), and to Rapid Ascent for putting on another clinic in how to run a kick ass mountain bike race. And not to rotate a cliche, but big thanks to the broader MTBing community, who are an excellent bunch of cats and a true pleasure to be around - for being a critical part of what constitutes a great event and great racing.

And a very proud and heartfelt thanks to Kyllie Archer, my loved and loving wife who not only helped me through my first world problems and subsequent moping - but even had the time to place first and fourth in the two events she raced. Super-chick. X
                                    

Geelong 3 Hour - Gazebo without the relaxation.

The GMBC is a proud and vigorous club. They run a bunch of races in their You Yangs stomping ground but only a and few that fizz and pop more than a round of their very popular Gazebo series. Its a roll call of all those kids that shave down and oil up and get out the mad-skillz over trail that Victorian mountain biking would almost call its ceremonial heart.

As such it was a packed starting chute that I found myself in for this, the last round of the series. It was straining with talent, most of it up the terrifying front of this group - with the likes of Adrian Jackson and Sam Chancellor trying to out psyche the very serious Murray Spink. Not to mention just about every other cat with a number swinging from their bars and a race-face north of the neck line.

And I've been there many times, but I never fail to be surprised by how flat-out XC races start. There is no commissar waving a doily from the top of a red Skoda tempting the race to roll into its climax - no way, its the equivalent of firing 10 or 11 salvos of human cannonballs, all at once.

Halfway up the main straight my heartrate was nearing critical levels - and not looking like it was going to have the chance come down.

Early efforts - A grade reminding me where I am

A long line of riders hit the singletrack. I had stuck with what resembled the front group (about half of the pack) and pretty quickly found myself settled in. A little too settled as it turned out. About three wheels up a dude fast enough to sprint with A Grade was showing some fine B grade technical skills, holding up a little-too-polite line of meandering spandex.

By the time passing was opportune, the fast group was away and much work was required to cover the real estate between me and the last of those wheels. 

But I set about it. The course was relatively flat, bereft of 7 km strips of climbing instead swapping them out with the beautiful sweeping uphill berms that when hit hard enough still made you whoop, even while you were pooped. Once on the top of the hill we bombed down through Lactic Acid, one of my favourite ever descents. It is fast, really fast - with slippery small-gravel and stretcher spec rock gardens at the top ending with sweeping berm-jump-berm combinations at the bottom that would make a rider throw mad tail whips, had they not had timing attached to their lines.

The race progressed and I was starting to drag in some kids. The spaces between riders in short A grade races are always so much longer than enduro races, and each rider I caught felt like a little serious moment. I eventually caught an old Kung Fu associate Adam Elford who was recovering from illness (half dead and still fast enough to be at the sharp end of A grade) and ever so slowly I was reeling in veteran hard-man Tim Jamieson. I got to him with some effort and even got by old TJ, but shake him off? A totally different proposition. I attacked a little, spun up and out of a couple of corners, bombed a couple of technical descents but not enough to pop the old bugger. He occasionally took his turn at the front and probably threw his version of a half-hearted attack as well but coming into laps 7 and 8 we were still suckered together.

As the race ticked away we'd crawled into the top ten - and as we near the finish line at 2:55 odd we chalk and cheesed. Strange voices were rationalizing the idea of finishing now, holding back for the Mt Buller race, saving my legs, being safe with my preparation, and in a rare moment, I believed them. I sat up - and Tim, he took off. It took about four guys to roll past me, uncomfortably parked under my marquee before I got back on my bike. 

With clear trail ahead I took off, to reduce some of my losses, only to have them revisit when my favourite descent issued an invoice for all the fun it had given me.

I hit a rock garden a little too hot, burped my front tire and ended up with a dribbling flat that tracksided me about 2 kilometers later. To his credit Jimmy Lefebvre - who was running hot in B grade rescued me with a CO2 but by that stage my top 8 finish had swelled to 12th.

Still - as far as prep races go it totally rocked. There are few things as fun as whipping through golden trail being pushed and pulled along at race pace and for that I'm very grateful to the GMBC for basically being bloody awesome, at almost everything. Props to Glenn Tournier, an old 3 Peaks colleague who smashed it to win B grade and to AJ, Sam Chancellor and Murray Spink for showing us how its done. Results are here and GMBC stuff is all here. 

Thanks to Cycles Galleria for their love and attention pre-race and to all the guys on the day for helping out with the marquee and other infrastructure. Racing rocks.

Photos coming, when I find them.

Gravity 12 Hour - February 2014

It was a throw away line, something like 'I hope the rain comes...' or something equally stupid. Only farmers, green-keepers and people in sudden self immolation remorse say stuff like that, not mountain bike riders.
There is some kind of twisted rationale to my madness. On my drive up to Bright I was watching bush fire smoke lurking around the mountains, mixing with the raging humidity creating air as easy to breath as flatulence in a vacuum. With some rain, maybe a nice gentle 5 mm the air would clear, the trails would bed down and the riding would be as easy as losing your keys.

I woke at 3 am to the sound of what I know to be rain and lazily let a little smile settle on my face as I drifted back to sleep. 3 hours later when I woke up properly, that smile had every reason to be absent. It was still raining, and by the prevalence of mud and puddles on the ground outside, it hadn't stopped. I wondered if this gave me reason to be gloomy.

In the starting chute gloom was without companions. Everybody was chumming it up, allowing all the unseriousness of long racing in torrid conditions to flow over. It seems to be a given in endurance mountain biking, in that knowing that your day will hurt like bladder stones allows all those high expectations we can have to be washed away by the rain, mud and broken derailleurs.

