Butterfly on a wheel

On Sunday I made people swear at me, and think unholy thoughts of me.
It was the second Race of Six Friends, and the evil triumvirate of my brain, spring weather and the local council came together to cause adventure, misery and satisfaction.
You can read of my course creation thoughts on the R6F blog, this post is more around my day out in the boonies with five other tolerant souls and a crack support person.

Tristan Thomas had flown up from Wellington to be team Ox and super tow for the day. The rest of the team was a mix of old and new, Mikeal had blagged a spot that was vacated by Paul Pendry, and Damien Kearney stepped into the unknown at the last minute as sub for Junior who was unavailable. Rounding the team out were The Worm and The Croc.

The weather looked okay on the radar, with a rain band that would go through, then happy times. That wasn't quite the story as we did get some decent precipitation for a while, then drizzle and rain in the later part. I had forgotten that up here in Auckland we tend to be a bit soft about the weather, and I did scoff when all the softies got excited about the big snowfall of 2011, but I realised that I have grown soft in reading Tristan's post of the weekend, where he described the weather as drizzle. It was a fitting description.

We started with Tristan and The Worm setting a fine pace and example on the flats towards Port Waikato, that Mikeal and I then failed to match. In Mikeal's defense he may have still be suffering from the pre-start nipple gripple I gave him. He did get his revenge later.

Things went in a peachy fashion for the flat, and the climb and descent of Klondyke Road, until The Worm suffered an explosive pinch flat, for the rest of us a small wait and watch, then off again, all was good, then suddenly "What the hell is this?" as the road that was fast and smooth two week prior was now a mudbath with loose metal either side of the ruts from bike tyres. Turns out that the local council had opted to grade and remetal the last couple of kilometres at the end of Klondyke Road. Cue many, many punctures. Tristan was afflicted by two in quick succession, and Mikeal exacted his revenge on me while Tristan effected his repair.

Mikeal's revenge consisted of a quick flick to the end of a delicate part of my person. The sound was meaty and the pain was quite sharp. Much amusement to the assorted crowd and the Jackass road show carried on.

The rest of the ride was a set of movements by various team members to come up along side Tristan for a bit of finding one's place in the scheme of things, while he rode tempo and strong.

When we hit the final flat section, Tristan told us all to hop on, and on the train we scrambled, or in my case dangled. The last little rise, loomed and turned me into a whimpering shell. Finish couldn't come fast enough.

Then the pleasure of dry clothes and shelter. Nothing like clambering out of wet gritty clothes, into dry clothes on a small country town's side street, it bought back a raft of deeply repressed memories.

As a team we did very well, and thanks to my team mates for putting up with me, thanks to Doris for being in the right place at the right time with all the good stuff. Well done team, we (or at least I) will be back for the next one.

Silica scourge

I have been a diligent puppy, applying myself to the training task with enthusiasm. The training task being that of cycling more easily over inclines, losing ballast from my ample carcass and becoming fitter. This weather has been a slight impediment to true pleasure, but then the perverse part of my nature has taken to the task with some enthusiasm.

That enthusiasm took a denting on Sunday morning. The ride wasn't all bad, in fact it was damn good, with a bunch of chaps from Mt Eden Cycles and Junior, it was a pleasant outing, over to Bethalls, then Taupaki at a good steady pace, win a well disciplined bunch.

I would go as far as to say that the Mt Eden Cycles bunches are an utter pleasure, with common sense, good old-fashioned bunch riding skills and a friendly attitude. Junior and my participation in both of their Sunday bunches was not by design, just serendipity, as they happened to roll past at the right moment.

We had started off thinking we would use the bunch to get to the Waitaks, had chatted with the tail-end and enjoyed the roll out to Swanson. The back bunch, the one we were lurking in was going over Scenic Drive. The front bunch was going on a longer loop, and was a little faster. As luck would have it, we were able to skip from one bunch to the other, after the first climb up scenic Drive from Swanson.

The rest of the time with the first bunch was most enjoyable.

On the return, just past Lincoln Road the heavens opened and rain heaved down. As I crossed the bridge on the bike path towards Flanshaw Road, I felt that ominous squishy feeling, and knew that my front tyre was ejecting it's air contents. The bunch carried on, I wouldn't have wanted them to stop in those conditions. I sought shelter beside the trunk of a tree. There I was still able to enjoy the precipitation, but only a shower, compared to the torrent that was falling a metre away.

I changed the tyre, a small piece of glass the culprit. Once reinflated and ready I sailed off, sodden on sodden roads.

The only real upside from the downpour is that my bike was quite a lot cleaner than it had been after Saturday morning's pleasant, wet mess.

Gummy shark

In one of the deeper conversations that I have enjoyed recently my spawn announced that pain was his friend. Normally his prognostications give me little cause for concern, but this one did cause a small flicker of anxiety. Given that at various times I have found him compromising his future fertility while he acts as the target for other miscreants' ball throwing and kicking, I shouldn't be too surprised.
His almost Steve O like love of performance, and willingness to place entertainment above self-preservation has long been apparent.
My concern stems from two things, one, his future career choice. Is he going to end up wrestling Ursine opponents for a living? Trying to emulate Guy Martin? Or Matt Hoffman? Only time will tell.
The other, is where has this come from? Is this trait inherited from his jackass father? I am just a series of misjudged adventures that helps in accruing wounds and injuries of little consequence. And I do protect certain soft, fleshy parts of my person most carefully.
Either way, I hope that he will realise the error in his statement before he acquires even more stitches and broken bones.

