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.