Lubes, tubes and chaos theory

Published
by
Sweepea
on May 9, 2012
in Bollocks
. 3 Comments

As the Coglioni Chaos cognoscenti are well aware, there is a marked difference between scientists and normal people. Being of the same ilk, when it comes to bicycle maintenance, I tend to shun the consultative approach in favour of the investigative (and often argumentative) method. Worse yet, I am of that genre known as “experimentalist,” which means my arguments tend to quickly degenerate to the rather abrupt retort “Why not ?!?”

Well…

When it comes to lubrication, there’s a lot of theories out there. Those that go on bicycle chains are no exception.  For instance, my physio-bikefitter swears that an Audax enthusiast can go for days on diesel fuel and light fruit cake (the proper application of which I’ll let the cognoscenti ascertain). So when I found myself with a clattering bike in a strange city on a Sunday – not a single open bike shop in sight – I thought to myself how hard can it be and promptly went to Coles to scan the shelves.   And no, there is no diesel fuel in Coles – remember - investigative not consultative – but there was paraffin oil and Vaseline jelly in the medicine aisle.  And yes, a half & half mix works a real treat for silencing the clatters.  Problem is, it also eventually gets all over everything.

So this weekend, I set about to clean up my black-spotted bike. I even bowed to consultancy to buy the specially-made chain scrubber with the agent orange de-greaser.  But of course, didn’t I this time just have to read the label, where it also mentions its tendency to eat paint.

Surely, I thought, surely, there must be something gentler, and searching under the kitchen sink, my eyes alighted on my all-time favourite:  WD-40.  Is there anything this stuff doesn’t do? Its distinctive odour permeates nearly every bike shop I’ve ever visited, and I thought to myself now here’s my chance to shine like a pro.

But this is where it gets weird.  After a few minutes of spraying – and it does liquefy the black goo a real treat – I hear this massive B-WOOSHT!  and my back tyre is immediately flat. Naw, I think, surely this stuff can’t be bad for rubber (and indeed the website says it’s safe). But the proof, as they say, is in the pudding, and the pudding is my back rim kissing the concrete.  Perchance, did the solvent loosen some hidden shard of glass embedded on this morning’s ride?  It seemed the only plausible answer.

However, when I later checked, I found a good-sized hole right next to the valve on the rim side of the tube.  True, the tube is now up to 5 patches, so maybe it’s getting a leetle bit shabby. But the only explanation that springs to mind is that some of the WD40 leaked through the valve hole in the rim and slightly weakened the aged rubber, causing it to rupture.

Then again, we chaos theorists could argue for days on the vagaries of coincidence…

Scotty’s Two-Up TT

Published
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Scotty
on May 4, 2012
in Ride Report
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Scotty is obviously a fan of Joyce - I have inserted a few paragraph breaks to make this easier on the eye. - Bif

The band of Coglioni riders assembled on time at 6.45am outside the Raffles bar one exception, Bif. With the knowledge that he would be turning up with home baked Anzac biscuits there was no option but to wait for him and before we knew it he appeared with pockets bulging and off we set.

In addition to Bif and myself there was Arnie, the Doctor, Badger, O’Dirty, Boab, Lurch and Spunker.

The planned Kalamunda ride would include two challenges for the trophy and before we had even clipped in our champion Boab was talking about riding on the back of the bunch citing a week in Bali sans bike resting up before his training (suffering) program would commence. No other excuses were aired and we cruised for around 6km on wet roads to the start of the first competitive stage of the day starting by the river at Shelley.

By this stage we had already experienced the first of several flat tyres probably due to the wet conditions. The pairing of riders was determined with 2-up coin tossing with the following combinations the result: Spunker-O’Dirty, Bif-Lurch, Arnie-the Doctor, and Badger and me. With the odd number of riders Boab was happy to just cruise the 5km and assist with the task of timing the athletes to follow.

Badger and I were both new to this event and after agreeing I would lead out we were on our way. I accelerated off the line but instantly I knew my muscles were far from warm and the legs were struggling. Badger quickly recognized this and shot to the front accelerating to the point that I nearly lost his wheel in the ensuing effort. It was quite some time before I could take my turn at the front and slow things up a bit to ensure I would make it to the finish.

Before we knew it the end was in sight and with one last effort I led us over the line and we both later commented that we found this stage was harder than the hill climb. We were both happy with our effort but the outstanding combination had been Bif and Lurch who took out the honours. I’m not sure if carrying the extra kilo of Anzacs helped Bif for this stage win but I’m sure it hindered him in the hills to come.

The weather was fining up and we cruised to the start of the next stage which was somewhere at the base of the hills south of Welshpool Road ending up below the Bickley reservoir. This time we would set off as individuals for a 1.6 km slog up the hill with a varying gradient to the finish.

