Sunday 17th October 2004
Around the Bay in a Day

Chapter One

I read in the paper today that no Australian babies have been given the name 'Cuthbert' in the whole 21st century. While some fashions obviously fade with the passage of time, other trends always sweep in to take their place. Yesterday I learned that the trend towards self flagellation is stronger than ever. After all, why else would 8,000 people forsake the warmth and comfort of their beds to spend an entire Sunday pedaling a contrary two wheel instrument of posterial torture all the way around Port Phillip Bay?

When my alarm went off at the normally unseen hour of 1.45 am I could not help but feel that this went against all the laws of nature and common sense. If humans were meant to be awake during the hours of early morning we would have been given eyes the size of tennis balls, and if we were meant to pedal a bike over 210km in a single day we would have been given legs like Peter Warren. When I looked in the mirror I could vaguely discern that I had neither grossly enlarged eyes or legs, but still felt compelled by some inner desire to pit my middle aged body against that inner voice that whispered "Go back to bed, you dunderhead".

As I staggered to the kitchen and downed the first of about three litres of water and apple juice (I had been warned about the dire consequences of dehydration) I put a huge bowl of porridge on the stove. Looking at the slowly bubbling cauldron I could not help thinking of the thermal pools of Rotarua. I could not be sure if this stuff was going to help me during the day but it certainly looked like it would put a decent lining on my stomach.

Between spoonfuls of porridge (and yet more apple juice) I mentally checked my list to make sure that I had not forgotten anything. The bike was already lubricated and clipped to the back of the car, my jersey and other gear was arrayed in the bedroom, the heart rate monitor was ready, my snacks were packed and the all important ticket was securely packed ("no ticket=no ferry" we had been told).

At 3 am I was joined by Ben, a 17 year old local lad who had also entered for the big event. We spent the time in the car listening to Sounds Like Chicken's latest CD and discussing the true meaning of life (road bikes or mountain bikes?). I was somewhat surprised to find that the drive into the city took much less time than I had allowed and we found ourselves at Port Melbourne about 45 minutes early.

"Do you think that guy's trying to gas himself?", Ben asked as he pointed to a car parked in the nearby car park with its engine running. "He's probably spent the night there, waiting to sober up", I replied.

Although the rest of the place was relatively quiet, by 4 am we were joined by other cyclists who headed off down the road away from the city. They had obviously decided that the best strategy was to get a head start by going down to Sorrento in time for the first ferry. (By the end of the day I could see the wisdom in this approach). It was about this time that the fellow in the carpark finally drove out and very nearly headed off up the wrong side of Beaconsfield Parade, before wildly veering across onto the correct side.

When the rest of our team arrived at 4.30 we drove down to Crown Casino and prepared our bikes for the ride. By this time several riders realised that all the apple juice and water was starting to exert an inner pressure akin to Mount Vesuvius, but we could not find a toilet so just had to grin and bear it. Maybe an over inflated bladder is essential to good riding.

Our full team consisted of Duncan (team captain), Lothar, Peter, John D, Ross, Richard, Daryl and myself. With the late withdrawal of Mal, his place was taken by Trish from Monbulk, who was made an honorary Ghost Rider for the day.

After mounting our bikes we unsteadily made our way through the relatively unfamiliar territory to Docklands and joined the thousands of other middle aged twats who had also turned up. As we all waited in the predawn cold we had little else to do but look at other cyclists legs and bikes. It was soon evident that there would be a wide range in action - from the powerful high tech carbon fibre varieties to the common old skinny rattlers (and that was just the legs!).

Our team assembled together taking pride in our distinctive yellow jerseys, although it was a pity that 90% of the rest of the riders were also wearing almost identical jerseys of the same colour. I guess "Ghost Rider Envy" was more prevalent than I realised.

When the signal was finally given for the start, about 10 mins late, thousands of riders shuffled off into the fray, not knowing when it would be safe to cleat up. It was something of an anticlimax after all the preparation, having to wobble and shuffle for the first km or so.

