March 26th to 28th 2004
The Annual Wangaratta to Harrietville Classic

DAY ONE:

With the late withdrawal of Mal “The Whippet” Doswell and with “Crasher” Lewis in the twilight of his once illustrious cycling career, it was very difficult to predict who would be wearing the coveted yellow jersey at the end of the 2004 Wangaratta to Harrietville Cycling Classic. Perhaps it would be the turn for “Bunker Buster” O’Grady to produce the result that some of his supporters had been long hoping for (instead of spending his effort on producing emissions his friends have learned to dread), or maybe even “Spanner” Billson, with his new slicks, would put on a blistering turn of speed that would forever stamp his name on the event.

Such thoughts were secondary in my mind in the days leading up to this famous event. Of much more immediate interest was the weather forecast for the North Eastern region of Victoria. After the torrential washout that decimated the peloton in the 2003 ride, all riders and their crews were hoping for a fine and clear weekend. As the time drew closer it became clear that rain would not be a problem, but that a blazing sun and hot head winds could easily pose an equally sinister challenge.

Although ten riders had signed up for this extreme endurance event, one of these would be starting with a significant handicap. Terrified that he might miss the vital sale of a valve cap if he closed the door to his shop early, “Legs” Warren made the brave decision to ride from Wangaratta about 6 hours after the rest of the peloton were on their way. "I should be able to overtake them on the climb over the Gap" he predicted.

Bob and Fran had the honour of arriving at the motel earliest on Friday, soon followed by myself and Maggie. I had already made the most of the trip by spending some money in Dean Woods’ cycle shop. Bob had made the most of his early arrival by terrorizing the gentle brown dog that welcomed guests to the motel. The poor creature was so traumatized that it will be requiring canine counseling for many months to come.

By the time that Warren and John had arrived there was a groundswell of interest for a short ride to explore some of the surrounding streets. As I ran to grab my lycras and the Cannondale I could not help but think that this was FAR more fun than Christmas. Five minutes later we were headed back down the Main St towards the lure of the bright lights of Dean Woods' bike shop. John spent a lot of time examining the shiny new lycra, but eventually his courage deserted him and all he purchased was a set of bar ends for his handlebars. Bob spent his shopping time discussing how much it would cost to replace his damaged changers. "Probably $800 or so", the friendly salesperson ventured, "but for someone of your age you could get an extra discount with your Senior's Card".

After the thrill of being surrounded by so many shiny new bikes we reluctantly saddled up and started to head back to the motel. Within 5 metres I realised that my front tyre was completely flat. This was not how it was meant to be be. I had never had a puncture on a Cannondale before and I began to suspect an evil act of sabotage could be the explanation. Back in the motel room I examined the tube and discovered a small pin hole. The tube was soon replaced but I could not easily dismiss the lingering feeling of foreboding. Was this a bad omen for the ride ahead? Time alone would tell.

As the afternoon progressed more and more of the crews found their way to their rooms. Much time was spent carefully unpacking and assembling bicycles and assigning chores and directions to the support crews. After the long drive from Melbourne we were all starting to feel hungry and eagerly looking forward to a hearty meal at the restaurant that Warren had recommended to us. “You must try out D’Amicos”, he said. “You won’t forget it!”, he promised. (He was right – we won’t)

I had already made a booking for 18 hungry riders and partners and by 7.30 pm I was feeling hungry enough to eat my own bike seat. Although Steve and Jenny would not be arriving till 10 pm, the rest of the group were ready and waiting to head off. At the appointed time of 7.45pm we noisily took our places at the large table and proceeded to study the menu. The waitress carefully took our orders and left us to wait for the meals to be served.

Enduring the excrutiating 2 hour wait for dinner at D'Amicos in Wangaratta

By 8.30 pm we noticed that there had been no action on the meals front, and precious little action on the drinks front either. “I wonder how much longer our dinner will be” I queried, as my tummy grumbled loudly. “Shouldn’t be much longer” Warren answered.

