A hard feeling to fathom.

 Post #720

21/10 The Boom! brethren.

It's a rare thing to ride solo to Sanctuary (the regulars were on a Buffalo adventure) and rare to have a northeaster helping me there.  Despite the tailwind, 30's seemed to be the legs limits, or was that a mental handbrake to preserve something for the pace to come?  Numbers were thin at the grid (Rocket, Wozza, GiantAndy, Julz, Bo, The Godfather, Bruce and the 5ft Ninja), the formation swiftly turning single file when Rocket chose the captains role as six bells struck.  Of course there'd be a thrash to Mitchell Rd with that wind inflating abilities, I just hoped tempo might settle into something more sustainable when the wind was against us.  That thrash had become addictive though; Wozza working his watts to Kialla Central and Bruce infected too, keeping up the hurt to River Rd.  The usually late Nev arrived via the truck route.  A little respite came when the Ninja took the reigns toward the bridge, the distance shared with Julz till Greg took the drivers' seat. 

There wasn't the work against the wind I'd expected from a northeaster, in fact it felt more northwest as I prepared to face the front from Greg's slipstream (Fingers crossed it might make this old engine drive a decent turn!).   With an elbow shown out of the dip, time for torture was due; the aim at the quarter horse fence seemingly reachable if the heart rate didn't Hiroshima on me!  The drive certainly cleared the cobwebs off the 14 sprocket.  With just enough in the tank to catch the tail, I handed the lead to Bo, and that ease off the throttle was heaven, but there'd be hurt to follow trying to catch the draft at the back.  Survival felt possible for a second till Bo amplified the anguish, adding 4 k's to the speed.  Gasps were hard to silence till rooster corner (thank heaven for Greg's draft!)

GiantAndy's abilities at the front would test us to the highway, the (now) west northwester making a draft difficult toward the Broken.  Several 'roos head popped up from the fields' crops to show wandering wildlife is still on our watch list.  Shoulders sank and a gap opened ahead of Julz at the bridges, a sign of an o.t.a. to come (Andy's watts had worn her down even at 7th wheel). While all others fought to stay in touch, I couldn't see Julz go o.t.a. alone (and didn't this old engine want a holiday from the hammering anyway!) 34's felt like Christmas watching the 8 hurry to the horizon.  Settling into a sustainable rhythm, a turn or two was swapped aimed at the fig farm, the holes in the tarmac we'd avoided for weeks now miraculously patched.  Bursting a boiler from his turn with those in a hurry, The Godfather joined us at Old Dookie Rd, a welcomed helping hand for our brethren of Boom! (and the west northwester to face on Lemnos-Cosgrove Rd). 

A lot more effort comes in company; probably the want to do your fair share (and maybe make an impression?) but it's the draft after doing the drive that's the compensation.  I'd guessed The Godfather was done at Lemnos-Cosgrove's bridge and took aim at reaching Ford, that wind not as hard as I'd imagined when into a rhythm (but I still craved that draft afterward!)    And so the turns swapped back to town, Julz working the length of Wanganui to earn respect (and her breakfast) where The Godfather took us to Tarcoola. I got to finish the last 2 k's of the 48.  The whim of the wind, dogs looking like their owners and pub crawls on pushbikes occupied the chat over French toast.  

24/10 There was gold in them thar hills!

How indulgent to sleep-in till 5:15! (I reckon I could treat myself while on holiday). A few days in the goldfield area offered different routes to ride though the elevation might test me (anything greater than the home soils' 6 metres of gain would test me!)  I'd planned a 45k tour from Clunes (central Victoria) but I hadn't planned the north wind blowing at 33-50 km/h.  An uphill start didn't make it easy either but it was part of a plan for a tailwind home.  17 k's north to Talbot banked on the rest of the lap being a bit easier (it's hard to ride with fingers crossed isn't it), thankfully the few ironbarks at the edges of the C287 gave some shelter.  The usual expectation of 30+ on the speedo was thrown out the window; this would be a slow slog. 

Doubts on directions loom large on unchartered ground, though there's few alternatives in this neck of the woods.  Majorca Rd was easily found; I just hoped it was made of the sealed stuff.  A few k's east, but being blown about by side winds, I found the metropolis of Red Lion; not so much a town but more like a bend in the road with four houses two k's apart. Choosing the Red Lion - Mt.Cameron Rd found it turned to gravel 200 metres up the hill (I haven't won the lottery yet to fund a suitable gravel bike for that dirty habit) but the Talbot-Mt.Cameron Rd was of suitable sealed specs, though it was certainly rough and thin through the Eglinton State Forrest. 

