I've done the sins, so here are four cardinal virtues, my take on them, and maybe a bit of commentary. The Virtues aren't the ten commandments. That was just a set of doctrinal laws for living that Moses grabbed when he was up the mountain for a bit of a break from the wandering tribes. The Virtues are positive attributes to be embraced...I think.
So, without any more prattling from me, here they are:-
Prudence - Defined as "able to judge between actions with regard to appropriate actions at a given time". In my case, it's a trifle lacking at times. I'm prudent about course choice for a long ride, with regard to the group, traffic and prevailing wind. But I tend to lack prudence about wet weather, metal roads and the suffering members of the group. Actually, those who suffer, it's good for them. I've done my fair share of googly eyed, handlebar chewing and dribbling as I pedal like a hunched crab, so why shouldn't they? Didn't do me any harm, or leave any scars. I also lack prudence in terms of inflicting pranks, tomfoolery and practical jokes on my Resident Pain Dispenser. I think something might be really funny, the small boy inside me says do it, so I do. Then I have to deal with an enraged kicking, punching, pinching spouse, who only gets angrier as I laugh. Not smart, so to pre-empt this behaviour in me, I have developed a strategy of always counting to ten and harking back to the time I gave her a wedgy, before I attempt the next act of domestic stupidity.
Justice -defined as "proper moderation between self-interest and the rights and needs of others". Amen to that, I can hold my head high here, I have a strong sense of justice and am proud of it. I don't have a great deal of time for retribution as part of the justice process, but I would like more restorative justice. Especially for those who smash bottles on the road, they should restore the bottles to one piece, using their lips and tongue to complete the task. Also I'm trying to think of a special class of justice for our mainstream media, who are obsessed with the trivial and the sensational. Why do I want to know that Paul Henry called what's her face a retard? Why do I care that Tiger Woods' wife used a golf club to rescue him from his car? What does getting married nude prove? There must be a circle in hell that will be waiting for them all.
Restraint or Temperance - defined as "practicing self-control, abstention, and moderation". Can I pass on this one? I view temperance as a sin.
Courage or Fortitude - defined as " forbearance, endurance, and ability to confront fear and uncertainty, or intimidation". This is a bit of a curate's egg for me. I can be tenacious and determined, but maybe that's just sheer bloody stupidity. I've always been a bit dubious of courage. My Great Uncles had it in spades. When they were in their early teens they tested this in a fashion that became family lore. Thankfully this particular test wasn't enacted into a rite of passage for the subsequent generations. What they did involved an axe, a chopping block and a finger. One said to the other "Place your finger on the block and I'll chop it off". So the other did place his finger on the block, exhibiting immense courage and trust. The axe was raised, then lowered at speed. One believed the other would flinch and move. The other believed that first would stay the axe. The axe fell and the finger came off. Bit of a bugger really as the finger removed was the index finger of the right hand, the trigger finger, so the possessor of the stump never got to demonstrate his courage in serving King and Country.
So, if I was tested on virtue, I'd give myself about 50%, although I'm certain that some latitude can be granted because of my views on the sheer silliness of Temperance.
People are strange. I'm living proof of that, but frequently I get affirmation of this immutable fact when I look at the search engine data for this august Blog.
Terms that have led people here include the following:- Naked Boys Riding Bikes (Okay, there must be a site devoted to that, but I haven't gone looking) Naked Women Wearing Rubber Gloves (That was interesting to follow, although how they got here after some of the better places to go is beyond me) Fizik Antares Deepest Point (Complete mystery to me, but if it's anything like Jorge it will involve the inappropriate use of not just the saddle, but the seatpost as well) Pumpkin Hill Artefact ( At first I thought this might have been a commentary on my K2 performance, but no, they seemed to be looking for something really crusty) Naturist (Maybe I can capitalise on this one...) Miss Junior Naturist (A trifle weird) Flowery Rubber Gloves (There's a market segment I'm missing) My Doctor Rubber Glove (This rubber glove thing is starting to weird me out a little, but maybe it's a new blog I could start. Only rubber gloves, and naked women, and fixie hipsters getting beaten by women in rubber gloves) Defy by Doris (There's a fashion designer in Hong Hong who has that label. Well, I never! I wonder what the real Doris here will think about that when she finds out).