After a nature break it was the countdown and time to suffer once again. It was Arnie across the line with the fasted time but after a few calculations by the organisers Badger and I were being congratulated as overall winners for the morning. (In fact Badger had the fastest time on the climb. -Bif)

With the competition out of the way Bif, Badger and Spunker headed home with the remainder determined to complete the 100km as advertised on the BWA website. But before departing Bif’s Anzacs were shared out ensuring that energy levels would be maintained for the ride ahead.

After a relaxed pace enjoying the morning sun on our backs we arrived at the base of Mills Rd where it soon became obvious that a 39/25 gear ratio was not optimal for the gradient ahead. I moved ahead of Boab as the gradient reached 12 % (maybe I exaggerate a little) and Arnie was on my wheel. In normal circumstances Boab, Bif and Arnie would have swept by me but for today this didn’t happen and after much suffering we summited and recovered on the downhill to Canning Road.

Upon reaching Bickley O’Dirty was in need of water (some comment about being like a camel he said) and so we screeched to a halt to take on powerade, water and bananas at the general store. However shortly after leaving the carpark I think the Doctor got a flat and as we were turning to go back O’Dirty flatted his front tyre (despite the wear indicators I think it’s time for new tyres for the Ribble).

Arnie had been observing a piece of glass in his front Michelon Pro 3 for most of the ride and sure enough he would suffer a blowout on a gentle incline just past the rows of apple trees. O’Dirty and I both heard Arnie exclaim “I’m gone” and for a split second we thought it was his legs that were gone as he kept pace with us but unfortunately this wasn’t the case. It was all the more disappointing for O’Dirty as I’m sure he was about to shift into the big ring to power over the crest of the hill.

Soon we were hurtling down Welshpool road but with a headwind and some light rain there were no maximum speed records set and we regrouped for the long haul along Roe Hwy. Most were tiring by this stage so Boab thought he would dish out some pain by increasing the pace into the headwind. The legs were fading rapidly and it was now a case of just getting to the Blend coffee shop in Myaree taking the shortest possible route. The mind was wandering and I remember thinking that with road cycling now so popular in Perth why is there not an annual bike show like they have in many other cities. Anyway Blend finally appeared and Bif had organized a table for us and although it was past midday breakfast was still being served. Despite being busy the food and coffee arrived in next to no-time which surprised a certain NoR rider.

All in all a tough but enjoyable ride and a worthy replacement for the Rockingham sportif. Officially a distance of 100 km was covered by the Coglioni riders.

The pain in Spain (El of the North part 2)

Published
by
Bif
on May 3, 2012
in Ride Report
. 1 Comment

The morning after the El of the north I had a decision to make. My original plan only went as far as thinking that if the weather had been against me on Saturday afternoon I would have a second chance at the Angliru on Sunday morning, but before coming up here one of my IBM colleagues had helpfully pointed out the proximity of Oviedo to another classic climb of La Vuelta, known as the Lagos de Covadonga. I had not heard of it before but a quick look in Thomson Bike Tours “Top 30 Cols” showed it slotted in at number 16, and it will feature in this year’s edition of the Spanish tour, as it has on many previous occasions.

The clocks had been wound forward to summer time overnight and I had no intention of getting up early so it was quite late as I pondered this prospect on my way down to breakfast. The hotel’s day manager, who had knocked off by the time I got back the previous evening, asked if I’d ridden up El Naranco as he had suggested. He looked a bit stunned when I told him I’d ridden up El Angliru instead, no doubt thinking for a moment he must have misheard me.

In any case I felt some kind of strange obligation to him and to Lurch’s mate Alan (not his real nickname) to do this climb while in Oviedo. I was also concerned about the amount of time required to drive to Cangas de Onis to do the Lagos de Covadonga climb and still get back to Madrid early enough to return the bike that evening. The third option was a bit of sight-seeing in Oviedo, but as I had wandered around a fair bit the previous evening in search of dinner I quickly dismissed that idea in favour of a ride.

At least this time there was no question about the route. My hotel was on a hill that forms one of the lower ramparts of El Naranco, so it was just a case of heading out the door and pointing the bike upwards. I felt surprisingly good. My discombobulated joints seemed to have recombobulated themselves, and the fact that I had only ridden about seventy kilometres meant I wasn’t particularly stiff or tired. If anything my legs felt primed by their workout, which was a good thing as there was no warm-up on this climb. The road running past the hotel must have been seven per cent or more and it was pretty steady at that gradient to the first of a pair of summits separated by a short but deep saddle.

On the lower slopes I passed San Miguel de Lillo and Santa María del Naranco, a pair of pre-Romanesque churches built in the ninth century as part of the palace complex of King Ramiro I at a time when the then kingdom of Asturias was the last holdout against the Moors in Iberia. The churches were followed by a sharp switchback with a nasty pinch in gradient heralding the start of the climb in earnest.