Plenty of 'roos came to watch a silly old bloke ride it. Mt.Cameron is more like a mole-hill than a mountain but this lad of little watts needed the 38 ring to climb it.  Finding the Clunes Rd eased the effort a lot; at last something like a tailwind helped low 30's return to the speedo.  Barely 2 metres wide, it weaved between Merin Merin and Middle swamps then took a sharp drop down to cross the Creswick Creek.  The trouble with the downhill is the uphill to follow, getting the little ring in use again to find the intersection to Glengower Rd a k later.  With just 3 k's to Clunes, a proper tailwind blessed the distance back.  

25/10 Uphill........in all directions!

A cold Wednesday was forecast but I didn't dare look at the temperature for fear of cancelling the alarm and sleeping-in instead.  The regret of not riding would ruin me.  All the winter layers went on and the bike was pointed at Tourello, regrettably uphill, and more regrettably, into an icy west southwester.   (Why should it be easy?) The Balarrat Road barely ranked 3% but wind made it feel double that, and with my love of inclines, it hurt!   The brief downhill to cross the Glendaurel Creek bridge raised the pace to a dizzying 30 km/h, the reality of snail's pace striking hard for the uphill after. (This would occupy a long discussion with my therapist later!)   The k's to Ascot were equally excruciating, amplifying the performance anxiety.  Just as well I was solo; I'd be solo and o.t.a. from a bunch in these conditions!  16k's of torment got me to the appropriately named Blowhard where a turn southwest had hopes of an easier way to keep wheels rotating but an incline toward Sulky (so named so I could sulk a bit more?) kept the speed sluggish.  The last k to reach the Midland Hwy offered a slight hint of speed and silenced the defeatist in the skull. 

A northwest path to Creswick had a bone chilling westerly to deal with and more of that 3% incline to grizzle about (only masochist would plot this path!) but the 3% descent into Creswick was some consolation.  The big effort was riding past le Peche Gourmand in Creswick's centre, a boulangerie patisserie open for business at 7 and serving a decent dose of caffeine to compliment the cuisine!  The town's exit had another ascent with a (now) west northwester hindering any hurry, though a couple of k's later at Glendonald the tarmac finally pointed a degree downhill to get proper pace on the agenda.  Just like hometown roads, it's pot-hole season here, if only to keep wits sharp and eyes wide open if you want to keep the trusty wheels round and your riding style upright.  Clunes was a satisfying sight to round off 50k, finishing with a strange satisfaction of seeing feels like minus one on the Bureau's data.  A weird reward for riding really (but I returned to the patisserie later by car for the real reward!) 

27/10  Who talked me into doing that?

Hearing the wind howling at stupid o'clock, motivation had dived under the doona. The forecasters had told lies last night; southerlies at 12 km/h was first class Porkies!  The south southeaster at 26-43 km/h was as welcome as root canal work without anesthetic and the gauge offered feels like minus 0.1 to compliment it! There might have been a morsel of incentive if there were a bunch to join (a bit of company to share the load may have been bait) but suffering solo was my only choice.  (I'd softened yesterday choosing a sleep-in, so guilt was getting to me).   

Best get the worst done first Foss; so a headwind to start and (hopefully) a tailwind home was mapped.  I'd made it a martyrs course to aim at Creswick 17 k's south, not only almost straight into the wind but dealing with an ascent too!  It's humbling to turn yourself inside-out driving the 53/25 and struggle to record 23 km/h on the speedo, and certainly something to swear at when the tarmac points uphill. Searching for the little chainring on a 3% gradient hurts the head as much as it hurts legs!  A short dip downhill at Glendonnell had 32 briefly on the Garmin, the wind trying to blow me back up again.   The temptation to u-turn was strong though each k south offered a longer tailwind home.  Creswick looked like Christmas appearing after 40 minutes of murder, so how ironic it was to find the cemetery at the turn into Broomfield Rd. 

Headed northeast was heaven, the sensation of being blown uphill a hard feeling to fathom....but it didn't last long.  A turn this way and that to Allendale and a sharp rise thrown in was the reality check but beyond, the sensation to Smeaton was swift.  Sun on the back bound for Clunes made feels like 1 almost bearable and although the wind was blowing at the left side flank, progress was far better than before.  Traffic was scarce and the serenity sweet, though I did miss the babble of the bunch and The Godfather's entertainment (though don't tell him that!)  Clunes back in view ended the effort but caffeine to conclude would have to be instant back at base camp; cafe's don't open till 10 in these tourist towns!   

This week 203km

YTD 10,904km