This week I have suffered from a little temporal dislocation, my weekday morning rides are confusing me. I had gotten used to the long darkness of the early morning rides. Now that K2 has been, gone and broken me, I've eased the pre-work mileage back a little, but still getting out early. I just find it strange to be riding in glorious sunlight before the commuting traffic starts to build. In a week or two I'll get used to it, but this week, it's been a strangely pleasurable discomfort.
Bands cover songs, some well, some better than the original, and some so badly that you wonder just what they were thinking. Here are a few covers that I'd recommend pursuing vigorously. Ministry - Under my thumb (taking that staid Rolling Stones drone and making it something nasty. Opens with synth that wouldn't be astray in a gay nightclub, then just builds and gets hard and heavy with it. Pure angry pleasure) Ryan Adams - Wonderwall (Inspired cover of the Oasis anthem, takes something truly banal and turns it into a heartwrenching piece of humility) The Revolting Cocks - Do you think I'm sexy? (This is how Rod should have done it, funny with plenty of bump and grind) Johnny Cash -Hurt (Trent Rezner of Nine Inch Nails has openly stated that the Man in Black's version of his song is just brilliant) Wilco - One Hundred Years from Now (just a riot of The Byrds song from Sweetheart of the Rodeo) The Byrds - Hey Joe (Pure nerves and edginess, a creditible counterpoint to Jimi Hendrix and his definitive version. Jack White has built an entire career copying the style of this song) 1000 Homo Djs - Supernaut (Industrial stomping on the Black Sabbath classic)
And in that little line up there's something for everyone, even my Chief of Staff.
The best laid plans of mice and men go astray, and in the case of Tandemonium they have. Mikeal (he who is prone to pestering his pope) and I will not be riding the tandem in the Great Lake Cycle Challenge this weekend. The One Hundred and Sixty kilometres of bunch mayhem will be missing the destroyer in it's midst.
The reason for our non-attendance is due to some unforeseen, off the bike activity, and while this activity did involve incarceration, neither Mikeal the Onanist or myself were incarcerated, but someone we both hold close was, and as such it has ruled out our participation.
In hindsight this maybe a blessing, but at the moment it's a curse. On the up, Mikeal won't get the opportunity to overcook a corner and get eighty plus kilos of me using him as a landing pad.
I was hoping from some outrage from the fixie wannabe bunch about my deriding them slightly recently, but not a peep. I'm saddened by this as I'm certain that they would have iphones and twitter and all that social networking stuff and that somehow this would have hit their radar.
Obviously not, maybe they are too busy DJing and lugging their record cases around in their tight jeans. Either way, if you do know any of these miscreants be sure to point out the error of their ways.
Lastly, I hear that there is an angry Russian looking to make amends for his curtailed K2 at Taupo. Be warned, the spa scene in Eastern Promises will be mild compared to what will be unleashed on Saturday.
Unfriend. Chosen by the New American Oxford Dictionary as the word of the year. Apparently it has lex-appeal. I am completely underwhelmed by this choice. There are numerous words skulking around in the modern vocabulary that are far better, far less PC and far more vibrant than that anodyne choice.
To that end, here's the first pass at my words of the year. I'm being tentative about the final result as the year still has a few weeks to run and I know that at some time in that period a tantalising new piece of verbage will present itself and will need to be shared.
Yes, some of them you are familiar with, some have been pinched from other sources and some are just plain handy.
Without further ado, here be the list:-
Sucktastic (adj) An experience that was less than pleasurable and more akin to penance. "Riding Mountain Road with only a twenty one on the back was sucktastic."