The part that I had been really looking forward to was the early morning crossing of the West Gate Bridge. With the early morning sun casting its clear light it was indeed a special experience to slowly climb up the long incline and get the heart rate up a little. While the rest of Melbourne was sleeping we were starting to savour something of what life is really all about.

Since this was to be my first Around the Bay ride I had never ridden in such a large group and it was an exciting feeling to be part of such a large moving mass of people. Watching the peloton stretch out along the road it looked like a living entity as it silently snaked around corners and over hills.

The police had control of the early intersections to help the flow of riders and held back the traffic to allow us pass. As I approached yet another intersection with a police car and a couple of police standing in the centre the light changed to red as I was just about to cross. I started to brake but was told by riders behind to keep going. The police just stood looking up the crossroad.

Assuming that we were meant to cross I proceeded to enter the intersection, only to get a lecture from the young arrogant Constable Plodd about stopping at a red light. I informed him that at every other intersection so far we had been waved through on the red light by his fellow officers, at which he condescended to "let me off with a warning". Although I was rather miffed at the high handed attitude of the young officer I tried to put it behind me as I remounted and headed off again. I was interested to see that at the very next intersection we were directed THROUGH the red light by the officers in attendance.

As the road took us further away from the city it was possible to build up more speed and start to relax a little. Although our team had split up early in the piece, everyone seemed to be genuinely having a good time in the perfect riding conditions. The only jarring note was that, every few metres, I noticed riders on the side of the road repairing punctures. Surely this number was far higher than you could expect from pure statistical probabilities.

My initial aim had been to reach Queenscliff before 10 am and I was very pleased to be averaging just under 30 kph after the first two hours. It was so enjoyable to be able to join a peloton and just feed from their energy as they surged along. It was also a great opportunity to be able to chat to other cyclists as we rode side by side. The GHOST RIDERS name seems to be a great starting point for conversations.

It was only after I reached the outskirts of Geelong that my day started to go a little pear shaped. Although I was pedaling well, that familiar snaking feeling in the rear of the bike told me that I had joined the hundreds of other puncture victims. I had to leave the safety of the peloton that I had been cycling strongly with and pull out for the repair. This also put a dent in my 10 am aspirations.

A few minutes after I started the repair I was joined by Lothar who thoughtfully stopped to lend a hand. We were both anxious to get back on the road and struggled hard to get the new tube inserted and pumped up again as quickly as possible. About 10 minutes later we were packed up and trying to make up lost ground. Unfortunately I had only covered about 200m before I heard Lothar yell from behind "Dennis there is something wrong with your bike". That was when things took a rapid turn for the worse. It was beginning to look as if my day would be over almost before it had started.

Chapter Two.

No sooner had Lothar's warning cry passed his lips than the quiet air was riven by an ear splitting BANG. I knew at once that my worst fears had now been realised. This time my rear tube had burst with a vengeance. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of despair as I again walked to the side of the road - my former friendly peloton now several km ahead.

It was obvious what had happened. In my haste to repair the first puncture I had trapped a section of the tube between the rim and tyre, quickly resulting in a most spectacular herniating explosion. Lothar and I again tackled the repair job, this time a little more slowly and carefully (and with a degree less enthusiasm). I find that the hardest part of any repair is the pumping up afterwards, which can be more tiring than pedaling at 40 kph.

Eventually we had the bike reassembled and carefully checked for further problems and made our way back to the road again. After the long break it was hard to get the legs moving again and also hard to muster up the energy to make any sort of high speed chase to Queenscliff. Between the two punctures I had lost about 25 minutes. My concentration was also clouded by the fact that I now had no more spare tubes but still had another 130 km or so yet to ride. Any chance of arriving by 10 am was now lost, so I contented myself with a more leisurely pace along the remaining road to the ferry terminal.