It was another glorious spring day in Asturias and as I rose up the side of the mountain a beautiful panorama opened up below me. I could see across Oviedo to the Cordillera Cantábrica beyond, where I fancied I could pick out the summit of El Angliru. The road was pretty quiet, but a lot busier than on the Angliru. I passed several walkers with big dogs and the odd cyclist on a mountain bike. Most of the walkers looked a bit grumpy - I can only guess they didn’t like sharing the serenity of the mountain with cyclists puffing and panting their way up or whizzing down again. The oddest sight was a car with a couple of decent looking road bikes strapped on the back. What was the point of that?

Having crossed the face of the hill the road swung back to reach the first summit, which was home to some kind of telecommunications tower. I turned into the car park to see if there was much of a view to be had but headed back onto the road without stopping to continue the climb to the second summit after a passing glimpse. A short sharp descent into the saddle was followed by a quick transition before the climbing began again. The road curled around the back of the second summit and ended in a final pinch that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed on the upper reaches of the Angliru. The difference here was I could see the top so had no trouble making a sharp effort to knock it off at a reasonable speed. I had no particular ambitions but it was nice to see later I had just snuck under half-an-hour for the 7.9 km climb at 29:55.

The summit afforded spectacular views over Oviedo to the mountains beyond. Shortly after I arrived the owners of the road bikes I’d seen taking the easy way up the hill turned up. They were fully clad in lycra and looked set to tackle a stage of the Vuelta despite having ridden only a kilometre or so from the first summit. I asked one them to take a picture for me and had a bit of a chat about El Angliru and so forth. His comments suggested he was no poseur so perhaps his partner just had a lycra fetish. In any case we got on to talking about the Lagos de Covadonga climb and by the time he told this was a rare perfect day for it I had convinced myself it had to be done and after all I could return the bike in the morning and still only be a little late for work.

With that thought I took a blessing from the Jesus de El Naranco and started my descent. The road was fairly open with only a couple of sharp bends but I still took it warily and was thankful for that on one occasion as a car coming up the hill zoomed unexpected towards me. Safely back at the hotel I transferred the bike to my hire car as quickly as possible, checked out, and deposited my luggage at the desk to avoid having to leave it in the car.

One of the quirks of navigating by GPS in a foreign country is taking a punt on whether or not the location identified by the gadget is actually the one you want. Names that appear novel are often reused and need to be ;uniquely identified by the province or area in which they are found. La Vega Riosa, the starting point for my ride up El Angliru is a good example. There are several La Vegas in Spain, with at least one false hit quite close by, but only one lies 12.5 km from the vaunted summit. To add to the confusion the locals seemed to like to refer to it as Riosa, despite my maps suggesting that was more properly the name of the area and the village itself was La Vega.

Despite this I had assumed my current destination would not present any problems, as “Cangas de Onis” sounded particularly unique as well as Asturian rather than Spanish. So I was a little a disconcerted when it presented “Cangas de Onis de somethingorother” as my only option. It had to be right so I punched it in and headed off. The route selected by the GPS wasn’t the one I would have chosen from a map, but as it took me east along the motorway towards Santander it was at least in generally the right direction.

I was cruising along happily assuming that at some point I’d turn off the motorway on a medium sized regional road that would take me to my destination. The map and hindsight show there is no such road, at least not without doubling back a fair way, so perhaps it’s no surprise that I suddenly turned off the motorway and onto a tiny back road. Before long I was headed up a winding path through a pine forest with the north coast of Spain behind me. It was such a beautiful climb I was tempted to stop the car and jump on the bike, but I knew I was still too far from the Covadonga climb for that to be practical.

The switchback descent on the other side of the ridge being traversed was even more enchanting as it followed the course of a brook babbling down the mountainside to meet the Rio Sella on its own journey to Cangas de Onis. If I’m ever in this part of Spain again and at liberty to plan a day of cycling a return trip of around 100 km from the coastal town of La Isla to the Lagos de Covadonga and back via the AS260 would be a must.

Cangas de Onis held an unexpected bonus in the form of a grand old stone bridge. Apparently the Romans built a bridge there in the second century, but the current structure is “only” seven or eight hundred years old, its medieval heritage explaining an impractical gradient hard to attribute to Roman engineers. I found a place to park the car near the bridge and was soon on the road to Covadonga.

The climb is listed as sixteen kilometres at 7.4%, but the first five kilometres are just a long drag at under two per cent from the turn off the main road at Soto de Cangas up the mouth of the valley that cradles the climb. The real business starts as you approach the village of Covadonga where the valley narrows. It was here that Pelagius had a decisive victory over the Moors in 722 to found the Kingdom of Asturias and begin the seven-and-a-half century long reconquista of the Iberian peninsula.

