There have been pub rides and there have been pub rides and special events – The Vic, Little Creatures, Chez Paddles, Swan Yacht Club, Chez Gaz & Mrs Gaz and Chez O’Dirty in July, but to name a few. All sensational evenings, every one of them. But from my point of view, Boab and I were fortunate to experience the best pub ride so far on the weekend of November 11 – 13, 2011.

It all began with some confusion, nonetheless. Mrs Gaz has been using my mobile phone recently and missed a call just after Melbourne Cup Day and when she listened to the message she was beside herself with confusion and excitement. Confusion because I hadn’t told her I’d entered an online competition and excitement because when she called back, Paula from Cycling Australia confirmed that we’d won a trip for two to the Jayco Australian Cyclist of the Year Awards on Friday 11 November, with a pair of Scody knicks, a Scody jersey, tickets to the awards, airfares and one night’s accommodation thrown in.  You bewdy!  Mrs Gaz thought the call was from Skoda although Paula confirmed that it was definitely Scody. Mrs Gaz had also asked Paula if this was some kind of joke, to which Paula replied it most definitely is not. I guess I should have told Mrs Gaz I’d entered the competition!

Skoda, Scody, who cares, we’re off to Sydney! There was lots of excitement around checking out where the hotel was, what we should wear to the big night, and do I (i.e., Mrs Gaz) need to buy new shoes, and should we stay in Sydney longer? Sadly, it was gradually tempered by my step-daughter’s year 12 exam schedule and, predominantly, the paralyzing fear that grips Mrs Gaz whenever we talk planes – a massive fear of flying. Mrs Gaz has braved trips to Adelaide and Melbourne before and made it back in one piece, which couldn’t always be said for my forearm when we took off and landed (and flew in a straight line), but the thought of a four-hour flight to Sydney, plus the threats of Qantas being silly buggers pushed her over the line and onto the self-appointed reserve bench.

I desperately wanted my darling to come with me but after much deliberation and more can I, can’t I, wringing of hands, gnashing of teeth, checks of the long-range weather forecast and seating charts on Virgin A330 planes, she told me I should consider bringing a fellow cycling nut off the bench and into the race. A call to Boab sealed the deal in seconds flat. Emails back and forth to Cycling Australia got all the paperwork sorted and the team list was updated. Out: Mrs Gaz; in: Boab.

I won the trip through entering an online competition on the Cycling Australia website that asked you to nominate who you thought would win the Scody People’s Choice Award. Naturally I thought of Boab as he’s had a stellar year and is clearly the form rider of the Coglioni and Saturday morning Bike Force mobs. Mind you, Stuey was a close second because of his Golden Goolies win and recent blistering, Tommy Voeckler-inspired breakaways up Anketell Rd on Saturdays, none of which have come to fruition, sadly.  When neither of these names appeared on the list, I chose Cadel Evans and that proved to be good luck.

Cycling Australia was very helpful and accommodating the whole way through, although we were required by Scody to pay extra for the privilege of catching a return flight on Sunday night instead of what they’d nominated in the fine print of the terms and conditions, which was a return at 0600hrs on Saturday morning, the very next morning after the awards night. Regardless of that we were happy to sign on for an extra day and a half at our own expense. Mrs Gaz set about looking up things for two MAMILs (middle-aged men in lycra) to do while on the loose in Sydney and soon a rough itinerary was born. The highlight of the schedule looked to be the Harbour Bridge Climb and it certainly didn’t let us down.

We were booked on the 0545hrs flight from Perth to Sydney on Friday 11 November, which meant no weekend rides for either of us. Boab and Arnie did the Bike Force Tuesday shop ride route into town on Thursday morning instead, and I believe Arnie was dished out some pain by Boab who was keen to get some serious work into his legs before we left. Mrs Gaz had booked us great seats near the front of the plane but being a Virgin flight, there was no entertainment or food. Nevertheless, we’d packed some cycling staples – Up & Go, muesli bars, lollies, homemade slice, water and the latest bike mags. I’d also thrown in some Elmo sanitary hand-wipes, as they were the only ones we could find the night before. Coupled with my stepdaughter’s suitcase, I felt sure I’d be dragged to Oxford St and dumped by the taxi there, but thankfully that didn’t eventuate.

Boab’s Tojo pulled up to my house at 0400hrs and we were airport bound. Our first stop was the long-term parking bay and as we boarded the bus to the terminal Boab made serious rumblings about holding onto the car park ticket at all costs. After we bought two of the hottest coffees ever made, our scalded mouths and we walked onto the plane and fastened our belts.

