The Donkey Punch

So, on Sunday I was a surgeon. Not some half-baked pocket knife wielder, I was a fully qualified, scalpel artist for the morning.
How did this come to pass?

I was offered the chance to step into his shoes midway through last week, due to an unfortunate accident on his behalf. I was judged as being a safe pair of hands to complete the task he had signed up for. But before we proceed any further let me clear up one small error in your thinking right now, I was not going into theatre as his proxy, I was merely filling his place at the Clipon Challenge funride.

My run up to the big day saw me in less than ideal form to make the most of an apparent purple patch of form, but even without that, I had decided that I would ride it as a fun ride and just cruise it. No chewing handlebars, no gurning, no suffering misery.

Where my run up to the event went reefward was on Friday, due to helping a little with the Northshore Grand Prix. As always it was a sterling event with excellent racing, much kudos to Peter Ulmer for organising yet another edition. To that end I do hope that BikeNZ takes notice of the vital role that private event organisers play in running elite racing in this country, as well as the many dollars that are poured in as sponsorship for these races.

I could climb on my pulpit here and preach a long and lengthy sermon on the above subject, but I will refrain, maybe that is an entirely separate post, but what I will state is that from my own observations BikeNZ seem to be more of a hinderance and boat anchor to these events and their organisers, than supporter and champion, let alone positive partner. For the good of the sport of cycling, but in particular racing, this needs to change.

Even just thinking of this makes my blood seethe, and there is a lengthy diatribe that lurks close to the surface, so rather than detract from the spectacle and success of Friday night's racing in Takapuna, and Sunday's race and funride, I will post my thoughts separately.

So, back to my getting knackered prior to Sunday, I assisted on Friday night, one real bonus from that was that I learnt to drive the crane arm on a truck. I was like a kid in the sandpit at kindergarten again, it was both fun and terror in equal parts.

Forward to Sunday, and I made my way to Shelly Beach Road and rolled up at Five Forty am. Not the most civilised hour, but there were already a a number of other souls there. I was fortunate to spot Matt Gilbert near the front, and rolled up to join him and a couple of others for some pleasant banter. Instead of pleasant banter Matt informed me that the start was now Six Forty Five am! Wahoo! An hour of standing about getting cold, and get cold I did. Before long The Croc had appeared also, so together we stood, as the press of cyclists grew, and waited patiently. Time passed, shivering increased.

Finally at Seven am we were under way, the ride over the Harbour Bridge was to be neutralised, and it was, at race pace. My time over the bridge, instead of being spent pleasantly admiring the vista was instead spent watching the wheel in front of me, and avoiding the odd bus that was parked slightly wide, as I stayed on the leeward side of the bunch.

From there it was a fantastic roll up the bus lane, and then out through the Albany industrial estate, and then into the hills. Lots of hills, those short, nasty little leg sappers. Thankfully I was in cruise mode, and it served me well. Horseshoe Bush Road and it's metal was a pleasure, bringing back memories of Race of Six Friends, after that, the delayed start started having an effect and a separate issue - a full bladder!
I was debating as to when to stop and shed the excess ballast when I was passed by Adam Smith, the proverbial locomotive, with half a dozen riders in tow. Unfortunately thoughts of pristine white porcelain and running water scuppered any hope of staying in that lovely little train.

A pit stop mid way up a climb provided the much needed relief, and it was off rolling again. The nature of the course was such that there was much splintering of bunches and much riding in twos and threes, I just rolled along, on very familiar roads, until a larger group picked me up on the climb out of Riverhead forest. Excellent I thought, the group to take me through from here.

But it wasn't to be, as I climbed the wall up to Taupaki School my phone rang, I used this an excuse to leave the safety of the group, and rolled along for a gentle gasbag. Done and dusted I resumed riding properly, not too long to go, and I was picked up by another couple of riders, who then decided that my pace on the hills was too hot for them and let me go, ahead. This was a novelty for me. At this stage the hard roads, the aggravating and unpleasant wind and the Rodney District special seal were having an effect on many, and I passed several of the living dead as I rolled to the finish.

After handing in my timing chip, and receiving my medal, it was off to somewhere special. Not the post race festivities, not Sione and his sisters with their Saturday morning special, it was the Kumeu bakehouse. There a couple of custard twists, some pleasant company, and I was fortified for the ride home. The ride home was a trifle unpleasant, with a foul headwind on the bike path that was the nadir of my ride.

Will I do that fun ride again? No, not in it's present structure. Was it enjoyable, yes. Was it safe? Yes, the marshalling and directions on course were excellent and easily the best I have experienced. Did I enjoy riding over the Harbour Bridge? No, I would rate it as one of the more unpleasant moments I have endured on a bike in eons, that whole being frigid, then making damn cold muscles work hard, it just plain hurt. I would love to go back and cruise over, but that ain't going to happen.

Anyway, by lunchtime I was back to me, the ascerbic nogooder, and my surgical career was over.