Post #562
29/8 Dookie's drawcard.
I'd pay a price riding into that west northwester, but Dookie's scenery would pay me back (and a forecast northeaster would ease the effort home). Well, fingers crossed. (Dookie's reputation for a headwind home is hard to ignore) Westbound on the Midland was a road less traveled and a safe bet with covid's constrictions on traffic and the highway's wide emergency lane to use, though the gravel thrown from tyres tread, D shackles, bungee straps, the ubiquitous McDonalds packaging and the odd bolt and sock (?) makes for intense chicane training in the pre-dawn light. Over the main eastern channel I chose the line a left wheel of a truck would track, cleaner and smoother than the neglected shoulder (but a sharp eye and ear open for traffic behind).
Resigning myself to accept 30 k's in the hour took a while, the wind wasn't allowing any segment successes and some strength was being banked for the humble metres up Mt. Major and the way home. Foss is flat-lander after all.
Light filled the sky quickly, scenic fields of canola patch-worked around the mount were a visual distraction to my labored (and lame) attempt at elevation. The ride's reward was an orange sun piercing the fog that laid in the lowlands, speed sinking on that oh so subtle climb toward Tallis vineyard. But that vista behind was worth the work. A pause to picture and preserve for prosperity (almost impossible in a bunch) was taken, the downhill toward Dookie's cemetery got the speed out of snail-like specification but a little rise on the Devenish-Dookie Rd quickly kerbed the enthusiasm. The 328 of Dookie hadn't stirred and it's streets are all but empty anyway, so the downhill k's to Cosgrove were savored before the 25 flat ones to endure homeward.
The help promised by the forecast northeaster was running late (my reason for a pedestrian pace) so I settled into a sustainable rhythm, uploading the blue sky, the canola's fragrance, the birds twitters, the patchwork of coloured fields spread across Goulburn's valley, soaking up a slowly warming atmosphere. And some remain digitally delusioned, glued to Zwift! Is reality that tough? Maybe it's the need to ride on a pair of glowing pink wheels?
Two thin silhouettes and their headlights on the quarry's horizon drew near, Boof and Bruce appearing on their path to Dookie while I was magnetised west toward town and caffeine. Now I was beyond the ritual rides of 40k, protests from the posterior deemed a trial separation from the Fizik, how quickly the aches and pains amplify beyond the routine. As winter fades (hey, don't quote me on that!) and a desire for distance grows, a journey beyond the comfort zone is probably quite timely. New Dookie Rd straightens at Quarry Rd to labor it's 15k length back to town, thankfully a hint of northeaster had turned up to build a bit of tempo.
Whack! 10 seconds later, whack again! Oh yeah, the magpies are back. A quiet chuckle to self as the the third strike whacked again, I watched the shadow of my feathered foe peel off and prepare for the next bombing. At least he wasn't the claw-the-helmet-and-peck-your-ear variety. The fourth hit was a lame one to see me on my way but eyes needed to focus for those little bitumen mountains formed when shifting ground and heavy vehicles pimple the tarmac. A better bet to get you horizontal than any magpie! The aim to town needed a change of scenery, Boundary Rd was boring so Central Ave was the target to steer south and break the straight line fever. Old Dookie Rd's familiarity had familiar faces on it, Tina tapping homeward and Cats (still exempt from distancing?) heading outward while I was well into auto pilot, fixed on a long black and raisin toast to compensate for the k's. The sun warmed the back and coffee warmed the internals at The Butter Factory, a chance chat with Dalts, TrekTrev and Superman supplementing some social stuff after a silent 80k.
31/8 Chocolate cake for breakfast.
I wrestled with the "go-solo-'cause-I-can't-keep-up" vs the "harden-up-they-won't-kill-you" arguments en-route to the car park on Monday, the concrete option chosen when push-came-to-shove arriving at the shop at 5:38. Bruce and GreatScottSteve had converged too, the consensus that GreatScottSteve and I set sail and Bruce would chase if nobody else arrived. I took the first turn in the hope of setting Steve the tone (way less than supersonic!), aiming at reaching Adams Rd at first, but Rule #5 said Sanctuary's roundabout would be doing a decent turn. That west southwester wasn't so brutal. Kreeky was touring north so Bruce would have a playmate in his pursuit, I'd got to the end of my effort at the roundabout so urged GreatScottSteve to the front with an elbow.
I'd relaxed a bit in his tow, noting he'd preserved my prior pace and extended his turn to Mitchell Rd, though with those calves like Colbrelli's he must have been at an idle. That wind helped my contribution to Central Kialla, that previous ponder about keeping up had been erased and replaced with smoothing the rhythm. GreatScottSteve did the north stretch to River Rd while my head prepared for the next shift, the headlights of Bruce and Kreeky steadily gaining ground. I'd lucked that tail-wind again for the 2k turn to River Rd's bridge, focusing thoughts on the moment rather than what the work would be west back to town. Voices of Bruce and Kreeky grew gradually louder. GreatScottSteve took the reins at the bridge and settled in for the long haul, sitting second wheel wasn't such a chore so long as that wind worked it's magic. Well rested when I was promoted to the front in Coach Rd, the drive to the bridges bordered on respectable, mind you I had help from the trees with shelter from the side wind. Bruce and Kreeky took the lead (maybe felt guilty?) so sitting in their wake a few metres behind slackened the stress, Bruce raising the bar a fraction with his hurry to the highway.
Kreeky's contribution carried us to Old Dookie Rd, what the wind would do to us we would soon discover. Two bikes ahead tempted Bruce to keep the pace keen, the effort escalating while Steve and I tried to keep a distance in covid compliance. Vince and The Rabbit were caught at School Rd and jumped on the back for a free tow home, Kreeky doing the honors of final shift as the sun lit the sky just that bit earlier. PistolPete, TheGodfather, Kel, Bo, Tina, Boof, Wozza and Rocket congregated at The Butter Factory, Col and Joe (not Tony) arriving in other transport to collectively celebrate Chris' birthday. Thou shalt honor the hand that crafts the coffee!
1/9 AtaptoTat'nback.
A different course was craved on Tuesday, spring had sprung and set an inspiring 0 degrees on the gauge but that same old circuit had all the appeal of a chat with Sly. Would I make it to Tat and back before work's time clock tolled?
Doubting Thomas reckoned I had a few shortcut options if the curse of the clock shortened the course, so I set sail west with a Tat township target to inspire an effort. September has a reputation for wind so luck was on my side giving me calm instead. Down the empty Murchison Rd in search of Ferguson Rd through a thin fog finally found the west way, a moon set ahead and a sun up behind giving me views front and back with a soundtrack from the kookaburra's cackling (at my velocity?) from the orchards. Speed was almost acceptable considering there's no rest riding solo.
Only a handful of cars were headed my way most respectfully distanced, but one showed his half-wit credentials squeezing close by with a blast of the horn. It must be difficult to use the 9 metre width of an empty road when I occupied less than the left metre. (Oh, I just realised, breathing and driving would have been at full mental capacity) With my plan of 45 minutes out and 45 minutes back to stay on agenda, touring into Tat's township 10 minutes ahead of plan kept things comfortable. A magic morning brewed as orange on the horizon lit the fog in the fields and headed north on Dhurringile Rd it got better (ignoring the mercury dropped to -0.4). The lighter it looked the later it felt, so that kept the pace percolating. The highway home had some snap, crackle and pop of gravel in the emergency lane and the tactile edge-lining to keep those wrapped in motorized tin at more than arms length, plenty to view now that light filled the surrounds and the sun readied to rise. Commuting traffic was filling the roads so the causeway path to town lowered the risk assessment, back home on agenda at the stroke of 7.
2/9 Welcoming wind?
I told 'ya September would bring the wind with it! And what a welcome it was, 30k's worth of northeaster. We'd suffered winter's 12 weeks of chill, now to suffer the wind! (that'll keep the hibernators hiding till mid October) A quiet commute to the car park (anyone got a '57 right hand knee with low k's for sale?) found Bruce, GreatScottSteve, Kreeky, Boof and Joe (not Tony) ready to pair. I joined Joe (not Tony) as Boof and Kreeky set off south, GreatScottSteve and Bruce behind to keep us honest. Ahead was 6k of tail-wind pleasure to Mitchell Rd, 18k's of pain all the way to Old Dookie Rd for 6k's of help home. We were doing it the hard way. Joe (not Tony) did his duty to Adams Rd as an opening salvo, my response to take us to the truck route. Joe's shift to Mitchell didn't come with the drowning he delivered last week, the Avanti now sparkling instead of soaked in sealant. Our honeymoon was over headed east, I'd pegged back the pace a couple of clicks in expectation of effort but found that a bit too optimistic soon after.
Bruce and GreatScottSteve took the reigns in Central Kialla Rd and we let a gap open in covid conformity but their pace was 10% keener anyway. Joe (not Tony) labored to River Rd, Bruce and GreatScottSteve slowing to wait, but we'd urged them onward, happy to suffer at our own speed. I handed the helm to Joe at the bridge but by the dip he was in struggle street again, so I assumed the role of martyr to finish off River Rd. Bruce and GreatScottSteve's tail-lights had drawn distant, the work still into the wind on Coach Rd for Joe (not Tony) while I had a wee rest at the rear. By the Broken bridges his will was there but the wattage wasn't, so it was my turn to the highway. At least he's out having a go, unlike a nameless few! Knowing relief was just 4k's away probably drove Joe (not Tony) to the front again, a good effort to reach the fig farm before handing over the hurt. Relief welcomed us in Old Dookie Rd for the luxury of a tail-wind to town, so of course speed accompanied it, sharing the lead (and the labor) back to the Butter Factory.
4/9 Kreeky and rusty.
Pairing a partner for this now ritual weekday paced punishment is the proverbial "box-o-chocolates", you'll never know who'll you'll get at the shop (or Sanctuary's roundabout). For a moment I thought I'd be riding solo arriving at the roundabout at 5:33, in fact I'd timed it perfectly as Kreeky arrived a moment later. (Pistol and Kel, Bo and The Godfather teamed up soon after). Kreeky's kind enough not to cook me and given my rusty state, I was comfortable to lead the warm-up to the truck route and then the leg to Mitchell Rd. Opening pace wasn't too bad. I couldn't detect any wind so that meant it was probably at my back and would taunt me later! So soon the heart-rate jumped into zone 4 and for a moment approached zone 5 when a rabbit's random run looked like it would cross our path, so an ease of speed (just a fraction) meant I'd make it to Mitchell Rd. It felt like Christmas to get Kreeky's tow to Central Kialla. My next turn to River Rd felt uphill, assuming (correctly) a breeze was the handbrake I re-calibrated the cadence to go the distance. Kreeky confirmed that "pedaling through porridge" feeling so my sense of inadequacy quickly faded. His smooth speed, characteristically with the right knee at 4 degrees toe out (we all have our certain sit) got me to the bridge in a better breathing condition, and out of that breeze, with the downhill off the bridge and under the cover of trees allowed me to aim a little further than the traditional Trevaskis Rd target. Kreeky's response was to polish off River Rd but driving into that wind on Coach Rd wasn't on my wish list. Luck had it that some kind soul had pulled the plug on the breeze, the smooth tarmac to the Broken bridges music under the Michelin's.
The crazy notion that I could carry on to the highway was soon overuled by common sense, handing the lead to Kreeky to drag me to the pub. Pairs of Cats and Goats spun south while I called on uncooperative legs to reach the fig farm. They stopped cooperating 500 metres shy. (The further you go, the shorter the turns, the longer the recovery). Kreeky came to the rescue to reach Old Dookie Rd, the west way home a little easier possibly knowing the hurt was nearly over. We'd managed to keep a pair of following lights at a distance, the final turns to town emptying the energy reserves.
This week 254 km YTD 7,140 km
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