O’Dirty had been talking up a Club Ciclistico Coglioni Kalamunda Christmas Handicap for some weeks. Getting people together in the festive season can prove logistically difficult, but we eventually settled on the regular Friday ride following Christmas Day as the best option available.

The other challenging task was setting the starting order. O’Dirty had nominated himself as the handicapper and faced the task boldly. After much contemplation of the available times, known form, and some considerable jiggery-pokery he came up with a suitable list. The most dubious decision was omitting the current record-holder (Techno Boy) to ensure he found himself taking the first honours by starting from scratch.

As soon as I saw that list I called the TAB and bet the farm on Stuey, with a side bet on Sicknote as the dark horse in the field. Of course the chances of Sicknote turning up were so slim, even were he not in Japan, that the TAB banked that bet immediately.

I wouldn’t say I lay awake in anticipation of the ride, but I could tell the adrenalin was already pumping when I got I up. Consequently I felt really awful riding into town and so took it very easy, even though I was running late. Arriving at IBM almost ten minutes in arrears I was glad to see I hadn’t been left behind, and surprised to see five contenders bristling with enthusiasm to take part in the birth of a tradition.

It soon transpired that Paddles and Stuey were in fact bristling to do the regular Friday ride. Paddles at least had the decency to wear his shame by not donning the Coglioni jersey. We all know that Stuey has no shame and so was quite happy to pike out of the ride and still wear the club colours. Water Boy was a worry though, as he was doing the ride but sans Coglioni jersey. It could only mean he had been at the lab testing weights and wind resistance and had donned a stealth jumper in preference to a stylish one. Surely La Madonna di Ghisallo would look unfavourably on this move?

The six of us rolled off and stayed together for ten metres or so, qualifying Paddles and Stuey for a DNF each, before Bif, Blinder, O’Dirty and Water Boy headed east to create a tradition. A small but auspicious start. I was tempted to call the TAB and move my wager to Blinder, but still expecting Stuey might appear from nowhere halfway up the climb I let it sit.

The ride out to Kalamunda was uneventful and reasonably brisk as the wind was from the south and so not too much in our faces. There was some odd discussion about not including Ridge Hill Road in the ride, but common sense prevailed and Water Boy’s whingeing soon died away. With only four in the peloton it was hard to hide at the back for too long, so turns were shared around fairly enough, though no doubt a time and management survey would show Water Boy spent the most time on the front.

As we approached Ridge Hill Road I reasoned that I had been unfairly placed only ten seconds off scratch on the basis of a solid ride earlier in the year where O’Dirty pipped me by a second by surreptitiously sucking my wheel. Ten seconds seemed precious little compensation for the two months I had subsequently spent off the bike on work and holiday trips. So I decided that with no chance in the main event the nascent tradition needed shaking up with a dash for line honours on Ridge Hill as a sort of second tier competition. I figured that I would win this easily as none of the others would be foolish enough to go hard so close to the start of the handicap.

My reasoning proved correct as I eased past Water Boy on the steep first pinch and heard O’Dirty chortling in the background. I found myself feeling surprisingly good and pushed hard on each of the pinches to be sure no-one would be tempted to chase me down. Well-knackered at the bottom of the Zig-Zag I had a clear gap, but it wasn’t long before Water Boy came into view. Job done I thought, now I just have to catch my breath and drag myself up the hill for a coffee.

We rolled down Gooseberry Hill Road and into Kalamunda Road where we pulled into the bus-stop layby. O’Dirty consulted his starting card and announced the time differences for riders present. Blinder was first to go and somewhat fumbled his cleat engagement, losing possibly precious seconds. Water Boy learnt from this display and used a handily placed rubbish bin as a support, allowing him to click in ready to go. With only ten seconds to prepare I attempted the same technique but struggled to engage my left cleat and had to deal with that and avoid getting cleaned up by an approaching van once I was rolling.

Sparing half a thought for O’Dirty, who no doubt had numerous timesheets and stopwatches to fumble with before he could set off I looked up the road to see Water Boy surprisingly distant. Is that only ten seconds? Perhaps it was a trick of the gradients as he approached the fabled “steep bit”, but I did seem to be drawing closer. Steady now, it’s a long way to the top if you want a sausage roll, as they say, so no need to catch him all at once.

I expected O’Dirty to catch me quickly and sure enough I saw his wheel nudging round me at the top of the pinch before dropping back again. I fantasised briefly that he’d broken himself in too hasty a pursuit, before realising the cunning fox was forcing me to lead on the false flat to get the benefit of the draft. There was nothing I could do but press on, though I did restrain myself from an excessive effort. At least I wasn’t yet last on the road.

With the false flat behind us Water Boy was not far ahead and O’Dirty made his move, passing me then forging ahead at a blistering pace. Luckily I know his evil mind well. I might have suspected any other rider of resorting to dubious substances or secret training, but in this case I knew it was a ploy to break Water Boy. By the time we past him we were flying at a ludicrous 25 km/hr. I shouted out some questions about well-formed html for tables, but any response was lost in the breeze. I knew or hoped this couldn’t last, and sure enough a hundred metres up the road the pace flagged back to something more sensible under 20 km/hr. But the work was done, Water Boy had snapped and the Madonna was smiling on the Coglioni jerseys.

As the road twisted round to the east again I caught a glimpse of Blinder up ahead and started to believe we might catch him before the top. With my heart rate monitor telling me things I didn’t want to know the time passed quickly. I could see we were on a good pace and almost started calling words of encouragement to O’Dirty. Somewhere around the 50 km/hr sign marking the end of hard climbing we caught Blinder and I thought O’Dirty seemed to be flagging a little so I moved past him and pushed the pace, as much to ensure Blinder was well and truly crackled as to test O’Dirty’s legs.

I could sense he’d latched on, limpet-like, and as we rounded the bend into the final flat straight run to the giant coglioni monument (called “gum nuts” by the locals) marking the finish he launched a brutal attack. Any further from the end it might have broken me but somehow I hung on and found myself in the box seat with a couple of hundred metres to go. I’m thinking O’Dirty is a strong sprinter but if I time it right the unlikely glory is mine.

The line draws closer, we’re inside fifty metres and an evil voice is telling me there’s no point in trying because O’Dirty will have the answer. Now it’s only twenty metres and I realise it’s now or never. Some preserving fibre wants me to die of a heart attack rather than be run over so I glance over my shoulder for traffic before giving the pedals one last crank with ten to go. It would be harsh to say O’Dirty’s popped but I’ve got half a wheel and the line is there, the gum nuts are mine!

Rolling round the roundabout I’m up on the footpath and it’s all I can do to avoid actually falling off the bike as I gasp for breath and saliva dribbles from my mouth in an undignified fashion. O’Dirty is similarly spent but we shortly muster the strength for a handshake as Blinder rolls in looking like he’s out for a Sunday ride with the kids. When Water Boy completes the quartet it’s clear that every one’s a winner, as my three companions have all recorded PBs for the climb. In fact O’Dirty has ridden tantalisingly close to a new Coglioni record, but after much deliberation over possible adjustments we conclude that his official time must be 11:07.

Adjourning to Paris-Brest for coffee and sausage rolls the headache abates and the heartrate and breathing return to normal. I feel strangely euphoric, a feeling that not only powers me back to town but stays with me through the day. All that remains is to present the final roll of honour.