In three and a half hours we were touching down in Sin City, ready to take in the sights and meet some of Australian cycling’s elite.  Unbeknown to me some surreptitious email negotiations had taken place between Mrs Gaz and Paula from Cycling Australia, who agreed to try and introduce us to Cadel on the night; if not, at least to the other big names who’d be there. We were pumped to say the least. Mrs Gaz had printed out for each of us photos of riders she’d taken at the last two Tours Down Under and we slipped them into our jacket pockets along with a Sharpie pen each, ready for an all-out autograph assault. Bring on 7pm.

We found our hotel and checked in with some trepidation. Both of us were thinking it but I spluttered it to the receptionist – “are there two beds in our room? Please make sure there are two beds, we asked for that.” We were in Sydney after all, but this was one occasion where the phrase ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans do’ was not going to fly. We opened the door and gave a stereophonic sigh of relief – two double bends awaited us. Boab was like a little kid and said, “I’ve got the one near the window” and ran to jump on it. It reminded me of the scene from Step Brothers when Will Ferrell and John C Reilly ask their parents if they can make bunk beds out of two single beds.

We had a few hours to fill so we took a stroll to recon where the awards night was going to be held and then a visit to Circular Quay and The Rocks, which was only 10 minutes away. Sensational! It was a beautiful afternoon, just the kind to give you a thirst for a cold beer. At a pub at The Rocks we knocked back two schooners each of Tooheys Old and they really hit the spot. On our way back to the hotel we passed the remnants of a wedding and two older Italian fellas offered us up some leftovers from the platters of pizza they were trying to put a dent in. It was some of the best lamb pizza we’d ever tasted! Must have been from Corrigin or Muka.

We got ourselves spruced up in no time and we hit the pavement to the fashionable Ivy Room.  We took our cameras and this proved to be fortuitous, as we’ll see later on. We made our acquaintance to Paula from Cycling Australia who told us she’d try to introduce us to Cadel later in the evening and off we went to celebrity spot. There wasn’t quite the number of big names we were expecting but the guest list was impressive – Cadel, Anna Meares, CJ Sutton, Nathan Haas, Matt White, the SBS crew and MC for the evening, Daniel McPherson. Among those on our table were Henk Vogels Snr and his wife Mary. Henk was great fun and regaled us with lots of stories about Henk Jr, his own long involvement in cycling, including his racing days back in the 1960s and how he now takes it easy these days, doing only 250 – 300km per week on the bike. He also said he often motors along Mounts Bay Rd at 50kph plus. As the night went on, the stories got more colorful. Still, he hadn’t heard of the Saturday morning exploits up Anketell Rd or the Coglioni crew on Kalamunda Rd. Maybe it’s his age?

Boab and I did our own bit of camera snapping as stars entered the venue. We held back on the beers until dinner even though free Becks was beckoning, and lots of it, but we had the Harbour Bridge Climb planned for the next morning and needed to be below .05 to be able to do it. Dinner was a gastronomic delight – a crab salad for entrée, a choice of baked cod or veal for main and a mouth-watering white chocolate mousse and passion fruit cream for dessert. Calories galore, but we didn’t give a stuff.  Anketell Rd would still be waiting for us next week.

The proceedings rolled along well with heaps of awards handed out between courses. The highlights were Anna Meares’s speeches, Cadel winning the Oppy Trophy and Jayme Paris-Richardson’s stint at the podium. She is a para-cyclist and had the audience in stitches (and tears) with her stories about overcoming her afflictions to get off training wheels, riding on the track, falling off, eventually making it onto the steep boards without toppling over then finally achieving a bronze medal recently in Beijing.  The biggest moment of all, however, occurred when we staged an assault on Cadel’s table. Firstly, Boab did a decoy run and took up a photo of Cadel to be signed. Cadel was finishing off a bit of dinner so Boab asked Cadel’s wife, Chiara, if she would mind passing it on to Cadel for signing when convenient. Boab hung back a bit until the great man had put his moniker on the photo, then a couple of minutes later I tried the same trick. Thankfully Cadel wasn’t distracted by food this time but he made an astute observation, saying, “Isn’t this the same one I just signed?” The best I could do was blabber out “Er, yep, but my wife took this one and that’s the back of my head just there, see?” Cadel was probably wondering how I got a leave pass from the asylum for the night but at least he signed my photo.

