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Dora’s 3Ps Report

My alarm goes off, it’s the morning of 3 Peaky
I’m nervous, jumpy, my voice is a little squeaky

If I’m  a website, then I’m ‘last-minute.com.au
My prep has been scratchy, infrequent, training sessions far too few

I’m feeling a little light headed, out of touch
A quick scan of my roomies reveals much:

Admin is chatty but saying nuthin
DtB is focused, prepared and on the button

Philby is packed and ready with the dispensary
Jenna is calm, centred, relaxed – her mind clear and free

“Oh, God” methinks “if you do exist – help me please”
“You see, I’m having a little trouble with these dodgy knees”

Hmmm, better rely on what I control …
I pack my kit with two Voltaren and two Panadol

Toast, tea, one last nervous poo then down to the start line
The sky looks clear, the day promising to be fine

With hundreds now arriving the adrenaline really starts to pump
The crowd builds, self-sorts into various waves, ready for the jump

The first descent is looooong – lost lights of red & white litter the roadway
I focus on Drastic’s descending tips, look through the line and lean in – don’t sway

It’s cool, I’m shivering, and the 5.2’s new brake pads are not yet properly seated
I finally hit the bottom, shivering violently, all reserves of body heat totally depleted

On the flat, pedalling evenly, it’s time to warm up and decide on the game plan
It’s simple, one milestone at a time, take it very easy and ride as far as I can

So I settle into a careful rhythm, comfortably within my limits I’m Harrietville bound
Along comes a speedy train to which I attach my wagon, my heart starts to pound

Blue is in the same pack but prudently peels off for a comfort stop
At Harrietville I stop for water, Hydralite refill and a Voltaren drop

Now’s it back in the saddle with a singular new objective, make it to Dinner Plains
All good for now, feeling fairly fresh, with minimal knee aches or pains

Tawonga. That’s a hill. Then Mt Hotham. What a climb – a gift that keeps on giving
By the time I get to DP I’m hurting.  I feel more like dying, less like living

Its hot now, and I’ve been in the saddle for 5 hours plus
But I daren’t stop too long, quick feed, wee, bag drop, water, another Voltaren, no fuss

Back in the saddle I feel good again enjoying the undulations and changing scenery
I’ve got a good pattern going, spotting other riders, not chasing but maintaining the distance between them and me

The pain is manageable, speed is poor but maintainable, I’m feeling OK as Omeo approaches.
I bypass the water stop and push on through finding camaraderie with other slow coaches

The long weaving run into Anglers Rest is a blast
Slightly descending with turn upon turn, very fast

I arrive at Anglers and think to myself “Sh#t, I might be able to do this”
I reach for my medicine kit, faceslap “OMG, you’re taking the piss”

I’m out of Voltaren and the others have all worn off now
Grimly I opt for the Panadol determined to plough on somehow

I set off and ride out for the back of Falls thinking ”How bad can this hill be really be, to be fair?”
Turning WTF corner I look up, the hill is the winner, stragglers walking or stopped everywhere

The Panadol is doing nothing, the hill is 9% and my knees are screaming
I’m panicking, decide to a walk a bit, of the finish line I’m no longer dreaming

I’m limping badly, and fella stops “You all right mate”
“Knees buggered” I say, but I swear this guy was sent by Fate

“Have this” he says and passes a tiny bottle titled ‘Medi Rub’ on the outside
“Slap it on all over your knees and you’ll be able to ride”

Well call it a placebo or whatever it was enough to do the trick and pass the test
Just enough that I could get back on, grit my teeth and grind for Angler’s Rest

I struggled in to the checkpoint and stopped, almost fell off my bike – man it hurts
I toddle up the medic station and put my best case forward to the nurse

“What can you give me for pain” I says fluttering my eyelids, full of hope
“Hmm not much” she says “No, nothing, nope”

“I’m half an hour ahead of the Rouge, I reckon I can finish” I say
“Anything will do, just to take the edge off, don’t let it end this way”

“All right, that’s the spirit” she says “I’ll see what I can do”
Rifling through her handbag she finds one Panadol, now two