My own conquest of the Covadonga was far from assured at this point but it was hard not to admire the Basílica de Santa María la Real de Covadonga, perched high on an outcrop of the valley wall. This magnificent pink limestone structure could be glimpsed all the way up the valley. The gradient was kicking up towards ten per cent as I passed a line painted on the road indicating ten kilometres to go.

For the most part the road just makes its way up the valley, with the occasional switchback thrown in to keep the slope worthy of inclusion in La Vuelta. For a long time all was good in the world. The weather was magnificent and the scenery was pretty if not spectacular. Most happily I was climbing comfortably at what felt like a reasonable pace.

There was plenty of traffic on this road, a good mix of cars and motor bikes, but not another cyclist to be seen. After a while the green-clad valley walls started to drop away and the road emerged onto a barren rocky ridge. I felt like I must have gone a good distance by now, but there was no end in sight, and as the road lacked the handy climb indicators that had been so helpful on the Angliru, I really had no idea how much further I had to go.

So I plodded on, getting hot, tired and hungry. It seemed inconceivable that I hadn’t covered ten kilometres since passing through Covadonga, but each ridge that seemed like it might be the last passed to reveal another stretch of road winding ever upwards. By now the occupants of passing cars were often calling out. I assumed it was encouragement and further took it as a sign that the end could not be far off, but then again, where was the end? Since there had been no signs along the way would I know when the climb was done? I started to worry that I had already gone too far, but gritted my teeth and pedaled on regardless.

Then came the worst sight of all. You can see it on the profile: after fourteen-and-a-half kilometres of climbing the road goes downhill, losing thirty metres or so in half a kilometre. Some nagging weakness in my soul was trying to tell me I’d gone far enough. I didn’t remember the profile well enough to be sure that wasn’t so, but the way the road turned defiantly up again on the other side of the dip suggested I wasn’t there yet.

I took a breath and enjoyed the brief burst of speed before settling back into the grind again. On the other side the road wound round another crest to reveal yet another ridge beyond. I didn’t know it but this was in fact at last the end in sight. The final kilometre seemed desperately hard but when I crested the ridge and saw Lago Enol I knew it was time to stop. The road continued on past the lake to another ridge that would no doubt lead to the second of the lakes, but one was enough for me that day, and a review of the GPS data I’d recorded would confirm this was the “official” end of the Lagos de Covadonga climb.

There was nothing to mark the spot except for a couple of picnicers and a magnificent glimpse of the snowy crags of the Picos de Europa. Time was slipping away from me again and with an hour of driving before I could even begin the journey back to Madrid it was time to start my descent. Once again I was wistful for a familiar bike as the Orbea’s poor fit limited my ability to descend confidently at speed (as did my limited ability to descend confidently at speed). Despite this I got down surprisingly quickly, a strangely enjoyable way to be reminded how slowly I had gone up! For the record I had covered the 22.1 km from Cangas de Onis in 1:36:10, about the same amount of time it had taken to get up the 12.5 km of El Angliru.

Before long the Basílica de Santa María la Real de Covadonga had grown from a toy-town image far down the narrow valley back into an imposing edifice as I swept through the village and on to flatter roads. Thankfully I had a bit of a breeze and some gradient behind me for the slog back to Cangas de Onis. It had been a great and fortunate weekend in Asturias as the weather could not have been better. Only some fellow Coglioni to share the pain could have made it more enjoyable.

Scotty goes two up in 2UPTT - Badger climbs to glory

Published
by
Bif
on May 1, 2012
in Ride Report
. 2 Comments

Since we are still waiting for an official report on last year’s Triple Shot, let alone a trophy to bestow on the victor, I thought it prudent to provide a report on Sunday’s running of the 2012 Two-up Time Trial.

The prospect of a rainy morning ensured that a quality field was on the warm-up line at the Raffles when I rolled up a little late, safe in the knowledge that the ANZACs tucked in my pockets were solid insurance against being left behind. I don’t want to waste too many words on those who failed to show up having indicated good intentions to the 2UPTT committee. Suffice it to say they can be thankful that tradition precludes additional penalties beyond the ignominy of a DNS in the results table and the loss of the Golden Goolies points they would have gained for turning up and suffering for a quarter of an hour or so. Special mention must go to Gobi who decided to not ride for some flimsy reason but still got out of bed early to come down to the Raffles to wave us off. The man is possessed by a special kind of madness.

Boab made a surprise appearance, having flown the CCC Lear Jet back from Bali a day early to make the starting lineup. Always the joker he turned up making cracks about cramps and a lack of form. No-one believed him of course, and we were soon heading south on wet roads towards the Shelley leg of the 2012 Two-up Time Trial.

