News Letter

I had an under prepared unsuccessful attack at the Australian MTB Marathon champs yesterday at Avoca.

With about 400 of us on the start line, thankfully everyone took it sensibly on the gravel road start.  After a long fire-road climb, one wrong turn and approximately 15k, I crashed on the first piece of technical descent.  It was a rutted chute, with maybe two lines that I didn't decide between quickly enough.  When I eventually made a choice to go right, it was the same moment my front wheel slipped left, into the wrong rut.  Over she goes, boys.

While I completed just the one tumble, I thought I'd never stop sliding.  I managed to take skin off most every limb, along with collecting the largest hematoma on my right thigh that I had felt for a long while, and crunched my ribcage on the left.  I also shot my sunglasses off into the scrub some distance, which took a long time to retrieve, exaggerated by my lack of ability to breathe.  Brand new knicks while not quite ruined, looked instantly ‘worn-out'.  It was the worst ‘off' I'd experienced in (short) memory, and not ideally placed so early into a 90k+ marathon.  

Dragging my bike from the track, I had to hide my grimacing as everyone who passed asked if I was OK.  It wasn't until much later that I laughed at the efforts of those who could barely contain their glee, knowing they'd just moved one step closer to the podium by passing me (I was in 4th when I fell, buggers).  

With ideas full of indomitable bravado I continued on, Emma had told Niki I was going to 'ride like Willo' this day, and win (my class).  I could have stopped at the first feed zone, but I plugged on another 50k, and after a long ‘Pyrenees Walking Trail' section (appropriately named), which had me getting on and off the bike, too many times to take-with my rogered ribcage, and don't even talk about log jumps, I eventually ran up the white flag and climbed off for the last time.

I remember Phil Anderson crashed in one of his 13 Tours de France and broke his sternum.  His comments were ‘it felt like someone had a crowbar in his chest each time he pulled on the bars'.  He still finished 5 stages like this.  I have proved many times that I am no equal of his, and I don't doubt that the pain I endured for 50k was anything like his, I certainly didn't feel any crowbars in me, but I bet he didn't have to jump any logs in those final five stages either...

In the elite men, Peter Hatton, whose ‘best man' was Willo, had named this as his last race, and wanted to win it for Willo.  He had a 2 minute lead, and was 5k from home when he punctured, thwarted by a non-functioning gas cartridge, he rode home in 2^nd on the rim. 

So much for race plans, hopes and aspirations.  It can all go so quickly to crap in the first hour, or even the last 5k.  That's bike racing.

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