At 8.45 pm we finally had some belated action from the kitchen. Unfortunately it was not our main courses, but a couple of plates of pizza bread. The next half hour was passed with these two meager plates being passed from one end of the table to the other. The associated commentary was riveting – “This one’s garlic bread” someone would say. “That one’s herb”, someone would reply. With only a morsel of bread and a small sip of warm water to satisfy our bodily needs, it was not surprising that some of the less couth members of our group were starting to verge on rioting.

“Where’s my %&*$#@ meal” Richard yelled at the waitress, as she tried to justify why it is not unusual to wait almost 2 hours to get fed. “Your orders were very complicated for the chef”, she ventured. Apparently the restaurant is not used to having real customers and when 16 people actually arrived at the same time it sent them desparately looking for a cook book and an open supermarket.

With the clock nearing 10 pm the meals slowly started to arrive at the table. The delivery of each meal was preceded by a loud “ding” from the kitchen, presumably indicating that the microwave timer had signaled another cooked meal. The actual food was very good, although by this time of night we had forgotten what we had originally ordered, and would probably have been happy to eat dog food.

Considering the excessively sluggish work output from the kitchen staff, I made the suggestion that maybe it would be in order if we received a discount on the price of the desserts. “Certainly Not!”, the shocked waitress replied. It was not surprising that 16 people rose to their feet and went off in search of a more efficient eatery. After all, we were not prepared to wait another 2 hours for our desserts to be served. As elite athletes, we had to rise early in the morning to ride the trail.

Ten minutes later we were all happily seated in La Porchetta’s where the kitchen staff were apparently not trained at the Motionless Cooking Academy, and managed to have us all served within 15 minutes. I guess this all shows where we will NOT be eating next time we return to Wang.

With our stomachs finally filled it was nice to be able to retire to our rooms for some sleep before the long hours in the hard saddles we would all be facing tomorrow. The only problem was that the mattresses had apparently been constructed by Selle Italia – the famous maker of bicycle seats. As I tried to maneuver my backside into a comfortable sleeping position I was mentally moving my feet, looking for the cleated pedals at the foot of the bed. I had not anticipated getting a sore rear end BEFORE I had actually climbed on the Cannondale.

With the “firm” mattress, the excitement of the next day’s ride and the added contribution of the garlic bread that was bubbling around somewhere deep in my insides, sleep did not come easily. By 3 am I was walking around looking for a drink of water and taking another loving look at the beauty lying by my side. At home the Cannondale has to live in the cellar under the house, so it was very comforting to see it now, right next to the bed. I somehow managed to grab another couple of hours sleep before the first hint of daylight had me dressed in lycra and pacing around the room ready to start.

DAY TWO

An anxious look out the door at the early morning sky revealed a sight to gladden any cyclist’s heart. The dawn was crystal clear, without a breath of wind or the smallest hint of a cloud. As I gazed at the lightening Eastern horizon I could not help but stir with excitement at the thought of what lay ahead in the hours to follow.

Another anxious look around also revealed that all my fellow lycra wearers were all still apparently firmly ensconced in the mythical land of Nod. I had been confident that surely old Crasher Lewis would have been out doing warm up laps by the light of his car headlights. Or maybe Super Hooters Seamons would have been installing a new bank of batteries to his bike amplifier. Not even the ever reliable “Turn Left” Bury was out exercising his Giant TCR in the cool morning air. Although it was still an hour before the scheduled assembly time I had hoped that I might have witnessed a little more enthusiasm than this.

I decided to use the time wisely by completing a series of precisely executed circuits of the car park and I soon noticed my efforts were not wasted. Within a few minutes I was being watched by a small group of elderly residents. They were obviously not used to seeing such a fine specimen of Australian manhood riding a thoroughbred bicycle at such speed and stood openmouthed in wonder each time I went by. Either that or they were more concerned that I would lose control and go careering into the side of their expensive cars.

At 8 am the first of the other Ghost Riders started to rouse from their nocturnal hibernations. It was great to see the blossoming of a new peloton as each rider emerged from their respective rooms, brightly decked in the prized yellow jersey. One by one they began preparing their bikes and trying to warm up aged legs by wobbling around the bitumen. By this time I was already well warmed up and eager to get started.

One rider was still missing however – old Crasher Lewis. In spite of being the reigning KWT, he was still obviously clothed in his teddy bear PJs and hiding under the warm bedspread. I angrily banged on his door a few times and finally managed to coax him into something resembling semi-consciousness.