April has become a busy month on the CCC calendar, with the UWCT events, Dams rides and the start of the Sportif season all conspiring with Easter holidays to squeeze out the humble 2UPTT. With ANZAC day on a Wednesday this year the prospect of staging the event on the day figured briefly but was soon quashed by the need to spend a few days having a really long weekend at Moore River with the family. It was looking a like a day in May until the Rockingham Cyclo Sportif scheduled for 29th April was cancelled.

O’Dirty was keen to make up for it with a ride to the hills but the chance of getting the 2UPTT done in April was too tempting and in the end we decided to fit it in with a longer ride for a change. We probably could have factored in the traditional course on Burke Drive and Stock Road, but Shelley foreshore was more on the way to the hills and the rarely attempted climb up to Bickley Reservoir would make a nice solo section.

Just before the designated starting point that O’Dirty had reconnoitred with Spunker during the week Badger decided to have the first flat of the day. This seemed like a good time to get team selection done so out came the kip and a pair of pennies. We had picked up Lurch along the way giving us the 2UPTT dilemma of an odd number. Boab came to the rescue by opting out, once again citing a raft of weaknesses to which no-one gave any credence. No doubt everyone else was relieved they now had no chance of having to chase his wheel along the flat section of the course.

A stream-lined process sped selection up a little and the randomly formed alliances were soon sizing each other up. Arnie and The Doctor looked a good bet, but O’Dirty is not to be trusted in any time-trial situation, and with Spunker strong in all terrain that seemed a strong pair as well. But was it wise to write off Scotty and The Badger so readily, or Lurch and your humble scribe?

Since we had reverted to good old fashioned stopwatches and pencil and paper for timing it had been predetermined that O’Dirty and his partner would head off first and self-time as he was the only person who knew where to find the finish line. I would perform starter’s duties and head off last. We synchronised timing devices and a minute later O’Dirty and Spunker were off, with Boab cruising languidly in their wake.

The half-minute intervals clicked past and it was soon time for Lurch and I to set up on the start line. I faffed a little thinking I needed to hang on to my starting sheet until we were off but luckily realised the only information I needed was the time ticking by on my HRM. Lurch led out so I could watch the clock and get going and not fall off all at the same time.

Lurch took a while getting his left cleat engaged, and I hesitated while I watched him instead of dealing with my own feet. Then he was off and in a moment there was a gap and when I finally got rolling I was wondering if I’d be chasing him along the whole course. It seemed like an age had passed but I finally got some momentum and made it up to his back wheel. I had good speed so I went straight to the front figuring he’d done a turn by now even if I had failed to profit from it.

After another brief eternity with asphyxiation imminent he came round again, and so we proceeded alternating fairly long turns. There was a bit of a headwind and it was hard going. It didn’t help that I had only a vague notion how long the pain would last. O’Dirty thought the course was around 4-5 km so I was reckoning on about seven-and-a-half minutes of suffering, but the breeze and the real length of the course (about 5.2 km) added almost a minute to that.

After a bit we caught sight of Arnie and The Doctor in the distance. Had we gained on them or was a it just the deception of entering a slightly longer straight? The former possibility spurred me on a little, but where was the end? Then finally I saw Spunker’s golden jersey glimmering in the mist and dug in for one more push. Lurch had something left too and came up on my wheel to ensure we crossed the line as one. It seemed like a solid effort but you could have knocked me down with a feather when O’Dirty told me we’d clocked the best time. Okay, so you could have knocked me down with a feather anyway, but it was still a most pleasant surprise.

The times were desperately close though, with only seven seconds gained on Arnie and The Doctor and only twice that to Spunker and O’Dirty who were close behind Scotty and The Badger. Still, a podium in a stage is a podium nonetheless - only the podium girls, champagne, prizes, fanfare and leaders’ jerseys were missing.

The ride out to the base of the Bickley Reservoir climb was mostly done at an easy pace and the distance passed uneventfully. On the long drag up the start of Crystal Brook Road I heard some chat in the bunch about the nasty road ahead up to Lesmurdie. The Badger’s dismissal of it as “a bit steep, but short” was an omen of what was to come. He almost sounded disappointed when we turned off at Kelvin Road into territory unknown to many of those present.

As we approached the corner of Hardinge and Maddington Roads a couple of kangaroos hopped past. I hoped they would be well gone by the time we came back down the hill. Arriving at the turn-off to Bickley Reservoir we faffed a while over where the start line should be. Having moved what seemed a safe distance up from the corner I declared the point where the path on the opposite side of the road began to curve away from the curb the official start line, but no-one really took this in and the actual starts were spread over a range of several metres.

The starting order was maintained from the Shelley section, with O’Dirty once again off first self-timing as he knew the finish, and me on starting duty. I had told everyone that the finish line was where there was a tree in the middle of the dead-end to the road, so I had to laugh when it was my turn to head off and I went round the first corner only to find another tree in the middle of the road that I had forgotten about. Thankfully no-one had stopped there.

