So, to the third installment of superfluous narrative, this week concludes a meandering chronicle of base season and training camps. As alluded to in earlier remarks, annual ritual dictates descending on the endearingly sleepy town of South Golden Beach (SGB). This flood of lycra, legs and lactic acid attracts some quizzical glances from the locals, for many of whom ‘early morning training’ means a rail commute to work. However, most are quick to warm to us, none more so than the owner of the local corner shop, whose vehicle has upgraded from a Pulsar to a Porsche on the back of copious post-ride milkshake sales. Another memorable interaction with the municipal citizens came mid-run, when our route of choice happened upon mid-afternoon party in full swing. Amid the cat-calls and intellectuals favorite ‘run, Forest, run’, we were soon joined by a stark naked party-goer, who ran with us with instinctive style and distinctive flailing... and not just of his limbs. The attention to detail, such as his compadre driving his car alongside to hand out an isotonic beverage, would have made the scene even more memorable, had the image of a nude-fully-grown man running at 4 minute km already been burnt into our retinas for weeks to come.
Alas, our whilst the large proportion of my reflections of our southerly sojourn’s consist of hard training, beautiful rides and unrelenting banter, there have less jovial times. Our time last year preceded the floods of Brisbane, and consisted of the type of weather that would have had Noah reaching for the tools once more. Whilst none on camp are opposed to singularly sodden cycle every now and again, the dangers inherent of such pastimes came to surface last year. After a week of prevailing precipitation, it was business (and rain) as usual on a 4 hr ride heading north towards the QLD border. By this time, most of our cast had taken to toting the majority of their swim gear whilst riding, being as much use in the meteorology mayhem as in the pool. As our bunch trudged north, good mate and SGB stalwart Jimmy Seear had the bizarre misadventure of hitting a snake on the road. Unfortunately, given the roads had about as much grip as a watermelon seed on a tiled floor, Jimmy’s back wheel slid out from underneath him, and he hit the deck, and thus both the effectiveness of the pace-line, and Jimmy’s collarbone, was broken. Not wishing Jimmy to crash alone, I promptly cannoned into his bike and threw myself with a rugby-like flair onto the ground, and in the process turned my knee into the anatomical equivalent of peak hour traffic. i.e exceedingly irritating with no apparent progress ahead. This would lead, Butterfly Effect style, to a series of consequences that would have me competing about as effectively celiac in a donut eating contest for the rest of the season. Fortunately, the snake was treated for it’s injuries at the scene and recovered well, needing only minor physio in the weeks to come. Interestingly, the phone conversation that evening with a severely medicated Jimmy made a fascinating case study on what strong drugs coupled with a man with high natural exuberance can do. The man was, and always has, the sort of positivity that would make a positron jealous.
So, as this column is penned, I’ll have a few more weeks enjoying the fruits of what Brisbane has to offer a sufficiently aspiring athlete, and then head down the Pacific Motorway for another installments of laughter, long rides, and hopefully for fans of the blog, literary musings. Be sure to check back before then to get your fix of antiquated anecdotes and nauseating narrative.
For those of you desperate for a exhaustive analysis of current training regimes, I have training well recently. Sometimes this involves riding my bike. Sometimes when I ride my bike, I endeavor to capture art-house-ish photos that would no doubt have Andy Warhol turning in his grave. Never-the-less, I choose to share said image, for your ocular enjoyment.
Take care friends
Willy.
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