The peloton assembled at the start of Day One

At 8.30 am all riders were finally assembled and ready to pose for the obligatory group photo. Then it was a case of mount up and ride into history. As I took my position at the front of the nine riders, it was indeed a proud moment as we rode slowly down the Main St of Wangaratta towards the start of the trail. Although I had expected a few hundred spectators to be lining the streets to watch us on our way, it was nevertheless quite peaceful as we glided down the empty road in single file majesty.

Soon we were on the actual trail and managing to hold something approaching a tight formation. It was important to make sure that we did not have any early bolters, as the plan was to ride together until we reached Everton Station. John had unique plans of his own. “I will ride as far as Bowser, then get a lift up to Beechworth” he said. “There is no point in doing extreme exercise, since I am a SOCIAL rider” he stressed as he tooted his hooters.

Under the clear blue sky this was as close as you can get to cycling heaven. The air was fresh and cool, there was no wind, and the path was dead flat. Little wonder that everyone was in high spirits and so excited that, after months of planning, we were finally on our way. Warren, equipped with his smooth new tyres, seemed to be enjoying the reduced friction under his wheels.

Within a few minutes Bowser was reached and passed. John reminded Warren that this was where they were meant to stop. “You’ve got to be kidding, I’ve only just got going”, Warren emphatically answered, as he gradually increased his speed. John looked shocked but now had no choice but to keep going.

Assembled on the bridge near Everton

After a brief stop on a bridge for some more pictures the entire peloton was soon exploring Everton Station. Steve wanted to make a mobile phone call but found that the only way he could get reception was to climb up the stink pipe on the top of the toilet block, while the rest of us all raised our arms in the air to help attract the radio waves to him. This was pioneering cycling at it’s most rugged. I wonder if Burke and Wills had such hardships to contend with?

It was at this point that John forcefully announced that he and Warren would NOT be riding up to Beechworth, but would seek the solace of their support limousine, and then meet us at the Beechworth Bakery. This left seven riders, brave and true, to undertake the 17 km ascent up to the Beechworth Plateau. I led the way with the other six riders close behind. Although I have done this climb twice before I knew that it did take a serious effort and, near the top, you are teased with a couple of false crests, before the final slight descent to Beechworth Station.

Steve searching for elusive mobile phone reception at Everton (The "Bermuda Triangle" for Electronic Communications)

The best way is to simply choose a suitable gear and then just grind away at a steady cadence. It is a mistake to keep changing gears or speed and only serves to tire you out quicker. I could hear Ross and Daryl close behind as the incline started to grow. It was about this time that I noticed a large black snake slithering across the trail just a few feet in front of me. About 6 feet or so in length, I was glad that I had not run over the beast. I slowed down to let the following riders know of the danger, but, by the time they approached, the scaly reptile had disappeared into the long grass.

A few km further on Daryl dropped back a short distance, while Ross pulled up alongside to lend me some company. It was in this fashion that we gradually conquered the remainder of the climb and still had some energy left over for a short sprint to the finish line at Beechworth.

We all made it as far as Everton (even John)

At the Bakery the support crew had managed to thoughtfully reserve some tables in full sun, just in case we were feeling cold after the long climb up the mountain. As I sat there with sweat pouring from my face I searched for a little shade. My efforts were repaid when a gust of wind caught the sun blind and the heavy wooden beam at the base whacked me right on the top of the head. I did not realise I should have left my helmet on while drinking my cappuccino!

We were soon joined by Duncan and Bob, although Richard and Steve were still a little further back. It was so good to see that Duncan had made it all the way to the top without lifting his heart rate over 120 per minute. (My own rate had been hovering somewhere over 220, but I think that was because I had not fitted the detector correctly). It looks like the old Duncan is well and truly back.

Ross waiting for the rest of the peloton at Everton (in the middle of the Bicycle Bermuda Triangle)

When Richard and Steve finally made it, they looked a little the worse for wear, but I think we were all impressed by the fact that they had persevered in pushing the two heaviest bikes all the way to the top. They had certainly earned a coffee or two, and could soon enjoy the high speed descent, all the way back down again to Everton. On the other hand, John and Warren were already enjoying their cakes, although they had done absolutely nothing to earn them.