Some of the long queue waiting for ferry tickets at Queenscliff

I finally pulled into Queenscliff at about 10.10 am and joined the long queue waiting for their ferry passes. We could be glad that the weather was so kind, or else this long wait would have been much harder to handle. Even with extra ferries running, by the time I made the front of the queue I was told that I would be on the 12.20 pm departure. This meant another 1 hr 45 mins wait in the park.

At least I was able to rejoin Lothar, Richard and Ross on the grass for the long wait. A little while later we were also joined by John and Trish. Our lunch packs contained an interesting mixture of goodies including some unlikely looking juice from a company called "Emma and Tom". Lothar looked at the dark green concoction in his bottle and was not sure whether he was meant to drink it or pour it on his bike chain. Fortunately it apparently tasted much better than it looked.

Ross looked at his juice with horror. It was labeled "Go Girl" and was especially formulated for the "specific needs of women". He appeared uncertain of whether to drink it or rub it on his hirsute legs, but eventually downed it in the hope that it might help him develop his feminine side. After all, anyone who is dressed in stretch lycra cannot seriously object to drinking a girl's drink.

As we lay in the warm sunshine it would have been easy to doze off while the clock ticked off the minutes with agonizing slowness. I was concerned that we might never get the legs moving after so long a break. On the other hand, it was certainly a spectacular sight to see the entire area covered by so many hundreds of cyclists, all with their fancy bikes and bright clothes.

Eventually the time came for us to move to the ferries and we saw the last group from Sorrento unloading. With an open boat and standing room only I could not help but think it looked like some weird variation on the Tampa. With no protection at all from the elements I guess the passengers should have been grateful that it wasn't cold or rainy.

Fortunately for me I was ushered onto the larger boat and left my bike with the hundreds of others haphazardly scattered all over the lower deck. I wondered how I would ever find it again as I made my way up to the enclosed passenger area. With so many hot and sweaty people standing in such an enclosed place I soon found the atmosphere a little denser than I could put up with and headed to a sheltered place outside.

It was at this time that I overheard one of the cyclists having a chat with some of the regular passengers. "I had to get up at 3.30 am this morning", they proudly informed their admiring listeners. I felt like interrupting and letting them know that some of us had been up since 1.45 am, but bit my tongue instead.

When we arrived at Sorrento it was a welcome opportunity to meet up with Libby and Linda who were waiting with our support cars. I was finally able to collect a new tube, properly inflate the rear tyre and top up my drinks and snacks before heading off on the final section to Melbourne.

My riding time to Queenscliff had been exactly 4 hours and I was hoping to make it back to Docklands in under 8 hours total time. Although this side of the Bay was slightly shorter I knew that there were more hills to be climbed and that my legs were significantly more tired. I soon discovered that the wind would also be in our faces for a lot of the ride back up the coast. Anyone could see this was not going to be easy.

Chapter Three

Duncan & Peter arrive at the Support vehicle at Sorrento

As we set off on the leg from Sorrento to Dromana the cyclists were spread out thinly over the entire length of the highway. This made it much more difficult to tuck in with a group that was riding at the right speed, resulting in having to ride long sections as a solo rider. Although the backside was starting to get a little tender my legs and back were feeling OK.

Ross and I were riding in close proximity until we reached Dromana, where we discovered the remains of the rider that used to be Daryl. He had obviously been through a tough time when we found him huddled in the bus shelter and rambling about the pains in his legs. I guess if he had been a horse he would have been immediately put down by a compassionate veterinary surgeon.

At this point I also decided that it would be a convenient opportunity to lighten some of the unnecessary fluid load and disappeared into the bushes for a call of nature. Ross, Richard and I then bid a sad adieu to Daryl before setting off on the remaining 70 km or so to Melbourne. We all were well aware of the looming climb up Mt Martha but tried to convince ourselves, after that, it was downhill all the way back to Melbourne.

Daryl starting to crumble under the pressure "My legs, my legs - I can't move my legs"

I would have loved a nice big peloton to merge into but at this point the pickings were getting slim. When I arrived at the long climb I noticed that many riders had decided to get off and walk up, but I was determined to get to the top under pedal power alone. Since we had ridden this road only a few weeks earlier I felt that I knew exactly what lay ahead and I am sure this is a big advantage at this point of the ride.

