Saturdays pre dawn rain wrecked regular religious riding rituals, renedered ruinous regretably, reclining restitution reinstated resolutely, reaping restful relaxation & rectal recovery (really!) relished, not till Monday did the opportunity present to ride. Fronted to SPC's roundabout where the only punters were Meags and Princess, a smooth, calm and collected start to the week a fitting formula for me. Princess had hauled the TT Felt out from mothballs, the 80mm Sram's hollow howl humming a happy tune. Pistol was seen warming up his week northbound at the Broken bridges, not till River roads' end did the Cat squad reel us in (restfectfully), suprised to see flouro Matho and G off the back by 50 metres. Mo, Furph and another were another 100 behind, climatising to life back aboard two wheels. By Mitchell, Furph had resigned to join our quiet tap, the first ride in ages i'd kept below anaerobic.
Negatives had the upper hand over positives on Monday arvo, a stiff NE wind with 34 degrees adding to the grief, but a deep desire to clock some k's before Tuesdays forecast drowned us. Hanging on to the puny positives, I set forth on the Boulevard with a longer lap aim, slicing through the headwind in Wanganui playing mental mind games of abandonment, stubborness setting an easterly quarry goal, 20k away. Thoughts of a Dookie target was dumped in a nanosecond feeling the wind at my back at Cosgrove's hole in the ground, a Camel lap a better alternative. There was a mobile sheep chicane at the Camel farm (hoo roo ewe, running at 34km/h) before the turn south on Cosgrove-Caniambo, Michelins hissing a long note on the soft and sticky tarmac, a 10k tailwind reprieve for recovery. Managed a reasonable rate of knots on the seemingly endless strip of skinny tarmac that is Bells-Armstrong Rd, but emerging from a short tree lined shelter was a touch testy with the wind now northerly. The course stone and sealed-over bumps wore at the wrists and sit site (the downside of a stiff alloy frame), dead snakes and windswept bark made for challenging deciphering for 12 long k's. The old stomping ground of Mitchell Rd (untouched for six months) began to toll on the cruising speed, slowly whittling away as muscles complained and determination wained, a distant bike at the Kialla Central intersection the only bait to bouy the battle on. Rounding Roubaix emptied the resoluteness tank, pressed the belief button for a short lived burst, then relied on the angry tank, just to hold an ordinary speed in Conrod. With legs limp, lungs lame and heartrate hysterical, there was an agonising 7k crawl up the main drag to home, 1,442 calories spent on 70 k's, just to gloat on a 232 Strava sufferfest and grin in guiltfree gastronomy.
I'd almost committed to a sleep-in Tuesday, forecast showers at 5am failed to front, so swung a creaking leg over the bike to cruise to the Couldabeens, a strong northeaster spelling a fast lap (not the ideal antidote for last nights' dip). A garrison of Genesis guns (Nev, Ron, Kel & Bo) had joined the Couldabeens contingent, Chris A, Cougar, Temple, BigMat, Rocket, Kenworth, Pistol, Chops and Trav, FeltMat arriving at Kensington (taking SuperMario's tail-light role). The nasty northeaster taxed us in Channel, me the lucky one with a Kenworth tow after front-of-house duty. Bliss in Boundary but work to do in River with Rocket, Nev and Temple driving in the 40's. BigMat pulled the pin on the driving duty with Bo, leaving me the task to match him in Central Kialla Rd, word of a bunch split wasn't delivered to the front till the turn into Mitchell, so a calmer cadence got the group back together. By Archer the pace was back on the boil, I was blessing the 56 ring even without little cotton socks. By Roubaix my legs had lost the will to live, so hitched a tow behind Ron, only Rocket, Nev, ChrisA and Pistol keeping the motion up as the pack stretched single file into Conrod, finishing fifth fortunate in such company . Paused at the Raftery bridge, not to swing punches but to wait a few seconds for the tailenders (those who give 100% for the whole lap), solidarity for the roll through town an important conclusion (wish others would do likewise)
A pair of Pro 4's and a chain put new life into the old steed Wednesday (too wet to head out for me but not for some die hards) 5,700 k's with just one puncture not a bad run. Thursday's fourteen degrees drew the arm warmers out of mothballs to group with the Goats, Hommy handing out hugs as the grid gathered. A cool cruise through town gathered the faithful to get the rotation happening in Old Dookie Rd, Big Paul's gargantuan gap to AvantiLeigh, Sandy, Leon, Dipper, Bazza, Deb, Tum, Kate, Principal Skinner (back aboard the restored Trek #1), Heady and Snow. All calm and collected to Boundary Rd and for the drive south into the breeze, ripping into River with the heartrate ticking over at 140 felt easy, hitting the front at 40+ should be this easy always (but sadly it aint). BigPaul was preaching the peleton protocols to Leon in Central Kialla, BigBen was found cruising at Archer. There were slim sprint pickings at Arcadia Downs with just a handful in contention into Conrod, AvantiLeigh at the helm, Dipper as second fiddle with Tum headed toward the front (his intention was for the afirmative but lax legs won the argument for negative) quickly tucking in for a tow in the gap I left. In a perfect spot at 4th wheel, I pounced with 200 metres left, the new chain hopping on the 12 so spun the 13 to take the chocolates.
Soaking up the sublime serenity on an early mission to the Emu on Friday, there was just one car and one rabbit to share the tarmac with. It was great to tune the little grey cells to tapping out a few k's rather than the worry of work or life's little niggles. Essential escapism, esoteric enlightenment, excercise to exorcise. A cool 10 degrees and yippee! windfree westward from the toaster at zone 4 back toward town, finding a balooning bunch of Breakaways (but brandishing a bloke?) departing suburbia, Cats commencing a freaky Friday fracas a k behind. I'd located Meags and Princess at SPC, Fee chiming in a text of mechanical apology (an unchained melody?) so a menagerie a trois took a short lap of Old Dookie-Boundary-Channel to polish off the week the way it started.
Week 3 261km YTD 581km
Rider of the Week
(dialling up the difficulty now, Kenworth quickly identifying Pistol Pete as last weeks man of mystery)
Blue/white bike, Giro hat, loves ravioli, worked on Heathrow's T5
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