Clusterfuck (adj) A procedure or operation that has gone more than a little awry. Can also be applied to persons on subnormal ability or intelligence. "The Mechanics Bay World Champs bunch is just a clusterfuck"
Self-attack (verb) Do one's own person a mischief, note this is completely different to onanism. "I engaged in self attack by answering the phone while operating the heat gun"
Footle (verb) Pinched from Charlie and The Great Glass Elevator, means to just buggerise about, something that I excel at. "I spent the day footling about the house"
Crocodile (noun) Weapon of bunch destruction, particular when the road slopes up, and up, and steepens.
Spousal Barnacle (noun) Self explanatory, needn't say anymore, except my Grudge Bearer is relatively tolerant of this term of endearment.
Mouth Breather (noun) Unsophisticated individual, usually with sloping brow, dirty knuckles and a love of draft beer. "The drain layer was a real mouth breather"
Tandemonium (noun) The two wheeled terror with four arms, four legs, two heads, two minds, a schism and one hundred and sixty kilogrammes of brawn on board. It will end in tears, arguments, and some strange dog-humping movements.
That's my initial list, any further suggestions are welcome, but rest assured anything too PC, cheap or unoriginal will earn some mockery and maybe a mention in the dispatches.
Speaking of which, I see that Sid got a special mention in the thank you letter from the Coromandel Rozzers after K2. Well done Sid, good to see that the Coromandel Constabulary have an eye out for you. To this end Junior and I are currently drawing up a petition, that will be circulated in the near future, suggesting that Sid has his own escort at K2 next year.
The post K2 blues are fading and I can ride the bike without feeling like it has a flat tyre and the brakes are rubbing. Twice this week I've been out at dawn and through the foothills of the Waitakeres. Truly glorious, the world is just awakening and the views of the sunrise over the harbour and city are a great counterpoint to my grovelling climbing. Those quiet, bush lined roads that wind their way around that part of my locale are a treasure. I'd thoroughly recommend setting the alarm and making the effort.
I'm completely over the whole fixie wannabe hipster thing, unless the riders are girls. Don't get me wrong, fixed gear bikes have their place, DB and CTB ride them daily and effortlessly, having done so for years, but they don't have skinny jeans, a brand name messenger bag, cigarette, black shoe attitude, or the whole colour coordinated rolling retina searer thing happening. When you get something like this happening, that's the end of any cred that a movement may have. I'd rather hand feed pet wolverines than ride one of those things.
Brighter things, it feels like summer is lurking around the corner and that means I'm back to painting the house. Actually right at the moment it's stripping the old paint off the house. This is a slow operation using a heatgun, scraper and elbow grease. The bright spot this week was on the back of my leg, my calf to be precise, a moment of carelessness when answering the phone and allowing heatgun contact with bare skin. Never mind driving with a hand held phone, I'm going to enact my own legislation here outlawing incoming phone calls while I have anything plugged into the mains. The punishment for offenders will be a tirade of loud blasphemy, as yet another powertool wrecks some damage on my personage.
Again, this week, I bumped into another BCL bastard version. It is great that various versions of it exist, but the origin of the story, even after my best efforts and those of others, is still lost to most of the cycling community who ride it, or a variation of it. What I did like with this particular iteration of the BCL as it was presented to me, is that the ride has morphed and grown and now has an addition called "The Spicy Chicken".
However the original Butter Chicken Eater needs to reassert his rightful place in Auckland cycling lore. To this end I am going to organise a BCL bunch ride one Sunday soon, and I will do my best ensure that originals are there, along with anyone else who cares to join. Truly, the more the merrier! Start spreading this rumour and watch this space.
Life is given over to fingerposts, some are obvious and send us down clear, clean paths, ready for the next direction. Others come unbidden, unsought and often missed, they point to a places that we all are aware of, but tend to shun or shut away.