Elated I scoff them and jump back on my bike determined to get Falls Creek
By now its 10 plus hours on the bike but feeling more like a week

Slowly the forest diminishes as and the trees give way to snowline scrub, the hill flattens out
A small passing shower, the sun reappears making a rainbow “It’s a sign” I hear my inner voice shout

I’m cranking along slowly, not sure if I’m inside time as I pedal round the lakeside home
Another guy passes and answers my inquiry “It’s 7.45 pm” he says checking the screen of his phone

Down into Falls and I see a steward “Almost there” she says, now I can hear the crowd
Round the corner the finish line appears and damned if I’m not proud

12 hours 50 mins on the clock as the sun sets over the hill for the night
There is Stealthy and SatNav, grinning back at me, I must have been a sight

The last one home of thirty ERs time now for a hot shower, a few laughs and a cold beer
For this day I was the winner having conquered three hills, some pain and a little fear

A Birthday Ballad

l_BulletBirthday

In the dark times, the world was harsh, strewn with grief & all knew naught but despair.

Then out the north a rider appeared. Large of arse, with a song in his heart and a bandana to tie back his hair.

On a mission he came, to heal the sick and the lame. A prophet, spreading the word – the gospel of steel and wool.

Throwing open the temples of the carbonites and freeing them from their lycra-clad shame.

Now a new cult spreads across the land, as Disciples answer his call and join his merry band.

Warrior Poets all, true of heart, strong of leg, firm of hand.

On the daily crusade they go forth, with the Spiritual Leader in their midst, ministering the pastoral care each requires.

A bawdy joke here, a sly remark there, words of encouragement for another, quick of wit and with wry observations on kit and frames and tires.

His knowledge of the arcane and mystical arts is deep and profound.

Part bard, part minstrel – with keyboard, guitar and voice he makes beautiful sound.

His name is Bullet, he is 50 today and to know him we are proud.

Dora

Mass conversions

Brethren and sistren of the pedal:

No doubt you’ve heard restless stirrings from backyard sheds, whispered mutterings at the back of the peloton, or perhaps even the shriek of grinder upon metal (and every now and then the odd bloody bit of thumb, but the less said about that the better.) You’ve heard Horatio’s glorious tales of Old Gold. You’ve heard brothers Jamie and Tony hint at the furtive turning of spanners in the night. We all heard brother Clunt’s forking cry for help.

Well, brothers and sisters, it’s time to step out of the shadows and into the squinty light of dangly fluorescent tubes, the ones illuminating Sacred Quests and dingey man- (and woman) caves alike.

Indeed, the hour is upon us. It’s time to heed the call, the shrill ring of mallet upon steel (and don’t ask what that was for.)

It is time to build our steely singlesteeds.

Be tempted not by false idols or — Comet: — fancy aluminium baubles  for The Man speaketh the Word and the Word is “Steel” because Steel, baby, is Real.

As the long darkness descends upon us, let us search garage and garden shed; let us scour the dusty corners of the interwebs for ancient relics. Bring the lost and forsaken unto the Holy Workbench where we will stand back on our heels, fingers stroking our beardy chins, and contemplate The Work.

We will furrow our brows and grease our fingers — wiping them not on the trousers our spouses will wash, but on the rags put aside for this purpose — and scrape away the flakey paint and rusty bits. Their silvery bones laid bare, with good grace and divine guidance [1], we will resurrect these old souls; dress them in triple coats of supergloss enamel, with gleaming cranks and freshly oiled chains, and shiney cable housings. Yea verily, brothers and sisters of the wrench, we will pimp our rides.

(#1: — Eternal thanks in advance to the Thornleigh Speed Shop and Bucky’s Bike Shed for correcting all our f*ckups; sponsorship terms, conditions and contracts are in the post.)

And when at last the long, cold winter is behind us — long after the last drops of Belgian ale and single malt whiskies are wrung from their barrels — we shall don the Robes of the Chafed, the glorious Egg and Tomato, and emerge triumphant in the warm and golden sunrise, singlespeeding as one upon our Quest, the Springy Steel Fluffer™ (TBA) to spread The Word amongst the Bitter & the Twisted.