The downhill ride is always exhilarating, and often accompanied by yells of triumph, and this one was no exception. It is great to be able to reach the bottom in about 25 minutes, after the 50 minutes or so it takes to complete the climb. After the sharp left hand turn at Everton we headed off to the next scheduled stop at Myrtleford for lunch.

With the sun higher in the sky and the steady climb over the Gap we were all starting to feel the effects of our pedaling. The peloton started to elongate over several km as the thought of a long relaxing lunch on the cool grass overrode any pelotonic discipline previously exercised. Apart from the fact that I took a wrong turn upon entering Myrtleford (and hence completed an extra couple of km), I was thoroughly enjoying my new bike and still felt quite strong.

Relaxing in the Park at Myrtleford

It is always a refreshing sight to see our support crews waiting for us, especially when they are the suppliers of our lunches. I was also pleasantly surprised to discover that the grass in the park had obviously been watered regularly and was a luxuriant shade of green. What a terrific feeling it was to take off the riding shoes and lie down in the shade, while Maggie wiped my brow, massaged my legs and fed me sandwiches and cool drinks. (Or maybe I was hallucinating?)

Although John and Warren made it to Myrtleford there was no sign of Richard or Steve (or their support crews). Surely they could not have befallen some disaster between Everton and the Gap? Maybe one of them had been bitten by another monstrous snake? Possibly a broken hip from a high speed fall? A derailleur through the spokes of the rear wheel?

As it turned out, we later discovered that they had decided on their own special detour and had been seduced by the temptation of a large winery by the side of the trail. While we were waiting at Myrtleford, they were busily enjoying the fruits of the vine, casting aside their bikes to languish in the hot sun. When I finally managed to contact Richard on his mobile, he cheerily informed me that they would meet us at Bright.

Although I had originally toyed with the idea of riding on to Harrietville, by the time we arrived at Bright I was ready for a rest and a shower. Ross and I rode the final few km together and then met up with Daryl near Bright Station. The three of us rode to the motel and were thankful to be finally able to give our backsides a well earned rest.

The High Country Inn is indeed a very welcome sight after a long ride. The central grassy courtyard and swimming pool is a natural magnet for tired riders and support crews to meet and talk over the events of the past day. What makes lasting friendships ? I believe that shared experiences accompanied by lots of laughing, really helps to bring people together. That is one reason why these riding weekends are such a great tonic for us all.

Some time later John arrived at the motel with a cry of triumph. “I’ve just ridden over 100km for the day”, he announced to the entire neighbourhood. “It’s a pity I won’t be able to sit down for a month though”. Apparently the only mishap he suffered was when he had a puncture and didn’t know how to fix it. Bob stopped to help and even let John ride the coveted Plastic Fantastic for a few km, while he fixed the tube. While John appreciated the help, he apparently had trouble adapting to Bob's ultra thin seat and couldn’t figure out how to change gears. No wonder his rearmost regions were severely abraded.

Eventually Richard and Steve wobbled into the Motel. Richard was wearing a new series of scratches over his legs, apparently scored when riding out of the winery. “I wearly jon’t noo fot harpenned” he slurred as he explained how he rode straight into the side of Libby’s bike and came crashing to the ground, just as they were leaving.

It was about this time that Peter made his triumphant entry into Bright. After leaving Melbourne at 12.45 pm, he and Joan had driven directly to Wangaratta where Peter had set out on a solo transit. With his giant calves pumping and his highest gear selected, he had churned across the entire Rail Trail in a non-stop effort that will forever go down in the annals of self flagellation. When he finally rolled into the Motel at somewhere near 6.00 pm he was completely delirious, imagining that he had just won the Tour de France. As he was carried from his bike, his legs kept slowly turning like the gargantuan propellers from the Queen Mary.

Editor's Note - to read Peter's account of this day - click here

Enjoying the fun at the Porepunkah Pub but watch out for the Iron Maiden!