Bovine Avoidance

I was out scouting on Friday, not Lord Baden Powell type activity, but out scouting the route for the next Race of Six Friends. It was a glorious day, and the world was very much at rights. as I rolled along a long, flat, quiet back country road, I could see a steer in the distance. He was standing on the road, and given the traffic through the area, was presenting no danger to either himself, or any vehicular traffic.

I heard the message alert on my phone go, so, given that there was little else to do, bar pedal and muse, I took my phone out and checked it.

The message was from a friend in town, asking what I was up to. He had no idea that I had fled the confines of the city and was on a jaunt around the countryside. I decided that photo of the steer would be an appropriate answer. I carried on pedaling, riding, holding the phone up steadily to get a nice landscape shot of said beast.
Just as I was about to touch the screen to trigger the shot, I saw a rush out of the ditch to my left, and there, previously unnoticed by me, sprang another steer who had taken fright at this sudden appearance of a spandex clad monster.

Steer number two rushed across the road, and prompted a rapid grab of the handlebars from me, I missed the photo opportunity also. That would have taken some explaining to all and sundry as to how I came to surf the road, if the beast had collected me.

All was not lost though in the bovine pictorial stakes, as about another kilometre on, another steer grazed the long acre placidly, and I was able to nab a passing shot.

It was a day for rushing animals, as within an hour of my steer avoidance I was almost knocked from my perch by a dashing turkey. Not only do turkeys have the most ridiculous run and flight, their "Gobble, gobble, gobble" would rate as one on the more amusing birdcalls. So much so that Mikeal the Onanastic will imitate one with glee and without inhibition. It is disturbing to hear a grown man pretend he is the festive dinner.

The full circle

Day thirty, and it's the last one, the song that was my favourite this time last year.
And a complete opposite from the opening track, but hell, that's just the way it is.

Now this blog will return to it's normal, slightly shambolic self, and you, you lucky souls will have less to suffer through.

Cross eyed and green

Day Twenty Nine and a song from my childhood.
This, while it is a confection, saved me from a variety of far worse things, Val Doonican, Nana Mouskouri, The Seekers, Neil Diamond, et al. It was bad.

Mercy

Today I rolled out in the predawn, it was glorious. Konini Road was a delight, and the whole lightening of the Eastern sky was a portent of the glorious spring day that was to be unfurled on us.
There were tuis learning to sing, trying their range and scales, one day they will be aural honey, but today it was merely potential.
Right now, with the stunning weather we have had, the lack of wind and rain, has made for spectacular intact crowns of blossom, and a riot of colour. I am lucky.

More sobering is this :-
Day twenty eight and a song that makes me feel guilty.

No cook paper

Day twenty seven, and a song I wish I could play. Hell, I wish I could play almost anything, but this does make my bung fizz a little.
A bonus is that it makes Mikeal the Onanator more than a little perturbed, and that is always a very good thing.

Buffalo!

And now for something completely mindbending, the last ten kilometres of the Angliru climb in the Vuelta a Espana. For those of you who don't really want to sit through all 48 minutes of it, and want a quick taste of the utterly glory and misery go to either minutes 14 or 31.

It is like nothing else in cycling.


VaE - Stage 15 - Final Climb by CVChannel2

A darkness comes

It's the torture fest in the Vuelta a Espana tomorrow, and the savage beast that is the Angliru. This thing hits 28%, and that is in the middle of an 11 kilometre climb at the end of a 130 kilometre stage in a three week grand tour.
I know what 28% is like on a bike, I found a section of concrete in the Waitakeres that hits that silly number, I rode it, but I wasn't racing, and rest assured I didn't look at all like a bike rider. And it was followed by a stop, and knee trembling.

Day twenty six and a song I can play on an instrument.
Given that I have almost no instrumental skills the songs that I can play are limited to acappella, or close to it.
So, this is it, a great song, and so bitterly tender.
And I sure as hell wasn't going suggest Caravan of Love for a submission in this category.

Smack

So, day twenty five, and a song that makes me laugh.
I was all set to run with the genius of Spike Milligan, when I remembered this delightful piece of whimsy.

Lacrimosa

Day Twenty four and a song I would like played at my funeral. This was harder than I thought, given my agnostic beliefs and my desire not to be too hypocritical, so most of what I consider decent funerary music is out of bounds for me.

The great pieces of music for the time of mourning tend to be devotional, and while tremendous in emotion, comfort and solace, I do feel somewhat odd asking for forgiveness from a God who I don't believe in. The wonderful Dies Irae sequence from most requiem masses is uplifting and reaffirming, but not quite right for a heathen like myself.

If I was to choose a devotional piece, it would be Mozart's Lacrimosa, from his Requiem Mass, but the Latin text would make me too great a hypocrite, and would have those who attend my passing wondering if I'd had a Lord Marchmain moment.

So, instead here is a song that always makes me smile.

The Toecutter

I remember the very moment of this photo. I was on the cusp of pain and satisfaction. It is from the K2 in 2007, climbing out of Coromandel, with only one more climb and then the Thames Coast to home. Normally at this point in proceeding my legs are all but wood, and my rate of ascent slows to the pace of a slug, but on this day, I was comfortable, I wasn't going to set my bunch alight, but I was on the front setting the tempo, the world was quite a good place. Day twenty three - a song I would like to play at my wedding (quiet in the cheap seats).