Little Wing

This is, in a most unashamed fashion, a post of love. Not just a mere tryst, a flutter on the heart strings, but a long, deeply held passion, that I hold dear, and central to my very being. It does make my every day brighter, and makes me realise that I am a very lucky man. I make no apologies for this out pouring, and, if nothing else, I want it to be a fingerpost.

The inspirations for this declaration are multiple, but were most clearly crystalised in two separate moments seven days apart.

Saturday week ago, Doris, Sid and I tackled a route of abject riding misery and pain, it was a diet of climbing, more climbing, descents and views. The climbs were invariably steep and included several feared roads around Clevedon, Brookby, Ardmore and Drury (Creightons, Jones, Ponga and West Roads amongst others, and in both directions). The day was beautiful with crystal sharp air and views to the edge of the planet.

As we descended Twilight Road towards Clevedon, I had eased ahead of the others on the winding, damp road, and as the road opened on the flat and I rolled along I was suddenly aware of a small flock of Kakariki immediately above me, travelling in the same direction and slightly faster. Maybe a dozen in number, an entourage for me for a brief period before they veered away and across a hedge, leaving me bound to the tarmac. Their cruciform, whirring vibrance in the sparkling air, they were winged emerald treasures.

Then, moment number two, this Saturday, I had to marshall at the Time Trial on the waterfront. Marshalling at the far end of the course, St Heliers, is not without it's benefits, in spite of the need to be there before 7 am. The principle one of those is a fabulous bakery in Kohimarama who have a selection of freshly baked goods and pastries, excellent coffee and staff with wit and manners. I am able to nip in and gain sustenance before I go and stand, with cone and flag, in Vale Road.

This particular morning, the sun was just over the horizon as I drove the waterfront, the harbour like a millpond, and the promise of a beautiful autumn day writ large. But, after some pangs of envy watching boats heading out (and realising that I get my fair share of on water time), when I rounded the point to St Heliers, there, in very close, was a reasonable school of kahawai chasing their breakfast in the shallows. It was a wonderful sight, there, within arms reach of the footpath, in front of homes, and unnoticed by the other souls out riding, driving and walking, I wanted to get out and yell and point at the small wonder of it. But I suspect people would think I was mad.

Instead, I held it close, a little guilty at that, and told others of that little wonder that I witnessed over the weekend.

But these two events, and many others are etched deeply in my mind, making for a place of retreat and repose, with deep sense filled memories, that tide me over in moments of darkness.

But Holden Caulfield Lives On

All morons hate it when you call them a moron. - Holden Caulfield.

Today I rode with the Solo bunch. What an utter pleasure riding with those riders is. Sociable, courteous, caring and run with a velvet fist. Thanks guys and girls, I'll be back.

On Wednesday, I had a predawn ride with Mikeal, the man who shuffles his own deck. Hence forth him will have the additional honorific of Sid Too. The reasons for his new second title are as follows:-
Arrives in the dark with two bottles on his bike, we are about to ride and he mentions that he has no water in either. Better yet, he does have some drink powder in one. No water, but drink powder...How yummy would have been dry raro and salt?
Back light won't go, we ride down the road, and as we round the first corner backlight is ejected from the bike. Stop, pick up the pieces, carry on, sans one battery.
On return I find missing battery, no wonder light didn't go, battery had rust and corrosion on the anode.

Fair justification for a new title me thinks.

Kind, Shape and Form

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.

To that end, here's an appropriate tune.

The Canal

I came, I saw, I was broken.

K2 2009, it's come and gone and I am a spent man.


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.