Next up was dessert and we gorged it down like animals, planning another assault on the Evans table. Damn, he keeps talking to his mum! We thought we’d wait until his passion fruit mousse was history then saunter up again. Bugger! Looks like some old crusties have beaten us to it. Maybe wait another couple of minutes.  Geez, look at the time, they’ve only got a few awards left, we’ve got to do it soon. Next thing I know Boab is doing what he does every Saturday morning – putting in the hard yards and leading from the front. Up he goes and heads towards the Evans party; I’d better follow him, but as usual I can barely keep up. As we approach the table the crowd clears like clouds parting to reveal the top of the Tourmalet in July. It’s Evans, vulnerable, sitting and chatting to his wife. Could this be the moment? Boab senses it is and pulls along side Cadel, but shit, he’s left his camera at the table. Never mind, here I come puffing and blowing but I have my camera with me. We interrupt Cadel and his wife and ask her if she would mind taking a photo of us with her husband. She’s maybe heard that question countless times before but she is very polite and obliging. We assume the position then snap, it’s all over. Boab and I wish the great man all the best for the future, and forget to ask him if he wants a social membership of CC Coglioni, then move away from the area. There are others who want to move into the esteemed place we just occupied.

On a high, we head back to our table like two giggling schoolboys. Boab thinks he may have wet his pants with all the excitement and so do I, but it’s a false alarm.  (We had Ten-a-men pants on anyhow.) Feeling unstoppable we decide to try our luck again and head towards the table of the other star of the night, Anna Meares.  This time Boab has his camera and takes a happy snap of Anna and me. She is as nice, polite and as genuine as Cadel. Lo and behold it’s time to settle in for the final awards, which Anna and Cadel scoop. We indulge in coffee and chocolates then the night comes to an end after a speech from the CEO of Cycling Australia. What a great evening!

It’s back to the hotel and off with the monkey suits, into the fart sacks and before long we’re guts up and snoring for Australia. Tomorrow promises to be another cracker of a day.

Bright and early we went in search of a big brekkie. On the way out of the hotel we saw Cadel sitting in the lobby engrossed in the Weekend Australian. Will we go over and say G’day? Nah, let’s leave him alone and respect his privacy. Should we? No, let’s get a feed. We got our sustenance – snags, eggs, bacon, baked beans, coffees – then took a stroll towards the Harbour Bridge for our Bridge Climb. The morning was a little overcast but the weatherman had promised clear skies and a light southwesterly to keep us cool. We got there almost 45 minutes early so we got put onto a group leaving in 10 minutes. Awesome. There were two honeymoon couples, one from the UK and one from New York, plus some locals and Boab and I. Fourteen intrepid climbers in total. Part of the prelude to the crime is getting all geared up with overalls, climbing gear, headsets, a hat and hanky (ingenious). While this is happening the guide asks everyone where they’re from and why they’re here to do the climb. When it came round to me I said that I was from Perth and was here with my father, Carl. He laughed that off and said we were actually there, like the UK and American couple, on our honeymoon. Everyone cracked up but I started to clench a bit more than usual; no crack up for me!

The climb was incredible and by the time we’d reached the top the clouds had drifted away to leave a picture-postcard blue-sky day with all the fruit – the Opera House, the city, Kirribilly, the Heads, North Sydney and Darling Harbour. It wasn’t a strenuous climb but anyone with a fear of heights would be thankful that you’re hooked in the entire way, unable to be unclipped until you reach the end. Well worth the money and I’d recommend it to anyone.

Next up was lunch and a couple of coldies to wash it down. We found the same pub that the previous afternoon seemed reserved for after-work beers for tradies in the area, but today’s clientele and the area around the pub had been transformed. Dozens of shade sails had sprung up overnight and beneath them were the stalls of The Rocks Weekend Markets.  We settled in for a steak burger and chips while people strolled by and checked out what the stalls had to offer. As we were leaving, one stall took Boab’s fancy. He’d been hankering for some fresh fruit although the prospect of a selection of delicious dried fruits was very tempting; the old Irish dear at the stall broke his resistance and sold him a vacuum-sealed bag of the “finest dried fruit in Sydney”. It didn’t seem like he’d be very full if he ate it all at once, so it would finish off the lunch nicely. “That’ll be twenty dollars, thanks dear,” said the old dear. The fly had been caught in the web; Boab was too polite to give it back and walk away in disbelief. Down the road I tried a piece of dried green apple and almost heaved up my burger on the spot. It was diabolically bad, but I tried to finish it so Boab wouldn’t feel even more of a sucker than he already did. Eventually I had to say, “Mate, this tastes like shit!” Boab said, “Sure does,” and tucked the vacuum-sealed bag into his backpack; it came out again the next day but was last seen hurtling towards a rubbish bin.

We continued on doing the tourist thing and were spellbound by the beauty of Circular Quay, the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. The place was teeming with people, many of them tourists, and the vibe was great. The Opera House was stunning up close and lived up to all the postcard hype. After our circuit of the whole area we refueled on caffeine, and not for the first time Boab’s request for a long mac was met with a large cup of black coffee. Maybe it was the backpacker wait staff or Boab’s accent. Who knows, but ultimately Boab would just ask for a long black with a shot of milk on the side. How dainty.

The words of Aussie Crawl’s ‘Reckless’ (‘as the Manly ferry cuts its way to Circular Quay’) inspired us during our coffee-stop to head to the ferry terminal and jump on a Manly ferry. It was a beautiful afternoon with a breeze cooling things down a little and the water was calm. The 30-minute ride was slightly interrupted by the enormous Sea Princess Cruise Liner heading out to the Heads from Darling Harbour, with lots of smaller boats following.  The fibres in our jocks were put to the test when the ferry Captain, without warning, blasted the very loud horn on numerous occasions to ward off the pesky pleasure crafts that were in danger of being rammed by our boat. When we hit Manly we took a stroll up and down the iconic beach but there wasn’t much else to see or do. The time difference was confusing us a bit and we didn’t even realize it was just about tea time. We found a small bike shop specializing in around town cruisers then spotted a kebab shop. Boab was hitherto unaware of the lure of the kebab, traditionally known as a late night lamb sandwich and often eaten following a large drinking session (in days gone by, of course). Boab opted for the doner meat with hot chili sauce. I went for the safer option of chicken with sweet chili and watched while Boab’s eyes bulged as he reached for his drink in desperate motions. As we ate we shared a bench outside the kebab shop with a recent immigrant, a lanky Californian from San Francisco who had recently moved here with his little Australian Shepherd dog, which looks like a miniature Collie.  We chatted about things to do in Sydney and how much he loves the lifestyle here and he recommended that we take the train and bus to Bondi Junction and Tamarama beach, and then walk to Bondi while taking in the Sculptures by the Sea. Great idea we thought, and penciled that in for tomorrow.

We jumped on the 6:45pm ferry back to Sydney. The sun setting over the city gave us a remarkable welcome and Circular Quay looked incredible. We headed straight back to the room and, like two middle aged men, flopped onto our beds and said we aren’t moving for the rest of the night. We put the TV on, settled in for some Rock Wiz, Graham Norton and Penn and Teller then began the snore-fest. Party animals! I was missing Mrs Gaz like crazy and wished she could have come along. But Boab and I were having a ball and when I told Mrs Gaz I was missing her she told me to suck it up, princess!

When we descended on the lobby the next morning there was no Cadel there. Never mind; we headed off to Darling Harbour in search of a feed. We found a very nice place and Boab had a (real) fresh fruit platter and I had pancakes with strawberry sauce. They were as thick as a mattress and cooked to perfection. We wallowed in our gastronomic delights until the peace was broken by a familiar sound – a husband getting in trouble from his wife. It seems that hubby was distracted while he should have been keeping an eye on a little’un and now the child was nowhere to be seen. He was copping both barrels and the wife didn’t care who was in the vicinity to hear it. In her defence, we weren’t very far away from the water’s edge so the outcome could have been catastrophic.  Dad calmly looked for their youngest while mum ran frantically from place to place. Thankfully for ear-bashed dad, one of their other kids found the cheeky little blighter hiding somewhere in the restaurant. It was safe for everyone to go back to enjoying breakfast.

We acted on the advice of our American friend and headed to the station to board a train to Bondi Junction then bused it to Tamarama beach for the Sculptures by the Sea exhibition.  Tamarama was a beautiful little beach and the walk around the cliffs was spectacular, with lots of quirky (and some crappy) sculptures dotting the landscape. One tourist was asking how come there were sculptures on a hill overlooking a beach just south of Tamarama; there were so many things dotting the hill. Someone soon set her straight – it’s Waverley cemetery. It would have to be some of the most expensive real estate in Sydney and people are dying to get in there. Go figure.

We walked past the famous Bondi Icebergs pool then down to Bondi beach. The views were awesome again (Sydney doesn’t disappoint) and we noticed some houses across the road from the Icebergs were for sale. We wondered what they might fetch and later we saw in a local rag that a unit on nearby Campbell Parade sold for $9.5m not long ago. What the? I thought Applecross was expensive!