I had already made a booking for 20 people at the Porepunkah Pub and I think that most had already decided to try the legendary Lemon Meringue Pie. When we arrived and were directed to our tables a quick look around at those who had already been served showed clearly that this was a restaurant where the servings were more than generous. After our unfortunate experience at D’Amicos the night before, we wanted nothing more than to be served within a reasonable period of time.

Whereas D’Amicos had taken almost two hours to serve the first meal, it was a refreshing surprise to find the first meals served within 10 minutes of ordering. As the giant steaks began to be loaded onto the tables we began to see why this establishment ran so well. It was being ruled by a vivacious blonde who soon showed herself to be a real Iron Maiden. Anyone who gave the slightest hint of being difficult was immediately put back in their place by a boisterous rejoinder administered with speed and genuine wit.

In spite of Bob’s stated wish to be satiated with a lavish serve of pie, he was dismayed to find that, when his time came to be served, he had been given little more than a white stain on his plate, garnished with a sprig of parsley. As the rest of our party enjoyed their ample lashings of cream and strawberries, Bob looked wistfully down at the sorry sight before him. Although he looked like a child who had dropped his ice-cream, he was scared to open his mouth for fear of dire retribution from the Queen of the Kitchen.

Bob asks for a "slice of lemon" with his lemon meringue stain

Eventually his patience was rewarded when he received his just desserts and, when all our tummies were full we set off back to Bright in search of a coffee shop. I was somewhat surprised by the attitude of the owner of the first place we stopped at. When he insisted that we all sit down, place all our orders at once, and refused to split the bill, we could see that he was not really interested in our business. Fortunately we found a more accommodating establishment just up the road where we enjoyed some more laughs while we had our cappuccinos.

It was at this time I shared my vision that we start Sunday’s ride from Harrietville, a further 25 km or so up the road. I had anticipated an enthusiastic response from my fellow Ghost Riders and was more than a little disappointed when my proposal seemed to fall on unsympathetic ears. “Ross, surely I can rely on you to keep me company”, I implored. “Don’t be ridiculous”, he countered. I could not help but feel that I must have overrated some of these guys in my estimation, and went back to the Motel thinking that I would have to face the unknown on my own.

With a soft bed and the tiredness from having ridden about 130 km, sleep did not take long to overtake me and I passed a long night dreaming of things bicycular. Because of the end of daylight savings I would not have to start the next day until an hour later than usual.

DAY THREE

On the final day of our adventure I was awakened by the alarm going off at 6 am. Although I was still tired from the previous day’s riding I dragged myself from my dreams and started to prepare for my solo ride from Harrietville. I still harbored uncharitable thoughts about my comrades who were probably planning to enjoy another 2 hours restful sleep.

I was pleased to see that that my jersey had dried from its wash the previous evening, so I could at least look professional as I rode the High Country Roads. The support crew was not so easy to rouse, in fact she seemed downright intractable as I tried to prise her from the mattress. How can someone so skinny, weigh so much ?

By 7 o’clock I had finally woken her up and dragged her off to the dining room for breakfast. As we entered the room we were treated to a truly amazing spectacle –there were all the other Ghost Riders and their partners, dressed and ready and already enjoying their massive breakfasts. My faith in the Warbies was restored as I realised that they had decided to accompany me after all.

With the weather forecast for somewhere in the lows 30s and a strengthening wind it was important that we get started without delay, so we were soon heading in convoy up towards Harrietville. I had promised them that the ride would be downhill all the way back to Bright, so I was a little apprehensive when I found that we seemed to be going downhill in the car, just as often as we were climbing.

As we got out of the cars I was beset with complaints. “I thought this was meant to be downhill”, Daryl moaned. “It looks terrible to me”, Ross added. “I should still be in bed”, Bob whined. “I’m not doing it”, Duncan decided. “Why do we do this?”, John queried. “Let’s get going”, Peter suggested. I was glad to see that I had at least one keen rider to join me.

The convoy arrives at Harrietville for the start of the feared Alpine Stage

The fact of the matter is that the next 25 km were probably the highlight of the weekend. With the quiet roads and the still morning air it was delightful to be able to cruise along at over 30 kph with the towering mountains around us on both sides. Due to their losing battles with Doswell’s Disorder*, Bob, Daryl and Peter shot off into the distance, leaving the remainder of the peloton spread out along the highway. Ross and I rode together, while John carried the Red Lantern.

