The Long Ride.

If you' haven't read 'The Long Walk' I suggest it as inspirational reading.

As I mentioned before I hit the snooze button last Sunday. Twice.

One of the starters for the DOUBLE WARRNAMBOOL who I'd figured a strong rider battered me with messages in the days prior to the start.

text - hey mate, barring really (poor) weather Im in for the Warny.

text - hey mate, i've got two more coming.

text - Weather for Warny has now turned 'character building' for both days. Would prefer sunshine but bring it on.

text - Forecast is getting better. Sunday will be partly cloudly with a shower or two. Strong headwind though. Should have a strong cross tail on the way home. Saw a sports physician tonight, call me if you want his advice.

text - hey mate, i am a little concerned about the weather. With a 40kph head wind I honestly think the original goal is looking a little unachievable. You should be prepared for a 14-15hr day on the bike including breaks. There are a couple of options, I'd like to take the freeway on the way down and bring the distance back a bit. It's still good riding though. Very keen to do 300kms home though. If it s a fail on the way down the train options are limited

REPLY - HTFU

text - All I'm saying is I know my limits and Im prepared to go well past them but I also know when I've bitten off more than I can chew. I'm still 100% but Im going to reasses my plans when I finish work.

text - Hey mate, weather looks ok outside at the moment but forecast still says wind is supposed to turn gnarly tomorrow. BP wants to leave earlier so we are going to get up an hour early and asses the situation. If it's blowing a gale we're leaving at 5.30am so we don't end up riding in the dark on that highway at the end. If it looks ok Plan A is still on.

REPLY - Sorry. No. I can't tell everyone that the time has changed because you want to start earlier AND I'm already getting up at 5 to leave for 6 to be there for 7. An extra hour on the bike than everyone.

That was the prelude to the Double Warrnambool.

For the third time...

The alarm went off. I rose in pitch blackness. I forced as much food as possible down, jumped on the bike and meet the 4 others who had decided to start. A huddle of adventurers were waiting outside the nominated cafe, which was closed. I was already 15 minutes tardy so after a quick introduction - Alex, Jeremy, Nick, Olly and yours truly - we headed West.

Before we'd even left the buzz of Melbourne, I'd established that Alex had been cycle touring around New Zealand for the past 6 weeks, Olly around Tasmania for the past two. Nick had been clocking up Beach Rd miles, Jeremy had done a few 100+ rides leading up to this. As soon as we left Footscray we were belted by the southerly winds than I'd be prompted about. Unlike riding to Adelaide where the winds picked up after noon, it was 8.30am and already 'sitting in' was 90 degrees to the right of the leading rider.

After a brief refueling of (ham & cheese croissant, hash brown, short black) a mile short we took the Lara exit.

The original plan of riding the ACTUAL route was quickly scrapped when we were faced with a 'NO THROUGH ROAD' sign shortly after leaving LARA. More strange was a road defined by a sign as 'Tower Hill', yet on the map as 'Matthews'.

I've done some hard rides in my time, but the all time hardest was being lost in Brooklyn after midnight. The Empire State building my only bearing for direction, and you'd only get a few glimpses of it here and there. Freezing and wet, riding in the wrong direction for half an hour WITH the wind only to discover my bearings and scrambling for 2 hours back into the wind to Manhattan. That was hard. Looking at the 'NO ROAD' sign I had a flashback to that night.

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Riding to Warrnambool would be (cough) epic enough. Wasting precious daylight with dirt roads that went who knows where was not going to make things any easier. As horrible as the 'A1' was, it was going to get us to Warrnambool.

After scrambling through the backroads of Lara, up, over, across and then down the side of a hill, we found the A1 again and she carried us all the way.

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To give the distance some perspective, it's the equivalent to (and perhaps as glamourous a destination as):

The names change, but more or less the distances are equal, and so are the directions.

Powered by Potatoes.

Who ever said bikes are cheap to run never rode anywhere far.

At our second food/drink stop of the day Alex came out with a fried dim sim and the stink of it's golden casing had me lining up for two of my own and a bacon, egg and cheese toastie. You cannot eat enough in the morning, it really serves you well later in the day. Once you hunger flat, you might as well call your Mum. You're done.

With 5 riders, swapping turns evenly was a quandary. Up to this point I had a really solid imprint on my retina of Alex's Rohloff hub and the chainstays of Olly's Cecil Walker. I'm sure they had an equally good mental image of my heart. With the roar of the wind it was hard enough to share a conversation with the rider beside you, let alone behind or in front.

Here's a sample.

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That's what I had to listen to in between the cars and truck flashing by. Ratttling between my ears was thing - the whole day long. Could not get it out.

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Around Mt. Moriac, Nick flatted and ground to a stop in the long grass on the shoulder. In the shelter of a trailer the rest of us laid on our backs, feet up while the support vehicle came to our aid.

With head buried mostly in the tuck, or engaged on following the wheel ahead we leapfrogged from town to town along the A1 forging along at just under 30 clicks, the wind doing over 40 across our faces.

It was 1pm, we were more or less halfway in terms of distance as we rolled into Winchelsea for lunch at the Larder.

Spirits were high, as we continued on to Colac. A sign indicated.

Warrnambool 149km.

Instead of a sinking sigh I thought to myself 'I can do that with my eyes closed' and I can only say you get that headstate after many miles on the road. 150km is no small ride, but when you break it down into blocks of 30, it's one hour, one hour, one hour, one hour, and one more hour. If you can ride 30km, you can ride 300km. That's what I kept telling myself.