The climb is fairly benign on paper: 1.6 km at a little over three per cent, but it varies quite a bit, with some fast slightly downhill sections and one real pinch in the middle. It was around there that I seemed to be almost close enough to Lurch to touch him and kidded myself I’d soon catch him, but he shot off again as the road leveled out and never quite came within reach. I couldn’t help contemplating the recipe for the 18 biscuits I was carrying up with me: 100 grams of butter, 150 grams of sugar and the same of flour, plus more sugar disguised as golden syrup and some dessicated coconut. Would I have gone faster if I’d scoffed the lot at the bottom?

I was not surprised to find I had come in with the fourth best time. A difficult 13:14 FKR to the nuts in good conditions a week or so previously had proved that averaging 100 km or so a week can only maintain form for so long. Or maybe the effort on the flat had taken its toll. Or maybe I was just weak and soft. In any case there was nothing to be done now but tally the times and hand out the ANZACs.

In the end consistency was the key. They may have come third in a close contest on the flat but Scotty and The Badger were the only pair to both crack the four-minute barrier on the climb. Special mention must be made of The Badger’s superb 3:38 which will no doubt prove a tough record to beat. As reigning Triple Shot champion this result establishes Scotty as the CCC form stage racer. He might need a few more results to get that Tour de France wild card though.

Curiously the combined times sit neatly in the range of times recorded on the traditional course, filling spots four and ten through twelve in a list of eighteen entries. Better still for the first time in the event’s history all the teams were still in the running after the flat section. I have a feeling we will use this course again, though the old Burke Drive and Stock Road double will no doubt be back too.

Place Team Stage 1 Stage 2 (a) Stage 2 (b) Total
1st (a) Badger
(b) Scotty		 8:30 (36.7) 3:38 (26.4) 3:54 (24.6) 16:02
2nd (a) The Doctor
(b) Arnie		 8:26 (37.0) 4:12 (22.9) 3:42 (25.9) 16:20
3rd (a) Lurch
(b) Bif		 8:19 (37.5) 4:19 (22.2) 3:52 (24.8) 16:30
4th (a) O’Dirty
(b) Spunker		 8:33 (36.5) 4:16 (22.5) 3:44 (25.7) 16:33
DNS Blinder - - - -
DNS Boab - - - -
DNS Dani* - - - -
DNS Digger - - - -
DNS Gaga - - - -
DNS Gobi - - - -
DNS Lady Gaga - - - -
DNS Stuey - - - -
*Not her real nickname.

Post-script:

Spunker and The Badger and I all headed home following the Bickley Reservoir climb. The Badger proved he had plenty in the tank by keeping the pace up down Roe Highway. I was happy enough to be left to myself from Wileri Drive til I realised how strong the gathering sou’wester was getting. Meanwhile the peloton battled a series of flats following a tough climb up Mills Road and still had the wind to contend with on their way back to Blend where they finally rolled in about half-an-hour behind schedule. By then I had driven up with The Chicken and The Squirrel to say g’day to Paddles. Gaga happened to be there too and not knowing I’d done the ride and come back early he tried to convince me he’d braved the rain and beaten the bunch back when the truth was dry and cosy.

6 Coglioni go long and hard

Published
by
Spunker
on April 30, 2012
in Ride Report
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I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to get tricked into signing up for a second dose of 5 Dams pain. Having ridden the first installment in 2010, Bif and I had occasionally pondered how much quicker we may have been able to go round had things gone a bit better, but the memories of the Albany Highway and Karnup Road were still fresh enough in my mind nearly two years later to quell temptation. The Doctor had signed up in his bid for consecutive Golden Goolies, teaming-up with Babel still seeking redemption from his last time out. Bif had sent tentative emails looking for a partner, but while never saying no outright, I was careful not to commit. That was until he cornered me at work one day and in a moment of madness I agreed and signed-up in the space of a couple of minutes. Only days later Babel and Bif’s dastardly plan started to unfold with the former bowing out and handing his spot to Badger and then Bif finding himself unavailable after his delayed trip to Spain and subbing in Arnie. I wasn’t too upset though as I knew that Arnie would be good company and I fancied that he may just be more understanding in the face of my inevitable suffering than Bif in his quest for a “time”. News came that Jack and Shep had signed up and so we had a merry band of 6 Coglioni riding the long route.

Not having Bif’s organisational skills available, it was left to me just two days before the event to tentatively suggest that we all meet up and ride together. With around 12 hours until the grand depart some frantic phone calls were made and we agreed to meet at the new start point at Sir James Mitchell Park in South Perth at about 06:00 or so, aiming to start at about 06:20. We had decided to try to stay together and ride as a group and I was confident that, as we had 6 reasonable climbers, we should be able to go along pretty well.

The levels of organisation and participation had improved significantly since my debut in this event, so I was slightly surprised by the number of people at the start. Lucky then that we had taken advantage of the early registration on Friday. The six of us met up without incident and mustered near the line, BWA’s interesting musical selections blasting into our ears. There was a strict 06:15 start with groups of around 30 being sent off every minute or so. We decided to let a couple of bunches go before jumping in.

Off we set into the dark, cool morning, out on to Mill Point Road, before heading on to the Canning Hwy, then the Great Eastern Hwy. There were lots of riders around us and we took it pretty steady. Jack commenced his day-long quest for the perfect wheel to follow, but others were determined to make sure that they got through in one piece and were careful not to push the pace. We were all pretty relaxed and chatting amongst ourselves.

As we got to the bottom of Greenmount we grouped up and started uphill at a decent clip, making our way through the field. Around halfway up this, the first climb of a long day, we passed a rider who had dismounted and started to walk. I can’t imagine how he must have been faring a few climbs later. Steady and uneventful progress was made all the way to the first stop, Mundaring Weir, and I fancy that we were one of the first teams there.

This is where our time near the head of the field ended. Two years ago, riding for the large part with only Cookie, the stops were fairly quick. Get the rider passports stamped, grab some water, a wee if necessary, then off. With six, levels of faffing entered a stratosphere that I’d previously considered impossible. I would go through the process: passport, water, maybe a wee, then start to see who was around. People would be all over the place. After a lengthy wait, everyone would be ready to go but one. “Ready to go?” would be the hopeful call, but always more faffing was required.

The stretch from Mundaring Weir to the second stop at Churchmans Brook involves the toughest stretches of climbing in the whole ride. Near constant undulations intersperse with steep pinches. Shep was finding the going hard and was determined not to overdo it early. A super-strong Jack on the other hand was eager to push on and could not understand why others were not able to go along with him. I had to try to take on the job of road captain and keep the bunch together as much as possible. A few kms from Churchmans Brook a sudden and inexplicable toilet break was called. This saw a scattering of Coglioni far and wide with Shep disappearing way out of view across the road and through a car park. When we finally got moving again, Coglioni hero of the hour, Boab, appeared to ride along with us through to Canning Dam.

Churchmans Brook saw some particularly spectacular faffing before we headed off towards the third stop at Wungong. We arrived there without incident and settled down to lunch. The promised coffee van had not yet arrived, but the food selection was pretty good. The Badger showed the first indications of an excellent appetite as he settled down to an array of wraps, cake and snacks. I half expected him to pull out a bottle of red. The Doctor had his shoes and socks off nursing a day-long issue with hot feet. Arnie was looking relaxed and had been going along very easily. Despite a certain amount of spread in form, everyone was going along well and spirits amongst the group were high.

The lunch spot was obviously picked by someone with sadistic tendencies. As soon as you leave, stomach full, the road pitches up at close to 20%. Wungong Dam is the last stop on the ladies’ ride, though they approach from the other direction. Adri, official C.C.C. photographer for the day, had found a vantage point to take some anguished photos at the top of the pinch. After we came by she witnessed a spectacular stack as a rider misjudged the bend and drop-off and flew straight across the road into the bush at the other side. Lucky that no car or bike was in his path.

The trip to Canning Dam provides the first taster of the purgatory that is the Albany Highway. The left to take you down to Canning Dam does not provide much improvement as the road is tortuously bumpy. There was a slight route moderation from previous years when we had taken a right at the top of the dam. This time we descended all the way to the bottom, then started an extremely steep drag up to the dam wall and across. This saw the only real failing from the organisers. They had clearly not anticipated the trouble they would face getting several hundred riders and their steeds across a slender dam wall. We got our passports stamped reasonably swiftly, but then just got stuck in a traffic jam, with no much movement and apparently less reason. Too late we realised that it was a queue for water and we could possibly bypass if we had enough. We were at the warmest part of the day and had around 46km until the next check, but the thought of queueing even longer was too much to bear. Eventually, the water we had on board was shared around the team, and off we set.

The climb out to the Albany Hwy is particularly unpleasant, especially with so many kms already in your legs, but it’s what comes next that really saps you. The 20km or so (it feels so much more) of extremely coarse, rolling bitumen, in a lane about 75cm wide, with trucks whizzing by perilously close at 110kph is truly the most unpleasant way to spend 40-odd minutes on a bike. Jack, keen to make amends for our steady progress in the hillier sections, suggested we try a roll. Moving back through the line, over the fierce rumble-strip, into the path of traffic, as tight as you could, then back across the strip into the bike lane was more than most of us were inclined to take part in for too long, and we soon agreed to carry on in single file. The fierceness of the road surface was highlighted when Badger’s chain got itself twisted around and flung off as he tried to shift between chainrings. A brief stop and a little fiddling got things back in order and off we went again. Eventually the welcome right turn into Jarrahdale Road appeared and everyone could relax once more.

The stop at Serpentine Dam had been advertised as providing pasta and rice bowls. Foolishly I had pictured warm pots of MSG laden snacks. What was there were rather large pots of cold, extremely healthy looking, pasta salad. My legs were still pretty good at this point despite a sore right knee, but I didn’t think I could take that much healthy food. I was ready to get a move on, but it seemed that the rest were settled in for the long haul, with a huge array of food-stuffs present. I admitted defeat and grabbed one of the wraps that was left over from lunch and joined the throng. Jack, whose mother had been at Mundaring Weir, was then set-upon by two young ladies, who turned out to be his daughters, out to cheer him along. Shep’s wife Adri was here too, as was Jack’s wife, so there was quite the family feel.

In Badger I had finally found someone as nervous as me going downhill and invariably we were the last two down. The descent out from Serpentine Dam is long and fast and I was in my usual spot a few metres off the back of the group. Suddenly the Doctor slammed his brakes on in front of me. Thinking he must have got a flat I slowed down and pulled alongside him to find out what was going on. It turned out that he’s had a big speed wobble. Fortunately he stayed on, but he got a bit of a fright.

The trek from Serpentine to the freeway had been tortuous for me two years previously. This time my legs were feeling much stronger and my Specialized Toupe saddle was being much kinder to my delicate posterior than the Fizik Arione I’d been riding back then had been. There were no real casualties among the group, though I was beginning to see the first small signs of weakness that I’d ever witnessed in Arnie as he went into unknown territory having never ridden over 150km. A pattern of pairs taking turn on the front was set that was maintained for the rest of ride, a mere 70km or so. We attached ourselves to small groups here and there and picked up stragglers along the way. Much sooner that it had seemed in 2010, we arrived at the freeway and the last checkpoint, 185km in and all still in remarkably fine spirit.

There is not much to see or do at the freeway check and, despite it still being 50km from home, it really feels like the start of the home stretch. I was therefore flabbergasted by the level of arsing around displayed by the assorted Coglioni. Even mild-mannered Arnie was beginning to get a bit tetchy about it, but on we eventually went.

With a light wind on our backs, the last stint up the freeway was almost pleasurable. We were going at a good clip and lively banter was continuing. Shep had finally warmed-up and come spectacularly good and the Doctor was beginning to relax and really push on. We largely rotated through pairs, but in the end Shep and I seemed to be doing the majority of the work at the front. We were ticking off the kms at a good pace, but as we approached Canning Bridge, with the end so close we could almost touch it, disaster! The scourge of South of the River riders struck once again as Jack announced a puncture. We all pulled over as the guys who had sat in our wheels for 40km continued, only to stop again a 100m further on. Glinting in the sun, we could see some fishing line that had been strung across the road, presumably with the aim of taking a rider down. Perhaps the puncture had saved Shep or me from a painful fate. The guys ahead removed the obstruction and continued.

I turned around and discovered that in the meantime, Jack’s tube and tyre had been completely removed and were laying on the ground next to his wheel as he looked for his replacement. I discovered a large hole in the tube, but by then it was too late to establish where in the tyre this came from so we just had to have a quick feel around. A new tube was inserted, but after an attempt to inflate it manually failed, and a whole CO2 cannister was emptied over the valve stem, it was declared faulty and another one acquired. Mysteriously, this didn’t inflate either, and theories were aired about what could be wrong with the tubes, wheel and tyre. In the absence of official C.C.C. mechanic, O’Dirty, or his protegee, Paddles, I finally decided I could take no more and and attached my pump to get it inflated and us all moving again.

The Doctor appeared to have sparked into life by the stop and set a fearsome pace all the way from Canning Bridge to the Narrows. Just before the river, we cut under the freeway into South Perth and back again to Sir James Mitchell Park, some 237km since last we saw it. As at the start, Adri was there to photograph us crossing the line, along with quite the welcome party. O’Dirty was still lamenting his inability to “do a growl”, having finished the ladies’ ride a couple of hours previously and Boab was back again, this time sporting an array of beverages that were soon gladly set upon.

In the end our time was nothing to write home about, but the primary objective of getting round together and all in reasonable health had been met. We were getting tired, but all still in jovial mood.

My Bryton Rider 35 (I understand that it is essential to provide full make and model details for bike computers these days) told me that I covered 256.9km, having ridden to the start and home from the finish. I can’t find evidence of Bif’s ride from 2010, so I’m not sure if I can officially claim the longest day’s ride recorded by a Coglione, but it can’t be too far off. I again resolved to never be foolish enough to put myself through this again. I suspect that madness will prevail eventually though.