The ascent of Descent

For the fixed of which there were 4, it meant descending with feet out of the pedals to keep up with the peleton.

For the brakeless trio of the fixed quartet, this meant using the foot on the rear tyre to slow her down in the face of a sharp turn.

Fortunately, there were none this day - but you had to slow to about 30km before you even dared attempt to get back into the pedals.

The act of squeezing my feet onto the maintube/forkcrown in bike shoes was not a comfortable one. Every vibration shot straight up the post, through the saddle and shook my spine.

Not the 'fixed' spoke of it - being the hardcore folk that we are....

This 'art' for me was not mastered for some time.  Days later really, when I had the image of a six day racer reading the paper, his feet on the drops, did I use the same technique.



One of the most memorable images I have (and could not record) was The Twins decending a straight bomb, pedals slapping the ground in harmony, rider perched atop the bike. 

For a reason which I can only think of as the 'flywheel' affect, no bike descended faster than the fixed with gravity as the only accelerant.

My mass helped me descend the fastest of the lot - after all I had 8kg of allsorts in my sinking barge.

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We reached Batemans Bay relieved, and thrust ourselves into the gorgeous waters of the bay.  That felt really good.

Some of the grupetto spoke with locals, and they suggested they take the coast road as it was significantly flatter.

Wanting to get the day done with as soon as possible, B-Rad, xBBx, and I trudged the straight line to Moruya after my lunch of cooked chips and chicken salt (another poor choice).

I lay a cramped, mangled mess outside the pub on the grass at Moruya, nursing my water bottle.


I called the Twins to determine their progress along the 'flatter' but longer coastal route.

'It's murder bloke!'

All I'll say is it's always flat in a car, and never trust a local.

The concensus was to roll on to Bodalla while everyone felt good.  Everyone but me. 

The signs said 23km to Bodalla.  Easy right?

Facing the demon, I jumped on and turned the legs over.  I watched the kilometres tick over on my NERD .  Albeit slowly. 

I was hanging desperately onto the wheel of the B's and collapsed into the Bodalla Arms.

The Twins, still full of beans pulled track skids on the dirty strip leading into the final destination - Lane getting the better of Bryan, but my memory was shot so it may be the reverse.

Ironically the showers of the hotel had a , with shallow walls dividing each rose.

A Chicken parma and a shandy and it was light's out for this one.