On the encouragement of MTB emperor and MC Norm Douglas, we solo riders corralled ourselves at the front of the race, relieved that we were exempt from the onerous task of running to our bikes in a LeMans start. I led the solos out into the rain and mud and onto what turned out to be a very honest mountain bike coursed indeed.
There were proper climbs, fast, flowing and altogether technical sections of single track. In between were short bands of fireroad allowing the consumption of suddenly muddied bananas, gels or anything that flew or crawled within chewing range.

Half a lap in - half a kilo of mud on...already

The rain kept coming. During the first lap we solos kept ourselves largely together. Jess Douglas was there in amongst the boys keeping us both honest and slightly scared, Kev Skidmore and  Sam Moffitt of Wembo fame were letting their legs warm up and lurking around the edges was a bloke I'd never seen before. Like most of us he was skinny, had sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes and that kind on expression that indicated that he'd tasted too much of his own blood. His name was Corey Davies and he reminded me of Peter Carey - another freakishly fast dude that I've yet to beat.

I was still on point when the first serious climb reared out of the ground and was promptly passed by almost everyone in my little peloton. Kev Skidmore, Richie Read and Sam Moffitt all disappeared and I was left alone to hold up the team riders as they flashed through the trails behind us.
The rain kept coming and within a couple of laps large parts of the trail was turning to shit. Various different shades, textures and resulting levels of grip, but it all had the consistency of baby-poo mixed with fast setting Araldite. At about lap three I cracked it. In a flash pit-stop I changed out my Racing Ralph front wheel with one equipped with a Rocket Ron tread pattern and my world changed. Within two laps I had caught and passed messers Read, Moffitt and Skidmore and during the course of adding a couple of pounds of mud onto my face had put a couple of minutes into the bank.

Male Solo Top Five - A bit rude out of context

The trail had started with its own dry weather technical challenges but with the incessant rain it was becoming a bona fide bike handling nightmare. It was like the twisted spawn of Belgian Cyclocross and the Red Bull Rampage was lurking in the pines, ready to mug the unsuspecting with a fistful of wet roots and muddy off-camber.
But even with mud trying to fill in every cavity on my face I was finding that this tough love was working for me and I began to cruise through the trails thinking that my secret stash of grip happily spinning away on my front wheel was enough to counter any massive differences in pure power or athletic prowess.

Laps 6 to 9 rolled by. It'd be true to say I was feeling a little lonely. In many of these races I pass the time swapping stupid stories with Kev Skidmore, but he and his gripless race tyres were sliding around the trail 2 or 3 kilometers behind.
Coming into the pits and shortly before the rapid ingestion of some mud covered food (long fingered gloves - downside # 1) I'd asked Kenny Soiza, Pit God to the Gods, to give me an update on gaps, times, fashion trends - whatever. 

On my next pit I heard that I was in front, eight minutes or so up on Corey Davies. But he had cut his last lap 2 minutes faster than me. I'd counted out 10 laps so far, had planned to do 14 which meant that at current numbers he and I would be finishing this race with a balls -out sprint. Something I could do without after 12 hours of mud therapy.

Really? Really. Real racing starts now. (Stolen from the Interwebs)

So I tipped it in. On my next pit Kenny said that he's still coming and that my lead was now 6 minutes. On lap 11 I tipped in some more. In my attempt to hold on I attacked anything that didn't threaten to attack me. Hills, fire road, even some fast jumps that I thought I had wired. With the rain stopping my grip advantage had been whittled away as the trails began to dry out and become tacky, and despite me lifting my work rate by a factor of 5 by the time I launched into lap 12 Kenny told me I had only 4 minutes in the bank. 

Now I was scared. I found myself tearing out of pit lane with a mouth full of jellies, chocolate and mud and trying to catch and hold the wheel of a team whippet as they blasted up the trail.
Not only was I scared, but now I was starting to hurt. World 24 hour Champ Jess Douglas has this great saying that resonates with crazy endurance athletes - Pain only hurts. Its the 'only' bit that should take precedence in that statement, but it was the only bit I forgot at the time. And during that lap-long moment, pain was synonymous with shit, and with the absence of the 'only', I was left with 'shit hurts'. I still find it bizarre sometimes that I pay money for this.

There was some upside however. My lap times were starting to come down, the trail was way easier to stay fast on and I had the fear derived tailwind of somebody being chased. It was only at the start of lap 15 when Kenny and Bede had moved from 'hold him off' to 'you've got it in the bag' did I let myself start to entertain the thought of winning this thing.

Nevertheless, I charged out into my final lap with a consortium of imaginary woes. Puncture, mechanical, blood sugar dive - damnit, alien abduction - anything that might befall me as I forced my exhausted cadaver through one last loop. But none of these things happened and lo and behold I crossed this line first and threw a couple of shakas in celebration to a warm reception from Norm Douglas and the assembled crowd.

Yay. I'll take that.

Podium - chuffed

Norm made quite something of a category rider winning overall - which I was grateful for. I was (and am) very grateful to Cycles Galleria who beyond being a kick-ass bike shop, race tuned my XX1 and plied me with enough excellent Endura product to power another 15 laps, Jet Black for letting my ride be the totally epic Pivot Mach 420C, to Finishline Events and Bike Superstore for putting on and supporting the race and mad thanks (again and again) to Kenny, Bede and Kev for putting up with my shit and supporting me through to a handy little win.

Big props as well to Corey Davies, Kev Skidmore, Sam Moffitt and the indestructible Jess Douglas who all won stuff and rode like lords. Yeah.