Annual Donna Buang Lung Buster
Saturday 24th September 2005

Here are the first pictures, straight out of the memory chip

(Click on any picture to get a bigger version)

I suppose it's pretty hard to explain why anyone would willingly bash their head up a brick wall. Perhaps the only reason that makes any sense at all is that it feels so good when you stop. In many respects riding a bicycle up Mt Donna Buang is pretty similar to hitting yourself on the head with a wooden mallet- only much worse.

Yet for some strange reason this weird ritual has become something of a tradition for the Ghost Riders. Every Grand Final morning we leave common sense behind, grab our bikes and head off into the snow line clad only in layers of lycra. Even though this is now the fourth time I have taken part in this event, I am still not sure I understand why we do it. On the other hand I am sure that it does feel so good when the pain stops.

Following the recent explosive growth in our numbers I was not completely surprised to see the hive of activity that was taking place in the Launching Place car park at 8.40 am. As far as the eye could see (the light was not very good) there were riders preparing their bikes and massaging their legs. Partners and children were shouting encouragement (along the lines of "Get going so we can get back in our cars").

In spite of the promising weather forecast the scene we were presented with was not exactly what I had been hoping for. With dark low clouds pressing in and a steady drizzle of cold rain, it was obvious that the conditions would not be on our side.

Among those getting ready for the ride were a number of riders I did not recognise. I went over to introduce myself to one of them. He stood about 5 ft tall in his riding shoes and must have weighed all of 45 kg. Just the sort of body I would like to have on this ride. When I queried him about what sort of time handicap he should be riding from, he replied that he was just another weckweational wider and had barely ever been on a bike before. Although he was small on the outside he was apparently very large on the inside, just like Doctor Who's phone booth. Maybe I should have called them the "Tardis Trio". His two skinny friends also insisted that they should be allowed to start with the slowest riders in one of the earliest start times. Against my better judgement I felt compassion for them and let them ride off 10 minutes - a decision we would soon live to regret.

With Phil Jones acting in the role of official starter and timekeeper we farewelled the first group of riders at 9.00 am sharp. This consisted of Trish, Marg, John D and Cheryl. As it turned out Cheryl was having a bit of trouble with her hair dryer and did not get underway until about 9.02 am. They disappeared into the mist.

Ten minutes later I was underway, accompanied by the Tardis Trio of David Cooke, Trent Battye and Grant Walker and also by Michael Stanbrough. Within a couple of hundred metres the Trio had disappeared up the hill ahead of me. Although it was their first time on a bike, they had apparently learnt fast, and were flying like AIS champions. Apparently even their enormous (virtual) bodyweight's were no handicap.

Michael, on the other hand, was content to climb at a slower pace and this gave me a chance to see that he was riding a Cannondale T1000. It is always a pleasure to see someone who rides a classic bike. We could certainly do with more of his type in the Ghost Riders. Since I have a large engine, that takes a good two or three hours to get started, I was careful not to get carried away too early and just tried to find a comfortable pace. The problem was that the only truly comfortable pace I could find on the unrelenting gradient was stationary.

The rain started getting heavier. My lungs started heaving. My legs felt heavy. My bum started hurting. All this and I had only gone about 2 km. It was not looking good.

The first 10 km or so takes us along the bitumen section of Don Rd and climbs steeply almost from the start. I was acutely conscious of the fact that time was rapidly passing and that many of the faster riders would now be underway behind me. I really did not want to be overtaken by everyone while I was still almost in sight of the starting post. I dug deep and racked my speed up to about 8 kph for a 100 metres or so, before slowing down to a speed even slower than I had been before.

I discovered that if I just looked at the road in front of me I could try to pretend that the hill was not so steep. Gradually the reading on the speedo started to tick off the km. At about 10 km up the road I came in sight of the first group. By this time I had been riding on my own for some time and it was good to see some signs of life, although when I looked at John's face I was not sure that it was signs of life I was seeing. His eyes were glazed over and his mouth was open in some sort of silent scream. I suspect, if he could have spoken, he would have asked "Why do we do this ?"

At our agonising rate of progress it took about 5 minutes to pass John and see the group of women up ahead. Trish and Marg looked comfortable, but Cheryl was feeling the pinch. When the bitumen road finishes there is a small reduction in the gradient. This is a blessed relief, although the easier going is compensated for by the fact that we were now getting ourselves rapidly covered in mud.

I think it was somewhere near this point that Ben went flying past - the first of the riders from the 20 minute group. We finally reached the turnoff to Donna Buang, about 12 km from the start. It had taken over 50 minutes to reach this point and we all knew that we had another 15 km to ride. About 1 km from the turnoff there is a large boom gate which is normally locked for the entire winter. To my surprise the gate had been opened a couple of days earlier, although I was to see only 2 cars in the next 15 km.

Marg and I rode (struggled) along for a couple of kilometres together but Trish had pedalled out of sight. A quick look behind indicated that there were no riders approaching us from behind. I recalled from last year that this section of the climb is probably the toughest of the lot, especially once you leave the bitumen again. With sticky wet clay grabbing to my tyres and icy water running down my back it felt almost impossible to make any headway at all.

I started to break the climb down into achievable stages, for example - just to the next bend, the big gum tree, the creek, etc. I was already down in the lowest gear and my backside felt like I was sitting on a house brick. It was a stupid mistake not to spend more time on this bike. Since I had only ridden it a couple of times in the past 8 months, this was a poor choice of time to acquaint myself with an unfamiliar saddle.

A few kilometres further on I was passed by Lothar and Gary Hall, both of them barely visible under their layers of mud. We were now riding in the clouds and visibility was down to less than a hundred metres. Gary Binding also passed by, his face a vision of horror with a mixture of mud, sweat and snot streaming from his chin. It was not too hard to recall the thoughts of the early Tour de France rider who called the organisers "assassins" for sending them out in such conditions. Would any of these guys ever speak to me again ? I couldn't care less at that moment, I was too concerned with my own survival.

When I finally reached the sealed road again I was nearly skittled by some erratic old guy in a white Commodore. It turned out to be Hooters, trying to drive and manage a video camera at the same time. He had also "struggled" to the summit behind the wheel of his climate controlled Calais. At that moment I felt like strangling him (come to think of it I often feel that way).

Brendan also passed me before I reached the final T intersection. By this time I didn't care what happened. I just wanted the fire in my bum to stop. It felt like I was sitting on a coil of razor wire. As I made the fateful left hand turn I knew that I could only have another 2 km to go. The problem was I could not see a thing. I was immersed in a complete white out, hearing only my wheezing chest and a annoying squeak from my right crank which had accompanied me the entire way up the mountain.

My speed again dropped to about 6.5 kph. With no lower gears to resort to I had no choice than to just keep turning. At times I almost felt like I was going backwards, but ever so slowly the key reference points were reached, first the car parks, the welcome sign, the big boom gate.... but where were the cheering crowds? It was not until I reached the upper car park that it started to dawn on me that it was finally over.

I wobbled to a stop and struggled from my bike, being careful to disentangle my buttocks from the razor wire.You can only imagine how glad I was to see Warren and the others waiting with a large pot of boiling water. Finally sitting down with a large mug of steaming coffee and a large cake I could begin to enjoy the achievement. All around me there were men who looked like they had been to hell and back. One guy in particular was just staring into space, mumbling and shaking. At first I was concerned until I remembered that Hooters is always like that.

After my second cup of coffee I was finally able to start to derive some enjoyment from watching others emerge from the haze and collapse in front of me. It was particularly inspiring to see Cheryl finally make the summit on her first attempt. We later found out that she had lightened her load by leaving all her spare tubes in Lothar's car. Fortunately Peter had a spare and was able to rescue her in her hour of distress.

The only ones missing from the summit celebrations were the Tardis Trio who had already packed up and departed. Just like the Incredible Hulk, they had taken our record and then disappeared. And just what did happen to Tom ? He was supposed to be our Top Gun rider and yet he failed to turn up when it counted.

After all riders had summited we still had one final challenge to confront. It is not easy to descend in freezing conditions with almost zero visibility. With my fingers frozen to the brake levers and my eyes stinging from the sleet I tried hard not to lose control on the sharp corners. Fortunately everyone made the downhill safely and were back home in time to watch the Grand Final.

Will we do it all again next year ? Of course we will, after all it's just like childbirth - once it's over the pain is quickly forgotten.

OFFICIAL TIMES FOR THE 2005 LUNG BUSTER