Recently I stumbled across an address by Glenn Colquhoun to the annual conference of The Royal College of General Practioners. It is entitled The Therapeutic Uses of Ache. It is a beautiful piece, and well worth taking the time to read and ponder. It is not, as you imagine, a dry medical dissertation, it is one man's heartfelt appraisal and experience of a part of the human condition that afflicts all of us, but few discuss, dwell upon or consider.
This is a typical conversation between Jorge the Annoying and myself about finding the right saddle.
From: Jorge To: Me Sent: Tuesday, 8 September, 2009 12:46:53 PM Subject: Where the stink meets the road
I'm continuing on my search for the perfect saddle. Now I'm thinking I want to try SSM's new Regale and maybe Selle Italia's Turbo. I had a Turbo long ago, but I don't remember it. I think that means it worked for me. The new Regale has much smaller rivets that are black, so it doesn't look like a Brooks wannabe. Plus the Regale looks like it could coddle my peaches they way I like. The Fizik Antares looks like it could be an option, but I think the Fizik folks were in the middle of a big methamphetamine binge when they came up with their pricing. Today's a holiday in the US... Labor Day it is. Since I had the day off from school, I've done absolutely nothing but sleep, eat, surf porn, and eat. I have wiped my butt twice.
-----Original Message----- From:Me Sent: Mon 9/7/2009 22:28 To: Jorge Subject: Re: Where the stink meets the road
To me there is only one saddle. Selle Italia SLR, others have come close, but that's been me for the last 7 or 8 years. I've stripped and recovered a couple as well. Tristan has a brown suede one of mine, which he loves. I do like the Regale, but my ass and SLRs are a match made in heaven.
Holiday, smoldiday. I knocked out 75kms this morning, mainly in the dark, left home at 4.30 and was in fog and cold for most of the ride. I'm getting frisky.
-----Original Message----- From:Jorge To: Me Sent: Tuesday, 8 September, 2009 7:05:37 PM Subject: RE: Where the stink meets the road
The SLR is an ass hatchet. It's no wonder you like it.
-----Original Message----- From: Me Sent: Tuesday, September 08, 2009 1:16 AM To: Jorge Subject: Re: Where the stink meets the road
I beg to differ, that title goes to the Turbo, riding one of those was like having Frankenstein's monster as a proctologist.
-----Original Message----- From: Jorge To: Me Sent: Wednesday, 9 September, 2009 3:04:47 AM Subject: RE: Where the stink meets the road
And that is one of seven reasons why New Zealand has never been a superpower nor has ever pushed the nuclear clock to within three minutes of nuclear midnight. Such plebians. The two weeks I spent trying an SLR, I was forced to always ride with anesthesiologist such was the pain caused to my softer bits. Weeks after I gave up, six cyclists were tragically killed when they tried to ride beyond the four mile limit imposed by the SLR.
And if your ignorance weren't already as plain as Mikeal's dried spooge on his own forehead, everyone knows, and experts agree, that Doc Frankenstein's monster had unusually dainty, soft fingers.
-----Original Message----- From: Me Sent: Tue 9/8/2009 14:44 To: Jorge Subject: Re: Where the stink meets the road
Your reasonings are why there's such a thing as the Big Mac. It's all down to the fact that ignoring a bit of puritan pain is good for the soul and one's moral fibre. Being unable to cope with the odd hair shirt that is part of daily life leads to flabby society, and deeper still, flabby saddles. Next time you see an ass, that should have it's own moon, riding a bike, take careful note of the saddle. I will wager my firstborn's right to pick his nose, that the saddle you see it not an SLR, or even a Rolls. It will be a soft, spongey buttock spreader.
The Monster may well have had soft and dainty fingers, but his dexterity was akin to Stephen Hawkings. Neither of whom would you want wearing latex gloves and probing your personage.
And there ended the dialogue. I'd wager good money that Jorge is now riding something with a sheepskin cover.
Well, here we are, two weeks on from being petrified and less than manly, Mikeal (Spiller of seed) and I have mastered the two wheeled, two seat bicycle.