About 50 minutes later we were back at the motel for a final rest before checking out and heading off to Wangaratta. At this stage we learnt that Richard and Steve would not be completing the return ride, but had decided to go 4 wheel driving instead. Since Warren had already left for Melbourne in the middle of the night, we were reduced to 7 riders for the final section of the ride.

Since the weekend had proved such a success I made the decision to book the motel for the same weekend in 2005, so we already have something to look forward to. As the temperature began to rise we filed out of the entrance and along the road for the final time. I think that we were all enjoying ourselves so much that no-one wanted to break the peloton and we managed to maintain some discipline (at least as far as Porepunkah). It was at this stage that another attack of Doswell’s Disorder sent Duncan and Bob scurrying off into the distance.

After an hour or so of frenetic pedaling I arrived at Myrtleford where I sensed the beginnings of a rebellion among the support crew. “Where’s my lunch?”, I asked as I pulled into the park. “Go get it yourself”, came the somewhat unexpected reply. “We’ve been charging around all weekend looking after you guys, and we’ve done enough”, Maggie explained.

Suitably chastised, I bought our lunches and settled down to another leisurely lie down on the soft grass. When John arrived he informed us that he had completed a “sensible” weekend’s ride, and would therefore be going no further. After all, he is apparently just a “social” rider. The final peloton was thus reduced to 6 riders.

It was hard to get the legs moving again after a long break, although we all knew that Wangaratta was still about 50 km away. On top of this we still had one final climb to conquer. Although we wanted to reach Wang, I am also sure that none of us really wanted the weekend to end.

Bob soon decided that he would have to “protect Daryl” by doing a bolter. As we watched Bob and Daryl race to the horizon we knew that they were suffering a combination of sunstroke and the DDs. I also suspect that Bob still had some hope of trying to challenge Peter’s new record for the shortest time between Wang and Bright.

It was pleasing to see that Peter had decided to stay back and protect the rest of us by doing long leads into the ever increasing head wind. With the temperature now hovering around 33C the final 30 km seemed to go on forever. It is impossible for me to remember much other than sitting mesmerised for long periods in the saddle watching Peter’s huge legs relentlessly pounding over.

A water fight at Everton Station brought some temporary relief from the heat, but the sun soon sucked the moisture from our jerseys. The final few km were accompanied by a countdown – 10 km to go, 9 km, 8 km, 7 km, Bowser (Hooray), through the tunnel (“It’s all over!”), 3 km, 2km, 1 km, turn left into the Main Road of Wangaratta. Then try to find the waiting support crew. Where the heck are they? Ride back and forth around the streets. Finally collapse off the bike with a shout of relief.

As I lay exhausted on the grass with my backside in tatters, I began to think that maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. “Wasn’t that great?”, I asked Ross. “Yes, it wasn’t”, he replied. “I can’t wait till next year, we will probably start at Mount Hotham for the return ride”, I suggested.

“Next year in Wangaratta!”, was the triumphant cry of the Ghost Riders.

Footnote:
*Doswell’s Disorder (also known as the DDs), a complete inability to ride with any sort of discipline, resulting in sufferers bolting off ahead of the peloton and ignoring all previous riding instructions.

Final Question:
And who earned the right to wear the Yellow Jersey ?
Was it Richard or Steve who rode their mountain bikes up to Beechworth ?
Was it John who rode over 100km on Saturday?
Was it Duncan for riding over 200 km with his new heart?
Was it Ross for changing his mind and riding from Harietville after all?
Was it Daryl or Bob for setting a new record time from Myrtleford to Wang?
Was it Warren for setting a new personal best distance for a single day's ride?
Was it me for riding a greater distance over the weekend than anyone else?

Answer:
Although I think we all earned a yellow jersey for one reason or another I think the overall award must go to Peter for his amazing solo ride on Saturday afternoon and for his decision to forego personal glory on Sunday and stay with his mates. How can we forget his long pushes into the searing head wind on the way back to Wang? Well done Peter - you are a true legend!

It's all over until we meet again at Wangaratta for 2005 - let's hope for another record peloton.