…seemed to desert us for a while there. Following the third annual Fremantle Gift I was happy to write up the view from the back, but demurred to Digger’s desire to record events from closer to the winner’s circle. A week went by and Stuey stewed over the absence of a celebration of his moment of glory. Then he informed me via email he would regurgitate his pride (is that the opposite of swallowing it?) and write the damn thing himself. Moments later another email arrived attempting to retract the first one. Then a phone call retracting the retraction. Then another half a week passed so I figured I would have to do it myself after all.

Here then is my view from the back. Things started well enough with a pleasant ride into town. While preparing I had recalled that perhaps we were supposed to meet on the wrong side of the bridge - one of Digger’s cunning sub-plots to unnerve his victims. No matter as I would have to ride first across the right side of the bridge where I found Stuey prophetically waiting alone while a bag of Coglioni gesticulated furiously from across the freeway.

All together on the other side someone noted that Babel was running late and we departed immediately. Due to some kind of time shift that Digger or Il Pirata (or whatever name he’s going by this week) could no doubt explain Babel was mysteriously present when we arrived at the carpark where the event itself would start. No wonder he is feared in the peloton.

It had occurred to me that as back-marker I would be called upon at some point to perform starting duties, and Digger immediately removed all suspense by handing me a complicated chart listing various gaps based on the number of starters. With 11 present his mysterious formula determined that we would go at 30-second intervals. After a short wait during which The Doctor apparently boarded a train in a parallel universe we were ready to go, or at least we ready to debate whether the start line was where I was now comfortably positioned or a few metres away where the carpark spilled into the road.

Nickname, who was first off, Digger and myself agreed it was easiest not to move but failed to pass this information on to the rest of the riders waiting nervously in the wings, a dereliction of duty that could have proved crucial if the finish had been closer. Thirty seconds is an odd amount of time. Long enough to seem like an eternity yet brief enough to fritter away making last-minute adjustments to your paunch, hairpiece, aero codpiece, or whatever other piece of equipment you might think is going to slow you down.

Miraculously everyone got away without incident, other than Stuey who jumped the gun by three seconds. We realised later this was simply because he thought the start line was at the edge of the road but at the time your humble chronologicler was a little affronted. All the while I had been using a starting technique that would cost me precious seconds in my ensuing pursuit, for like a fool with a new toy I had opted for the complexity of the lap timer, but pressing the button a half-a-second or so late each time had added up to sending myself off a full six seconds later than the handicapper had decreed.

Fortunately I was oblivious to that at the time and could only wonder when I would first catch sight of O’Dirty as I tried to wind myself up for 30 minutes of pain. I managed to depress myself as I approached the second bend at the yacht club by thinking that with thirty seconds gone I was now where O’Dirty would have been when I started and yet I had not seen him. Of course it did not occur to me that I was ten or fifteen seconds in before I would have actually been able to see the spot I was now passing, by which time according to Xeno he would have moved on. Such is the state of mind of the hapless handicapee.

It was not until I approached the penultimate turn before the Majestic Point climb that I spied O’Dirty in the distance. At last something to chase. Despite him quipping “See you on Majestic Point” as he took off, this famous pinch made little impression on the gap between us. I was nowhere near flying as I went over the top, but not yet close to dying either, and before long was on the long flat slog along Melville Water with O’Dirty firmly in my sights.

Or so it seemed, for the gap was closing painfully slowly, and each time a tricky set of turns had to be negotiated he would slip away again. Nevertheless I must have gained some ground by the time we hit the bottom of Page Street for the make-or-break climb of The Gift. I was immediately reminded how little riding eyeballs out on the flat leaves in reserve for powering up a short sharp climb. O’Dirty’s memory was obviously even better than mine as I had no sooner rounded the bend into Stock Road than I was drawing level. He wheezed at me, a hoarse death-rattle my cycling ears translated as “go hard”. Checking my HRM I could see I was two beats per minute below my rule-of-thumb maximum, so there was some scope for a bit of HTFU.

I saw or hallucinated more riders at the top of Stock Road but they were long gone by the time I started the Reserve Street descent. Usually over-cautious at the bottom I took one look left and swept confidently into Point Walter Road. I was less confident on the off-camber turn into Malsbury Street, and felt precious metres slip away. The spring had long gone from my legs, in more ways than one, but there was still some power there and if memory serves me well I overhauled Gobi (or was it Ted?) at the top. This was good. Were things coming together? Was I a chance? Better start counting the riders off…

I reeled in a few more along Preston Point Road and dared to dream of victory, but with four still in front of me as I passed under Stirling Highway it wasn’t looking so great. Then came the make or break traffic lights after the old bridge. I was going hard to make the lights and made another catch as a bonus, this time it was Sicknote with a couple of helpers on hand shepherding a beaten man home.

On the home stretch I could see Babel in the distance, but time was running out and there were still two riders unaccounted for. I was tangibly closing in on Babel when the finish line approached, but the race was run and the victor had almost caught his breath by the time I rolled in. I had not recognised Sicknote as I passed him so briefly mistook Stuey for him at the finish, a mistake a reader of his ride report could not make.

Rider	Handicap	Elapsed time	Adjusted time	The Doctor’s photo finish
Stuey	3:00	30:54	28:48
Digger	2:33	31:32	28:59
Babel	4:05	30:10	29:09
Bif	5:06	29:15	29:15
Chuck	0:30	34:02	29:26
Sicknote	1:00	33:32	29:26
Nickname	0:00	34:37	29:31
Gobi	3:34	31:27	29:55
Ted	2:02	33:10	30:06
Stuart*	1:31	34:06	30:31
O’Dirty	4:36	31:24	30:54
*Not his nickname

How does all this affect the Golden Goolies for 2010? Certain riders who disrespected the event by failing to beg or borrow an endorsed jersey (or in one case to wear their own) should feel extraordinarily lucky that they were not penalised. Perhaps the GG committee was feeling kindly early in the season, or perhaps it was influenced by the apparel committee feeling somewhat embarrassed by its recent lassitude. Here are the standings following the Freo Gift: