So this is what an
average ride has been like during my preparation for my upcoming
epico-colossusaurus adventure. I made that word up if you didn't
realise, and the use of the word 'average' is anything but
appropriate as well. As I sit here with legs lying limp like the
puppeteers strings have snapped, my glycogen depleted brain is
struggling bravely on with only half its usual um, word delivery
system, er 'vocabulary' at its disposal.
The day was never
destined for greatness when I was lead to believe that I would be
working my third last shift at Matsos. As I finished the previous
days shift, deep in the utterly ineffective stage by then, Kate
kindly pointed out that I was actually working with her on Thursday.
So the day of breaking all personal records was brought forward,
ignoring the fact that the 24 hours before the ride was meant to be
used gorging on carbs like a pig at a bottomless trough. I did manage
to plough through a big bowl of brown rice for dinner, my staple
during the training phase.
An early night was
made redundant thanks to caffeine playing a Symphony in E twitch on
my muscle fibres like David Helfgott on crack. I thought the alarm
must have been on crack as well when it went off at 5am. With no
Daylight Savings, it was already bright and putting in a few hard
yards before it got too hot seemed like a good idea, even in my sleep
deprived state. It was already 28 degrees, and that is as cool as it
gets this time of year.
I'd tried riding on
an empty stomach before and quickly found I work as efficiently as a
car with an empty fuel tank. I forced in some cereal and checked the
wind report while my insides started poo production. Instead of the
usual Westerly, the wind was having an off day and blowing from the
north-east. That was my exact direction. I decided that going back to
bed was the best option, but it was rather uncomfortable laying there
in my bike riding apparel. I checked the wind report again, and in
the absence of a cyclone warning, I decided to issue my own idiot
warning and hoped on the bike.
I did a quick 10km
lap around the relatively sheltered parts of town to prime the
pistons for the 3-4 hours work I was going to ask of them. Everything
felt pretty good as I headed out of town in a northerly direction.
The wind was strong enough to keep the sweating at bay and for a few
brief moments everything seemed rather leisurely. As soon as I
started lamenting not bringing a picnic basket, the road turned
around to the north-east.
The willyweather
website had called a 14 knot wind moderate, which was somewhat of an
understatement I felt. It seemed like I was merely pedalling to stay
vertical. I was moving so slowly I could read ingredients lists on
soft drink cans strewn on the side of the road. Lizards would scurry
away at my approach, and then fall asleep before I actually passed.
Sweat streamed away behind me like horizontal rain. I issued a few
profanity laced warnings to the web administrators at willyweather to
alleviate the boredom of looking at the same scenery for so long.
The road that leads
out of Broome is so dead straight, it's like riding along a builders
chalk line. If you fired a bullet along it, the shot would run out of
steam before hitting anything. If fired into the wind today, it would
probably just hang in the air Matrix like, and land about 5 metres
away from the gun. This, and many more metaphysical oddities played
through my mind to stave off the thought that simply turning around
would propel me home in record time.
It is 33kms out to
Roebuck Plains Roadhouse, but at the time it felt further away than
the North Pole. I hadn't been that far out of town by road since
passing through there with the boys on the Kunnunura road trip 2
years prior. The 180kms an hour we were doing at times seemed like
light speed compared to the 18kms an hour I was struggling to
maintain.
As the heat
increased and the road ahead disappeared in the haze, my motivation
and will to live started leaving my body faster than the sweat
soaking my skin. I kept singing 'Eye of the tiger' over and over to
keep thinking like a champion, but the birds of prey circling
overhead just made me feel like impending carrion. The flat scenery
was so mundane and repetitive, I felt euphoric when I passed a
parking bay, or a telecommunications tower.
But then, out of
nowhere, the Roadhouse appeared. Not the prettiest destination I had
ever aimed for, but it looked like Eden to me by this point. Had I
not needed to refill my 3 litre camelbak, I would have stopped
pedalling and let the wind propel me back to Broome without even
bothering to turn around. I was sweating profusely and not constantly
replacing fluids was condemning myself to a day of dehydration
headaches. I thought I smelt like fresh shit, and the immediate
attention of hundreds of flies confirmed the fact. It turned out
there was a cattle truck refuelling and the blowies just wanted some
wet skin to wipe the cow crap off their feet.
I was aiming to ride
at least 100kms, but I knew the 40km I had just done were going to be
by far the hardest. And as if to punctuate the point, 2 French folk
pedalled passed on recumbants looking like their chosen mode of
transport was air conditioned. Now I obviously love bike riding, and
I'm pretty fond of lounging around in armchairs, but the two pursuits
are mutually exclusive as far as I am concerned.
And to prove the
superiority of my more vertical method of riding, I quickly headed
off to nonchalantly whiz passed the French as they rode, reclined and
ate baquettes. With the wind at my tail, I easily maintained an
uplifting 35kms an hour. Unfortunately, the recumbants were doing a
similar speed. I did eventually draw close enough to overtake, but I
intelligently chose to do so on the steepest incline of the whole
stretch. I powered by exchanging pleasantries with poorly concealed
smugness, so pleased with my undeniable superiority that I somehow
overlooked the strain placed on my already overworked legs. By the
time I started coasting down the other side, my legs were drowning
under a tsunami of lactic acid.
Needing to just roll
on through for awhile, the French seized their opportunity and speed
passed with a special smugness only the French seem capable of. With
my legs having an out of body experience, there was nothing I could
do but watch as recumbants proved you could work hard and relax at
the same time.
I made it home in
half the time it had taken me to get out there, but the ride wasn't
done yet. It was 9:30am and I sat down and had my third meal for the
day. It was rather odd to have an afternoon nap so early, but I gave
it a shot anyway. Without achieving much other than self pity, I
hoped back on the bike and rode off again.
This time, I did my
usual loop around the streets of Broome. The wind was more benign
than battering and tree lined streets offered a modicum of shelter. I
have ridden this loop so many times now that I recognise various
detritus on the roadside, but Broome is still a pleasant town to ride
around. The only highlight of this particular outing was detouring
down an out of the way path to the beach and interrupting a guy on
bent knee as he proposed to his gushing girlfriend. Unsure whether to
interrupt further and offer congratulations, I figured doing so might
impel the guy to assume its a 'yes' even in the absence of consent
from her. So I pretended it was all a very normal thing to do and
rode on by.
Approaching the
100km mark, my body tried to distract me by issuing small complaints
from different body parts. Once it realised they weren't going to
have the desired effect and make me stop, the pain transferred to
another region and intensified, but with similar results. Like the
relief a cricketer must feel passing that magic number, every km
after the 100km was coasted through with ease. Well, it was flat,
wind assisted and I was nearly home by this point and that always
takes the venom out of any ordeal.
I made it home by
1:30 after putting 113kms under the tyres. I had drank 5 litres of
water and 2 litres of electrolytes. My bum will never be the same
again but the rest of my body handled it well. With less than a week
before I head to Brisbane, I feel comfortable knowing that what
little preparation I have done, might actually be enough. I know that
is most definitely not the case, but I am letting myself believe that
for now.
