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Alex's Tour Down Under.
"What am I doing here?"
Well, actually, you can see by the expression on my face in
the photograph above that I’m contemplating that very question
as I and 1400 other foolish and hardy souls await the start
of the Bicycling SA Breakaway Tour in cloudy downtown Goolwa.
As a keen amateur cyclist I’d signed on to ride the tour as
part of the festivities around the Tour Down Under this year,
a week long cycle-fest for those in the know, and a week of
mystifying lycra-clad idiocy for those who haven’t yet worked
it out.
Cycling is fun, goddamit! It’s about getting out there on a perfect day with the wind in your hair and sweeping along. It’s exhilarating, which partly explains why I spent very nearly six hours flogging myself over some of the fiercest and steepest hills on the exact route to be taken just a few hours later by 190 professional cyclists vying for honours in the race itself.
I'd spent the previous night at Victor Harbor to avoid getting
up at four am and driving from Adelaide, as had my neighbour
and cycling mate, Peter. At dawn on Thursday, he took off for
Yankalilla for the start of the 75k ride, and I made my way
to Goolwa for the 150k route. At 8am Premier Mike waved the
flag and we were off! More exactly, the guys at the front were
off, the rest of us shuffled a metre forward and then stopped
- it takes a while to get that many riders underway - and with
the road a sea of orange and blue 'Be Active!' jerseys we began
a slow climb over the Hindmarsh Island Bridge.
Out on the open road a thousand or so cyclists take a while to get sorted out; the bunch was twitchy and there were heroes attempting to dart to the front so they could escape the pack, and I saw a couple of crashes and more near-catastrophes. Right from the first, however, the roadsides were lined with enthusiastic and noisy supporters, taking up position for the coming race. Perhaps they were just practising on us amateurs, shouting encouragement and tooting what sounded suspiciously like duck calling horns, but the support was fabulous and so much appreciated by everyone I spoke with - and I particularly liked the old red truck used as a viewing platform in the corner of a field somewhere out near Myponga.
Wind and hills are reckoned to be the enemies of cyclists, and on the Fleurieu Peninsula they have plenty of both: I’d got up Newland Hill (outside Victor Harbor) okay apart from having to slow down behind other riders, but there were other hills behind that one. Heaps of ‘em in fact, and I got the feeling I was going slower and slower on each one I encountered - time for an ‘energy gel’, a foil wrapped concoction supplied by the organisers.
Hey! These things really work! I felt fantastic - for about ten minutes, or the next hill.
Somewhere near Yankalilla (we go through the normally sleepy little valley nestled town twice) I feel it going pear shaped. I’m still passing other riders but my power is down, my butt itches and when I can feel my feet I’m sure they must be both bruised and red-raw. Those socks suck. They really suck! Maybe I better turn in towards Victor while I’ve got the chance not to embarrass myself by coming dead last!
You know you’re in Yankalilla when you see a bloke standing in the middle of the road pointing (left and right respectively) and shouting "WATER... MYPONGA". It may not seem like much of a job, but right now he’s the most important guy on the course.
After refilling my water bottle and a five minute rest (mostly foot massage) things seem better; it had settled into a beautiful 24 degree day, there’s no real wind to bother me, and I didn’t come here to quit, anyway!
I press on, hooking up with Bernie, another regular riding mate, and together we climb the approach to Myponga and the dreaded hill above Myponga dam. A sharp left off the main road and there it is, so steep at the top that the road disappears into the tree canopy; at this point we’re fumbling for the lowest gears on our bikes and hoping they’ll be enough to get us to the top. No such luck: Bernie and I clamber off and walk the last 150 metres to the summit, passed by those who are hardier, sillier, or whose bicycles possess more suitable gearing.
One of the latter, a younger man (note younger) breezes past on a mountain bike which bobbles around like a rabbit with a stomach wound. Happily, a couple of klicks down the road where the gradient has eased, Bernie and I breeze past him as he wheezes for air, totally spent. Ah well, we spared him but a glance.
We’re at the top of the range now, heading toward the coast and to Carrackalinga, a lovely little holiday destination hiding in a cove. Today it’s just another name on the course map - for psychological reasons I refused to check the distance and speed on my cycle computer - the damn thing is just too accurate and for some reason refuses to lie to me.
This year the organisers had included a section of dirt road in the course, and I skidded onto it and round the tight right hander with ease. No one was going to keep up with me on the gravel - I’ve ridden worse in the Adelaide Hills - so it was hands loose on top of the bars, back on the saddle, and power through, letting the bike choose its line.
The descent into Carrackalinga was a different matter. When the speedo hit 75kmh I feathered the brakes; I had no intention of blowing a tyre and crashing at that speed, realising as I did so that the degree of pain from crashing at 65 or 80 was likely to be much the same. Even so, I was happy to get back to Yankalilla and fresh water supplies just in time to be held up on the main road as the professionals were expected through. Their pace was on from the start, we heard, they were ahead of schedule, and if they caught us on the road we’d have to pull over to let the caravan through - ‘Bugger that for a joke!’. Just because they started three hours after me and could ride at twice the speed didn’t mean I was going to give up my place on the road.
A couple of thoughts to share with you if you ever find yourself in the same situation: pain is your only friend (and I had a couple of very good friends, if you get my drift), thinking about what you’re doing there in the first place is no help whatsoever, and the thought of several hundred smelly lycra-clad cyclists bearing down on you from behind will make you go faster.
I scooted the thirty five km back into Victor along the Inman Valley road, I sucked in great lungfulls of air as I toiled manfully up the reverse slopes of the hills around Victor, and I sprinted to the line on the foreshore and received a bloody good cheer for my efforts.
I had finished, and that was good enough for me. I paid virtually no attention to the peleton as it whizzed into the town a bare fifteen minutes later, I was too knackered!
One last thought: don’t let anyone tell you it’s as easy as riding a bike.
Alex Wheaton
Photography: Arna Eyers-White
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