We had all day, and were ticking over at only 25km as the winds continued to conspire against us. That added an extra HOUR to the plan. 25 plus, 25, 25 and so on. Over the course of a day, flogging yourself to maintain a pace that only saves an hour is ludicrous. With a full belly of beef pie and espresso I had plenty of steam in the engine, but when I looked back I was alone. So I pulled over and took this shot, the first for the day.

I'd been told that the ride from Melbourne to Warrnambool was a long boring one. In terms of visual distractions there was little on offer. The road has few undulations and is generally straight and exposed.

We rested again in Colac to fill our bidons and apply sunscreen as the sun had finally broken through.

'Anyone seen my phone' says Alex.

As it turns out he'd left it at the Winchelsea Larder. Heartbreak avoided, he'd have to wait until tomorrow to get it back.

As the sun spat out more heat, and the wind found enough more strength I looked down at my speedo - 187km.

From Colac to Camperdown the road took a more northerly turn. The wind, though not at our back, was blowing across us.

In between gusts of wind the conversation floated from bikes, travel, food and more bikes and somehow Olly had crept away up the road on his own and I piped to Alex 'Beware the Skinny Cyclist'.

Olly didn't have the million dollar legs, but he was floating along all day even as the wind shook him side to side, he was doing more than his fair share on the front, and though he cycling touring had been at lower speeds, seemed find even when the pace escalated.

He also didn't know when to quit.

I moved up the road to see how he was doing and we rolled turns all the way to Camperdown which is nestled in the side of an extinct Volcano. I also know Camperdown to be the final feed station as part of the race.

70km to go.

As we basked in the sun and took a moment I sat down at a chair by the road side. A little old lady asked me to move over. We got chatting. I asked her what there is to do in Camperdown.

'Absolutely nothing. I can't stand the place'.

I said it can't be all that bad. The country does have some charm, she was chatting to a stranger, a less likely scenario in the city.

'That is true, but I'd chat to anyone in the city.'

I left it at that.

I don't know what it was this time, but i was felled by a stomach upset in Camperdown. I knew I had to eat but couldn't think of anything worse. So distracted by it I didn't think to refill my bidons, and as we rolled out I signaled to Alex to roll on as I pulled into the last petrol station to do so.

I felt cold.

I pulled on my jacket. It wasn't cold per se, but my body wasn't happy so keeping it warm would at least keep away the Grump-o-saur.

I bought a packet of high-octane jellies, and from my jacket handful at a time scoffed them, squishing them around with saliva till it was a juicy concoction of glucose.

Hmmmmmm. Yum.

As I rolled out of the station, an SUV was turning left, and waiting for a passing truck.

Old habits die hard. Rather than busting a 'upset' gut trying to reel in the group, I grabbed the rear passenger door handle and 'bought a ticket's. At 80kph I came to my senses, released and with another mouthful of candy, soldiered on. Even after 30 seconds on the bus, the lads still no where in sight.

Terang.

I'd been dozing, but the sun was well and truly gone. Shortly after Camperdown were headed South West and I didn't need a compass to work it out. The wind again was all the reminding I needed. It was dark and raindrops stained the road. I already had on my jacket but I suggested everyone pull on theirs. We were about to get wet.

Unlike the wind, the rains attempt to throw us was half-hearted. It came and went, returned then went.

A little outside Panmure, Warrnambool was 22km away.

22km is the distance from my home to the foot of Kinglake.

22km is the distance I commute to the City.

22km is the distance I can bolt like horses headed for home.

With a sideways wind and rain, only 22km was in our way and I started to step on the pedals, hard.

5km out.

Elation. I'd made it. 297km on the clock, the giant water tower in sight and the meadows of gold replaced with signs of civilisation.

299km. For some mad reason I felt the need to finsh do the 299th kilometre at full tilt.

Anyone who from Warrnambool knows the sharp pinch that leads to the main township. 299.6 rolled over at the foot of the bitumen wall. Why I was out of the saddle I do not know, but I was forcing my bike and body over this last rise, an imaginary crowd swelled and cheered as another pedal stroke got me to the top.

300.

300 kilometres.

186 miles doesn't sound as impressive, but the measure is the same.

I exploded, much like Paul Sherwin would describe it shortly afterwards. I nearly fell off my bike with exhaustion. I rolled slowly into town and on the main drag in the distance I could see two pillars marked 'FINISH'. Just beyond them was our hotel.

After a quick shower, the days adventure done, 5 hungry roulers cleaned out the buffet of the local pub in one foul swoop.

The palty parma was a dissapointment, fortunately the buffet of chocolate, cauliflower and cheese, bread, roast potatoes, mousse, pasta salad, lifted out spirits and energy levels. Beer was not in short supply.

Nick mumbled over dinner that he wanted to take the train back in the morning. We all supported him in his decision, but offered that he should decide in the morning after a good rest.

'Blades of Glory' played on TV as I was pulled the covers over and stretched me weary legs. My clothes hung damp with sweat over my bike. A knock at the door.

'I'm going to take the train back in the morning'. A weary Jeremy said.

'But, you were fine on the bike today!' I hoped he change his mind as I encouraged him. Jeremy was happy to have ridden a personal milestone today, and perhaps knew his limits.

Who knew if this was a wise move. Tomorrow held the answer.