— The Disciple

B1/m’s P.I. Getalong Report

If the Fluffer is the girl you take out for coffee and a chat, the Flutter — the real deal, Clutter’s Flutter — is the woman you’d buy champagne for. Good stuff. French. The Getalong, on the other hand is the pierced and tattooed chick who lines up rows of tequila slammers on the bar. She makes you lie on your back and pours vodka and lime juice down your throat, straight out of the bottle. When you wake up the next morning, you feel sore and horrible, and wonder what the hell you were thinking…

Satellite Navigation got the party started by smashing everyone around the head with a gold brick, wrapped in a slice of lemon. He was suffering mechanicals even before he arrived: couldn’t get the front mech off the big ring (doesn’t matter, he doesn’t use the little one anyway), couldn’t get the rear mech onto the big cogs on the rear cluster (also doesn’t matter, he doesn’t use them either), but he couldn’t find the two little cogs on the back either and, well, that was just annoying. Didn’t seem to slow him down any: the pace out of the blocks was mildly terrifying. The first round of drinks had gone down before the last glass was poured and he was already ordering the second.

Seven ER’s in all — Sat Nav, Flash, Wilson, Pidgeon (pending), The Lemming, this B1, and our honorary ER Graeme Weatherill (of distinguished Thredbo training camp standing) — present and accounted for at 4:00 AM (yes, Half, it is madness. But it’s a glorious kind of madness and, you know, that tequila slammer chick is hot. Actually, she was cool: it was 7°C when we rolled out in arm warmers and gilets.)

The descents to Brooklyn and Mooney Mooney Creek were fast: a clean, dry track, and the kind of cold air you get just before dawn, ripping through pockets of mist. Thousands of bike-light lumens projected huge sillhouettes of riders into the white air in front and we chased those ghostly giants into the depths.

By Kariong, the sun was up and the drop into the right-hand Woy was a blur. Soon after rolling over the top, the roar in my helmet blotted out everything else. I stopped looking over my shoulder when the apexes flashed up surprisingly fast — bang, bang, bang — one after the other. But I had Graeme in my ear, calling when the cars were back and so I could forget about the traffic, relax into the line and drop through the corners in clean, solid arcs. Fast arcs. We rolled out the bottom, both of us, wearing bug-eating grins from ear to ear.

Amazingly, all still accounted for at Ettalong (we nearly lost Flash at the Kariong turn-off, and The Lemming on the little hill before the lookout) but nary a mechanical worth mentioning, 32 km/h average on the clock for the first 80 km sector, and plenty of time for breakfast. Even so, the help managed to look very flustered when we all rolled in. Everyone except YHC was served coffee, which was enjoyed on the chilly trip across Broken Bay and Pittwater.

The remainder, for this B1, was grim survival: Pittwater Road TT, BBCD, The Spit, Parriwi — nothing left for anything but a slow grind to the summit. I tried getting my act together for the last dash to the bridge, but it was already that part of the night when you realise you’ve had too much too drink. And there she is, offering you another one. Hell, you’re out. It doesn’t happen that often. What else are you going to do?

Andy’s Song

…… a little country and western.

Thinking ‘bout you baby
As the train left Wynyard Station
Packed with people, my only care
Was the chafing and abrasion

Coz you grind me baby
You know you do
But I can’t wait til I’m on top of you
Gonna ride you like a bike
Coz that’s what you are.

You can keep your car
I’ve got my Dogma
As true as a love can be
And you know that she’ll be by my side
As I climb up Allambie

She’s my reason for living
My reason for loving
And she gets me out of bed
And there’s nothing like the joy I feel
When we’re giving each other West Head

Coz you grind me baby
You know you do
But I can’t wait til I’m on top of you
Gonna ride you like a bike
Coz that’s what you are.

 

To be continued…….

Songs of the OTP #2 – The Hard Men of the North

The Hard Men of the North
(An homage by Le Bullet)

The Hard Men of the North
We daily venture forth
Through the bitter cold of the winter days
And the stifling heat of the summer blaze
Except of course unless it rains…
And then we stay in bed.