We saddled up, and mounted the object of fear the other day. I can't say it went seamlessly, but it was a victory. We wobbled our way about for a while, then entertained the commuting traffic around Point Chev with a snake like wobble, several curses and the threat of intra-fratenal warfare. That was the low point.
A stop in a workshop later and corrected seat height and we were fearsome. From there we rode smoothly out to the Rosebank Road go-kart track and proceded to lap it around the tight track, no traffic, few distractions and no laughter from the two builders and their dog. We were a unit, at one.
On our return to town we sped along the bike path, with the eighty kilometre per hour traffic inching past us, we were a missile with two men atop. Homeward we made it all the way with no further incidents.
This weekend we will attempt a whole one hundred kilometres, although I suspect I may need to change my bare SLR saddle to something with even a modicum of padding to avoid a minor meltdown. Apart from that all will be good.
As a complete aside, I did have a wager on the Round Taupo a couple of years prior. This wager was around myself and Gordon McKendry on a tandem to beat two comparative whippets on another tandem. Thankfully Gordon was less of a man than me and chickened out. I suspect that while, our combined two hundred kilogrammes plus would have been a trifle slow up hill, based on my current tandem experiences, I would say that we would have been unable to even ride it in a straight line far enough to reach the control gates, all five hundred metres from the start. That would have been the nadir of my cycling career.
As part of my project to make lasting mark on humanity I have been brushing up on my literature again. Some of my knowledge and appreciation of English and American literature has grown quite rusty, and my memory of the great poets is a little more feeble than it has been in the past. To this end I have taken to reading poetry again, partly for the sheer pleasure of it, and partly because it's particularly irritating to others to recite at opportune moments.
This reciting at given moments, in some ways, it reminds me of listening to CTB singing, with gusto, and long before Walk the Line gave Johnny Cash popular, hip cred, Ring of Fire. The particular occasion was at the top of yet another lung-searing ascent of that painful bit of tarmac, Birdwood Road. I reached the top, as part of a ride with half a dozen others, bathed in sweat and gasping to hang on to the bunch. CTB, to then add salt to the lashing, launched into, in his fine baritone, Ring of Fire. Not just a few gasped lines from the chorus, no it was the whole damn thing. I, at that precise moment, hated him for it, just purely from sheer envy of the voice, the composure and the effortless nature, it was unalloyed magic.
With my renewed confidence in poety I have been attempting to instill/install a sense of literature and culture in my growing minion. He is now quite taken with a couple of Blake and Wordsworth poems, and has given over to reciting The Tyger on the walking bus and at school. It is a fine thing.
Well, here's a flashback for me. Somehow, when I was trawling Youtube for tasty clips on phoney health schemes, you know the sort, L. Ron Hubbard meets Brain Tamaki, I got distracted and the next thing I found this.The movie that this is the opening to, The Hunger, it made a deep, lasting impression on me, and this clip prompted a flurry of mental activity not seen in my cranium since the moment last year of the tanned girl on a vespa in a short skirt, the wind and the fortuitous glance.
A big hats off and well done to the Christchurch City Council for it's Season of Cycling website.
Sure the pics of wannabe fixie posers make me gag, and the pat quotes about riding and coffee are queasy, but it's a clean, clear, easy to use website.
As a riding resource it's easy to navigate, has a variety routes and neat features, like maps, elevation profiles of rides (that's kind of redundant for most Christchurch rides given the biggest inner city climb would be the Moorhouse Ave overbridge, but does have merit on the Port Hills) and classifications.
It would be wonderful to see this sort of initiative taken up by other councils and given some effort.
Go and have a look, and be like me, email it to your local council.
Jorge's most recent comment about my use of vice grips for purposes of self-pleasure, while completely untrue, has got me thinking. As a complete aside, I do have on very good authority that Jorge has a strangely pleasurable use (in his opinion) for sash-clamps and kitty litter. Never, ever let this man in your home workshop, or for that matter near your BBQ.