At the top I looked back and noticed that Ross and Richard were nowhere to be seen so I decided to keep going while I still had some strength left. Although I can't remember a lot of the ride to Frankston I do remember the feeling of relief I had when I made the final descent down Oliver's Hill into the Main St. I knew that there were no more significent climbs remaining to be conquered.

The worst part of the final 40 km was the repeated stops at traffic lights. It seemed to be a continual cycle of start, accelerate, then stop again. This really started to play havoc with my goal of finishing inside 8 hours and also saps the strength since you cannot get into any sort of steady rhythm. It did provide an opportunity to have some more brief conversations with some of the other cyclists. I was again surprised at how many people seem to have heard of the Ghost Riders.

It was about this time that I hit my own personal flat spot. I seemed to be riding for long distances by myself. The strengthening wind was not favourable and it was hard to stay focussed on the job that still lay ahead. My speed started to fall to about 25 kph as my motivation wavered. I think the main thought that helped me through this period was that I knew that Maggie and Estelle were waiting at South Rd and I was really looking forward to seeing them.

After this short period of feeling sorry for myself the adrenalin started pumping again and by the time I reached Brighton I was able to wave to our wives feeling really good. I was tempted to stop but was worried that I would never be able to start moving again. Only another 15 or so km to go. The traffic started to get really chaotic as we approached St Kilda, forcing the cyclists to weave between rows of parked and slowly moving cars. Wouldn't it be a terrible shame to have an accident at this late stage?

A glance down at the computer showed that I had passed 210 km with an elapsed time of 7 hrs 52 mins. The big problem was that I still had to make my way through the back roads to Docklands. By the time I finally rode across the finish line it was encouraging to see the large crowd that had gathered to offer applause and encouragement. I guess in the overall scheme of things it might not be a world changing achievement but for a brief moment it was possible to believe that all those finishing had summitted a personal Mt Everest.

It was also great to see that Peter and Duncan had waited for the rest of the team to finish. Lothar had also demonstrated that at 67 he still has enough stamina to outclass guys half his age. A glance down at the final computer reading indicated 8 hours and 1 minute ! Although technically I may not have broken the 8 hour barrier I could justify the shortfall by the fact that the course was actually longer than the promised 210km (213.78 km to be exact) and I had suffered 2 punctures which robbed me of valuable time and momentum.

Richard at Docklands, trying to regain feeling below the waist

About 15 minutes later Ross crossed the line, followed about 30 minutes later by Richard. A mobile call to John revealed that he was riding past Luna Park and determined to finish at all costs. We all decided that we had started as a team and would therefore finish as one. In spite of the goose bumps that were abundantly populating our arms and legs it was a tremendous feeling to be able to give John a cheer as he rode across the line. He had conquered the Bay in spite of the fact that he had been ill all day with Bronchitis.

In our first team entry in the Round the Bay Ride, the Warby Ghost Riders had acquitted themselves with distinction. As we sat on the grass and discussed the ride it was easy to forget the pain and take justifiable pride in our achievement. Perhaps it was surprising that the hardest part of the day was to get back on our bikes to ride the 3 km or so back to our parked cars.

As I drove back along Beach Rd in darkness I thought back to the start of the day when we arrived at Port Melbourne in similar dark conditions. So much had transpired since then. Apparently one rider had passed away during the ride, several others had seriously crashed, hundreds had punctures, but for every one of the 8000 or so entrants it had been a day to remember. I could still see many riders making their ways in the darkness, battered but still determined to cross the finish line. Every one of them was a winner in their own right.

After 214 km we are still smiling - Some of the Warby Ghost Riders Team after their triumphant arrival back at Docklands after the 2004 Around the Bay Ride. (October 17th 2004)

The 2004 Warby Ghost Riders Team: