Water Boy (52:38) and Ted (54:21) showed the merits of directed training (id est going out running when they should have been riding their bikes) by recording the top two Coglioni times in the City to Surf. Bif (54:52) meanwhile showed the value of not bothering with training by sneaking under fifty-five minutes despite averaging only about five kilometres a week since last year’s run. And Blinder (55:47) proved you can have a gaggle of kids, be a gun bike rider AND turn in a fine run to boot. Water Boy and Bif now have equal PBs for this event, so let’s hope the Cyclosportif clash is resolved next year for a big showdown…

It is with a heavy heart that I have to report that no less than four Coglioni were spotted running in the City to Surf on Sunday. The only mitigation is that they did not disgrace their jerseys by wearing them in this shameful activity. A formal dishonour roll will published when official times are available later in the week.

A glorious day deserves a glorious ride and a glorious ride we had. It began as a vague notion to reconnoitre the Cyclosportif Gran Fondo route through the Avon Valley, giving me the opportunity the following weekend of running the City to Surf obliquely knowing I’d sort of done the Fondo as well. Having confirmed City to Surfer’s Blinder and Water Boy on board somehow meant it all made strange Bif-sense. It also meant I wouldn’t have to suffer alone out there.

It takes four-o’clock-in-the-morning courage to set the alarm for 4.45, but I resigned myself to this reality to meet the objective of a 7.30 start in Toodyay. Blinder faced the challenge ahead by abandoning his sleeping family and wandering to the end of the street with bike and bag, while Water Boy climbed into the car with an enormous bowl of porridge. I had primed my phone with loud music to play through the radio, but in the end we spent the drive discussing psychological models of brain function. Molto coglione!

By the time we arrived in Toodyay the bowl of porridge was still going strong. Outside the chilly air was challenging the Perth forecast for a minimum of nine. My HRM would later reveal that the starting temperature had been a surprisingly warm four, as it felt about four degrees closer to zero when I opened the car door. With a warm twenty-five degree day expected I was wary of over-dressing at the start, but it took more of that four-o’clock-in-the-morning courage to eventually drag my track-pants off.

Blinder had established early bragging rights for the day by riding the previous morning, in spite of the fact that this would be his first metric ton. But it was Water Boy with the first tactical win, smugly pulling full-fingered gloves from his kit-bag. I should have known better myself - there was ice on the tables when we’d ridden up here one winter morning some years back. I compounded my blunder by leading our group out of town, taking the full brunt of the wind-chill on my exposed fingers. I could only hope the searing pain would give way to the bliss of numbness.

The cold limited our speed far more than the incline on the climb up Toodyay Road to the Clackline turnoff, where the Fondo would turn around. It was a long but gentle climb, and by the time we reached the top we’d started to generate some internal warmth and the rising sun was doing its bit too, so that we could almost admire the glistening dew on the green hillsides. Once over the “summit” it was champagne cycling down a gentle decline that kept speeds in the high thirties.

It’s pleasantly surprising how long you get to rest between turns with only three riders, but the pace stayed high and the kilometres rolled steadily by. Once through Spencers Brook we were back in the Avon Valley, with a gently undulating climb parallel to the river ahead of us. It was around this time that Water Boy started to show his strength by pushing hard at the front and Blinder began to relinquish his bragging rights by missing turns. I was comfortable enough but the ease with which we were progressing began to bother me. Was there some kind of gravity anomaly dragging us upwards, or was an invisible breeze pushing us along without stirring twig or leaf?

But these cares quickly departed as we rolled into York with an average over thirty from Toodyay. The jazz festival may be long gone, but there’s always a festive air about the main street on a sunny Sunday. A cafe was chosen and coffees ordered. Not even a dearth of spinach and ricotta rolls could dampen our spirits. Nor could some heckling from a local veteran cyclist whose preferred place in the sun we’d pinched.

But no sooner had we turned our bikes around than the formerly invisible breeze mocked us with a ruffling of hair and chilling of sweat on the brow. It was about this time that I was really, really glad Water Boy and Blinder had chosen to spend their Saturday morning pedaling across the countryside away from their loved ones. Three are so much stronger than one and with gravity a little on our side we kept up around thirty all the way back to Spencers Brook.

From there gravity turned against us while the wind was occasionally behind us, and the mathematics of the triumvirate became distorted. Water Boy’s porridge, having survived an overnight soaking and ten minutes of heavy boiling, was finally decomposing in his gut, while my prison-issue muesli was a distant memory and Blinder was wondering if he’d remembered to have breakfast at all. Coglioni camaraderie kept us together as far as the highway, where Porridge Man and I finally acceded to Blinder’s requests to be left to ride at his own pace.

A climb with a gradient of 1.4% doesn’t sound too daunting, unless you’ve already done a ton and haven’t drunk enough water because it was too damn cold. Add an “I just feel better and better” Porridge Man to the mix and you have a recipe for suffering. There was only one course of action open - pretend I was doing fine! This meant going to the front on steep sections, both looking tough and optimising my drafting advantage on the faster bits when Water Boy/Porridge Man would inevitably surge to the front.

Thankfully these tactics got me to the top and it was time to enjoy ten kilometres of downhill back to Toodyay. Hardly a raging descent, it was further tempered by the headwind and the occasional pinch before the end. A couple of well-earned cans of coke by the side of the road completed an excellent ride. While we waited for Blinder to roll in Water Boy made his final tactical triumph by pulling out a full set of mufti. Your humble scribe would have to face the locals over lunch in his garish cycling get-up. At least the cafe proprietor remarked that our bikes were nicer than the Harleys that regularly roared up the main street.

Toodyay to York via Spencers Brook is a superb ride of 130km on generally well-surfaced and quiet secondary roads. It’s not exactly the Gran Fondo route, but close enough to get the idea. You can find it mapped here.