We each fanged out on a sumptuous chicken linguini and a Coopers Pale Ale in the heart of Bondi while we watched the world go by. Wandering past was an eclectic mix of backpackers, rich folk, surfers, families out for a day at the beach and old people who had lived there for a long time, well before Bondi was the place to be seen. Boab and I reminisced about one of our all-time favourite literary characters, Les Norton, the big redheaded Queenslander from the Robert G Barrett novels. After all, we were now in his backyard.

The bus trip from Bondi beach back to the Bondi Junction train station went along some seriously steep streets, all of which would put the Triple Shot into the seriously warped sense of humour category. The climbs were long and seemed to kick again at each bend in the road. The roads were very narrow, which is common around Sydney, not leaving much room for the cyclist to enjoy a trundle. The train trip was ho-hum except there was one bloke who looked like he was coming off a four-year bender. He could barely stand up at all and his eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow. When we got to Kings Cross station he lurched towards the door and somehow made it out of the carriage. As the train pulled away, Boab and I watched him move gingerly along the platform as if he was tiptoeing along a 50-foot high tight rope. This was one time when I was thankful Mrs Gaz had packed the Elmo sanitary hand-wipes – at least we could get off the train and wipe our hands to minimize the risk of catching some exotic disease.

All that was left to do when we got back to the hotel was check out, grab a coffee then walk across the road to Wynyard Station. The destination – Sydney Domestic Airport. The train was an old clunker and you couldn’t tell where the graffiti ended and the original paintwork began. We were nestled among other travelers and the train was chockers with suitcases. The trip to the airport is only 15 minutes from the CBD and it’s a great service. You step off the train and almost straight into the check-in desk. We got there with plenty of time to spare but my first port of call (at the risk of losing my testicles if I forgot) was the Krispy Kremes counter. Lashings of delectable donuts, all waiting to be devoured. An Asian couple in front of me were going to town on the selections. By the time I got my measly half-dozen they were up to their third dozen, and still going! Boab gave the shop the once-over but showed a lot more restraint than I’d ever be able to, which is one of the (many) reasons why he leaves me for dead on the hills.  As we were waiting to board Boab was reading the paper and a lady came up and asked if there was any news in there about Peter Roebuck’s death. There wasn’t, as the paper was the Weekend Australian; we’d have to wait to get back to Perth for more details on that sad affair.

The flight back was relaxing, although an hour or so longer due to the head winds. No worries, I managed to rip through many pages of the book “Slaying the Badger”, which is the story based around the 1986 Tour de France and the rivalry between Greg LeMond and Bernard Hinault, aka Le Blaireau (the Badger). It’s a great read, as Boab testified since he’d got it from Bif for his fiftieth birthday.

Everything had gone sensationally well over the past few days. Boab was an awesome companion and apart from Mrs Gaz, I couldn’t think of anyone better to have on the trip. We enjoyed a fantastic awards night, got to meet the great man in person, spoke to some Perth cycling royalty, did a few unforgettable touristy things, knocked back a few quiet brews, and made it back in one piece. All we needed to do was catch the bus to the long-term car parking bay “A” and go to row “G” where Boab’s Tojo would be waiting faithfully for us. The first hiccup was we went to the wrong pick up spot and watched the bus drive straight past. No worries, we’ll just walk up the road a bit. I said to Boab, “Got the car park ticket, mate?”  Boab replied, “Yeah, it’s in my wallet somewhere….. I think ….. Hmmm, no it’s not … shit; I chucked it out with some old receipts on Friday night…. Bugger!”

We had visions of being charged an extra $400 or something ridiculous to be let out of the car park. The bus driver told us to call the help line at the pay station so we did that, but the first attempt was a false start. It seems we called the emergency help line and all the bloke on the other end wanted to know was “is the alarm going off, mate? Is it??” Boab apologized and we then called the right number. The bloke issued a new ticket and we were out of there without any extra cost. You bewdy!

We zoomed along Leach Highway and before we knew it, we pulled into Challenger Place. My gorgeous Mrs Gaz was there to embrace me and she whispered lovingly in my ear, “Where are the Krispy Kremes, honey?” Sweet. Two desserts for me tonight!

Boab and I shook hands and he moved towards the Tojo’s door, but not without stepping on a very squeaky paver. He’d been doing a lot of that over the past few days. Must have been the hot chili sauce.