Where my trail of thought has gone, inspired by Jorge's fictions, is towards the seven cardinal sins. I thought about how they apply to me, and how I can share them, hopefully in the cause of education and elucidation.
No, I'm not going to give you an unbridled rifle through my history, the nasty stories of mooing girls, the sordid tales of amoral women, or my time as the cell mate of The Beast. Okay, all that was imagined, but a worthwhile imagining it is. No, I'm merely going to relate how they apply to me in a cycling context.
Lust Rarely do I do it now, but riding through summer pedestrian traffic always inspires lust in me. That sort of head snapping lust that only summer dresses and warm temperatures can inspire.
Greed I'm greedy for more quality miles that I can hold dear. The ride with Junior up to Woodcocks, avoiding nasty weather, having a tailwind for miles and getting home smug, that sort of thing I am greedy for. I can slog miles in darkness and precipitation to be fit enough to go and enjoy a ride like that, then not be happy with just that ride and want more.
Envy Any man who gets close to Milla, oops in a cycling context, any man who lives near any of those wonderful metal roads in Rodney District. If it was me, I'd have a dedicated bike to rip around on those roads on wet days, coming home covered in grit and as happy as Milla's dearest.
Wrath Contrary to what some of you may believe I am rarely afflicted with wrath. I may be opinionated, but rarely experience wrath. I do feel wrath deeply with broken glass and littering, I felt the glimmerings of wrath on Saturday seeing carelessly discarded race food wrappers on the course of the K2, that's just simply unacceptable. I also felt a twinge of wrath towards so many arrogant or ignorant riders at the K2 who failed to acknowledge or thank the marshalls. Volunteers, the marshalls, without them the day wouldn't happen and a lot of them spent the day in a fluoro vest with a flag in biting wind to make the day safe for us, the riders. In that case, two words "Thank You" from the riders goes a helluva a long way, but as I noticed in the various bunches I was in, I was one of the few who offered anything. That created the stirrings of wrath in me.
Gluttony One only needs to look at my glossy pelt, seal like figure and lycra threatening form to realise that Gluttony is a true cross for me to bear. Or should I say Beer? Okay, I'll have another, and some cheese and salami, chorizo, wine, ravioli, yorkshire pudding, prawns, doner kebabs, fries, naan, caramel slice, Hello Rosie, pain au raisin, brioche, beef wellington, cannoli, vanilla glazed donuts, goobers, larb gai, lenzil zupper, refried beans, deep fried bacon wrapped cheese stuffed jalapenos, indian pale ales and then there's time for dinner.Gluttony is my ever present friend.
Pride In my case, it's pride in working out a training route that may break me, or someone else, and then the satisfaction of seeing to made so. There's nothing quite like seeing someone broken and miserable, not because of bunch pace or a hammerfest, but purely by the roads and route. That inspires an unholy pride in me. Mikeal's Coatsville Conniption springs to mind
Sloth My Spousal Barnacle could write an epic to rival War and Peace on my sloth, but rather than let her get the upper hand, I'll confine it to the phrase that inspires fear in me "Alarm Clock". A warm bed, a gentle awakening and an unhurried rise should be mandatory in my world.
So, there are my seven sins, apart from those I'm a blemish free soul.
Here we are about to embark on the sortie. There are three here, two looking like lean cyclists, one in lycra with a little extra padding. For this small group mixed fortune awaits. From left to right, Junior, The Crocodile and yours truly.
Junior would go on to have a sterling day and achieve a great result. Certainly one to be proud of.
The Crocodile was truly set to be a weapon of bunch destruction, but his plan of being the bringer of misery to bunch 1A was curtailed by a puncture on the Thames Coast. Even so, with a slow tub change and a bit of dicking around he still turned in a very good time, impressive when it's put into the context of a very long, angry solo ride. Well done that man.