The Hard Men of the North
The lesser trail we blaze
The One True Path, The Manly Way, The Rollercoaster, The Rhodes Roubaix,
We’ll do whatever it takes to stay…
Away from the office.

Ride on, ride on
Our hairs are short, but our routes along.

The Hard Men of the North
Somebody has to be
We brave the traffic and breathe the fumes
We all have exotic noms de plume
That speaks of our masculine virtues…
Except for the bloke called Winkie.

The Hard Men of the North
Performing unenhanced
We’re tough and lithe and mean and lean
And smart and clever and witty and keen
And modest and brave and strong and we…
Like to wear tight clothes.

Hooray, hooray,
To the second best way to start the day.

The Hard Men of the North
The Hard Men of the North
The Easy Riders are here to stay
“All for one” you know what they say
And I don’t mean that in a gay way…

The Hard Men of the North!

Songs of the OTP #1 – A Song with No Name

A Song with No Name………about Cycling.
Another homage by Le Bullet sung to the tune of “A Horse with No Name” by America.

On the first part of the journey
I was lookin’ at all the hills
There were utes, and smells and trucks and cars,
There were G O T F R’s.

The first one I met was a man named DT
And he told me would set me free
Follow me son past the BOF we will run
And the riding will be easy.

You see I ride to the office on a cheap steely frame
Pedalling all of the way
By Scaramanga you can’t remember your name
If Drastic’s in the mood for dishing out pain
la la la  la lalala   la la  la  la la.

After 2 days on the One True Path
I started to get short of breath
After three days on the North Shore Run
I was dreaming bout the Hills of Death
And the story is told of the riders who rolled
Every morning, it does in my head.

I’ve ridden up the back door bucketing rain
Giggling all of the way
On the Back Door you won’t remember your name
Because Chippo’s in the mood for dishing out pain
la la la  la lalala   la la  la  la la.

After nine days I let the bike roll free
’cause my legs had turned to Jelly
I started to splutter
So we called it a Flutter
And rode another 70k’s.

My mind was free by the B & T
Only memories remained
So BT writes it every day
And it never ever sounds the same.

You see I’ve ridden through the beaches every couple of days
And now I think know the way
On the Flutter you don’t remember your name
Because Clutters’ in the mood for dishing out pain
la la la  la lalala   la la  la  la la.

A Song with No Name………about Cycling.
Another homage by Le Bullet sung to the tune of “A Horse with No Name” by America.
On the first part of the journey
I was lookin’ at all the hills
There were utes, and smells and trucks and cars,
There were G O T F R’s.
The first one I met was a man named DT
And he told me would set me free
Follow me son past the BOF we will run
And the riding will be easy.
You see I ride to the office on a cheap steely frame
Pedalling all of the way
By Scaramanga you can’t remember your name
If Drastic’s in the mood for dishing out pain
la la la  la lalala   la la  la  la la.
After 2 days on the One True Path
I started to get short of breath
After three days on the North Shore Run
I was dreaming bout the Hills of Death
And the story is told of the riders who rolled
Every morning, it does in my head.
I’ve ridden up the back door bucketing rain
Giggling all of the way
On the Back Door you won’t remember your name
Because Chippo’s in the mood for dishing out pain
la la la  la lalala   la la  la  la la.
After nine days I let the bike roll free
’cause my legs had turned to Jelly
I started to splutter
So we called it a Flutter
And rode another 70k’s.
My mind was free by the B & T
Only memories remained
So BT writes it every day
And it never ever sounds the same.
You see I’ve ridden through the beaches every couple of days
And now I think know the way
On the Flutter you don’t remember your name
Because Clutters’ in the mood for dishing out pain
la la la  la lalala   la la  la  la la.

The Captain’s 2011 Xmas Address


More knee slappers than a Munich Bierkeller!

Here are links to the final AFR article on DT and the original, unedited version

ER Haiku

aye up, leafless boughs
drip cold hazards from nowhere
path lighter ayup

———————————————–

Brighter, one forays
Bar staff, opening eyes downwards
Deflects from mince pies

———————————————–

Hues of spring
The horse, bolted too late
Welcome in her arms