Me, well that's a whole barrel load of pain, indignity and suffering.
As can be seen here, with my resting heart rate, prior to the start I was a bundle of nerves, nothing usual. I've been on the start line of this event a fair few times before and knew what I was in for.
This year was a little different, I'd loaded myself with an expectation, and signed up for the fastest group. Prior to the gun going off I was confident, especially in the context of a good ride a couple of years prior, and arguably a better training regime this time around.
I was, even though the picture above lies, carrying less weight and was climbing better than in the past. Until the end of September I'd enjoyed a very good training run and was ticking off the goals.
October was a bit disrupted, but nothing to worry about. The day dawned and I was ready. Now, just a casual aside about pre-event nutrition. I'm not too wound up about what I eat, and enjoy a very catholic diet, but I do like to enjoy a decent, quality meal on the evening before the day of the gallows.
With that in mind, Junior and I, who were sharing a little shack in deepest Whitianga, planned our meal ahead. He provided spinach and chicken risotto, and I made pasta (from scratch, you know the whole egg, flour, olive oil, hand crank thingy) with a chorizo and tomato sauce. As always there was more than enough.
Doris and Mikeal (you know, the man who malices his chalice) came to join us, Doris had also conjured some kitchen magic and was happy to share. Mikeal had other ideas. Here he is, below, wobbling his way through an Exxon Valdez special from the local fish and chip shop. On the positive side, he didn't get quite what he ordered, some one else will have opened their newspaper parcel and found a handful of chips and a dick on a stick. Mikeal got lucky and scored, by accident, someone else's oysters and more fish than he could scoff. Back to the day of misery. It started well, but soon, by climb two, Mynderman's Hill, changed into an outing that veered from the script. Tactically, I made a bad decision lurking down the back of the bunch, and as a consequence found myself just off the back over the top.
Plan B was dug out, it worked in a fashion and I was picked up by the second part of the second bunch at the top of Whangapoua. This bunch seemed to disintegrate around me and I was left with one other chap, riding in no man's land. So we cruised, only to be picked up by a group of eight riders at the foot of the last climb before the coast. A nice, easy climb over, then when we hit the flat, with the cross head wind, the hammer went down.
A rapid rolling bunch ensued, but smashing into the wind took it's toll, after twenty five kilometres I was spent, so sat on for a few laps. Eventually I rejoined the paceline, and then about five kilometres on we caught the bunch ahead. Too late for me, I was useless, and it was only just over halfway. Plan B was not so cunning.
From there it was just a grovel, riding twenty kilometres with one other rider after the bunch buggered off on me on the Kopu-Hikuai climb. The two of us, we collected by another bunch just before Tairua and Pumpkin Hill. There I saw yet another bunch wave me goodbye. Near the top I spotted a Tandem.
I dug it in quite deep and crested the hill to catch the tandem before the descent, here was my ticket home for the final thirty five kilometres. I am eternally grateful to them. The team was a couple of local guys from Thames and they were, by the finish line, the winning tandem. They provided me with a draft for miles, put up with my inane chatter on the rises and were a life saver for me. Thanks D Donnelly and M White, I still owe you that beer.
Post finish, Junior and I had shown the foresight to pack, in a chillybin, beer and salt and vinegar crisps. It was heaven.
Of our collection of riders we had ridden with up to the event, we had a fifty percent attrition rate. Doris DNF'd due to a small logistical oversight of one tube, two punctures. Serge and Sid both decided to exit stage left on the first descent of the day. They committed their land surfing separately, but it was on the same corner. Serge lost bark, some finger skin and clothing damage. Sid did more and managed to lose bark and break his collarbone.
I'd like to wish them both a speedy recovery, and since Sid still hasn't disclosed whether he's left or right handed, I'm waiting to set up his toilet buddy roster.
Lastly, in the post race scoff of bambi, potatoes and asparagus, excellent faire provided by Mikeal and Doris, The Crocodile ate his first potato in months.
