I was certainly not early and with such notorious clock-watchers as Digger and l’Azzardo en route it was a wonder that I had to wait as long as I did on my lonesome at the start of the 2010 ANZAC Day Two-up Time Trial. It was going to be a sad state of affairs if I had to do the ride solo, but being as it was actually ANZAC Day and the cookies had been baked, I was prepared to do whatever had to be done to maintain tradition.

Finally a small sack of Coglioni came off the bike path and into Burke Drive. Things quickly went further amiss as Nickname rode straight past in pursuit of coffee. I fear the C.C.C. G.G.C. will take a dim view of his actions, especially as he left us not just odd in spirit but odd in number. Fortunately the wise heads that had conceived the event were well aware of the ancient problem of dividing uneven headcounts in two, and had catered for this eventuality in the rules.

And so to the toss. It was quickly apparent that no-one could really remember the procedure from last year, and a short period of confusion and delay ensued. (For future reference I believe the correct procedure to be: (1) place rider names in a jersey pocket; (2) place pennies (one of which is marked) in another jersey pocket; (3) drawer a name and a penny and toss the penny to determine which face to associate with the rider; (4) drawer another name and associate that with the other face of the penny drawn at step 3; (5) drawer another name and toss the second penny to determine which face to associate with the rider; (6) drawer another name and associate that with the other face of the second penny; (7) return the pennies to the jersey pocket and repeat steps 3 to 6 until you run out of names; (8) if there is a name left over return the other names to the jersey pocket and draw a name out to see who will double up.)

The pairs for this year were O’Dirty and Digger, Chuck and Babel, and l’Azzardo and Bif with The Doctor the odd one out. Digger, Chuck and l’Azzardo declined to participate in the second drawer to find him a partner and before long it was determined that Babel would do the honour of doubling up.

This made Chuck and Babel the first pair to go under starter’s orders to give Babel half a chance to recover before doing his second ride. O’Dirty and Digger were off next followed by l’Azzardo and your humble scribe. The poor turn-out meant a long wait for The Doctor as he could not start until the first two pairs had returned - one to give him a partner and the other to relieve him of timing duties.

L’Azzardo and I had a simple plan. He would lead off to ensure we stayed together at the start, then when up to speed I would take the lead and sit on the front for as long as I could manage while he hung onto my wheel as tight as tight could be. This worked surprisingly well on the first leg and rather than wondering how often we would need to regroup I was soon wondering how soon I would need to call on l’Azzardo’s services at the front.

By the time we reached the start of the hill leading to the turn-around (my HRM data would later show) our average speed was nudging 37 km/hr, though that had dropped to 33 km/hr by the time we came down the other side. Every time I looked back l’Azzardo was locked in my shadow and the average had worked its way back up to 34 km/hr after 5.5 km, but then disaster struck. The gentle nudge on my back wheel seemed out of all proportion to the ensuing scraping, banging and thudding as l’Azzardo came down in a heap.

By the time I pulled up and looked back he was lying in something like a foetal position by a power pole at the side of the road. I ran back as fast as my cleats would allow and arrived just as a car pulled up and a dog-walker ran over. Despite obvious scrapes and bruises and the abruptness of the stop suggested by the proximity of the pole, l’Azzardo was soon showing his Coglioni grit by adjusting his limbs back to their normal positions and getting to his feet. After a few eye and memory tests to ensure some brain function was present he was soon dismissing the offer of a lift from the motorist (they’ll be giving way to us next) and remounting his unscathed bike to complete the ride.

Time was no longer an issue and I do not know in the end how long had elapsed by the time we returned to the start, but it was just as a couple of faithful Coglioni were setting off to find out what had become of us. Gruppo compatto at the start line l’Azzardo and I related a brief version of his war story before proceedings got under away again.

It was time for The Doctor to line up with Babel on his second outing. In a moment of selfishness or self-preservation it occurred to me that since we had not recorded a time and l’Azzardo was sensibly declining the chance to do the climb up Stock Road I was about to miss out on the Two-up TT altogether. I gave voice to my angst and found Babel willing and ready to sacrifice the joy of doubling up, and in moments was on the start line with The Doctor.

This had seemed like a good idea with the spur of the moment jabbing at my backside, but I soon realised I was still breathless and shell-shocked from my outing with l’Azzardo. We had also neglected to discuss tactics which I suspect may have cost us ten or fifteen seconds in the end, as I don’t think either of us pushed it as hard as we could have with a bit more coordination.

So it was off to the base of the climb with only seventeen seconds separating first and last. This was a much tighter situation than last year, when although only four seconds split the two leading teams it was already a minute and a quarter from first to last. Fortunately timing the climb was a simplified affair as l’Azzardo volunteered to ride to the top and do the honours. We could only hope that if he was seeing double he would stop the clock as the right one of us crossed the line.

I can only report my own experience which began with a botched cleat engagement, perhaps due to having a car looming up behind me as the final seconds ticked away. From then on it was the chest-rending feeling of being spent yet unable to get going. It was a bit steadier than last year when I had more puff on the steep start and then struggled to find rhythm around the corner. This time I had some rhythm from the start but the struggle was also along for the ride from the get-go. I never really had the chance to test what I thought I’d learnt last year when I failed to change up after rounding the corner - either it wasn’t close to being an option or somehow I’d managed to reach that point a gear up already. In any case I approached the finish feeling like I was not on target for a good time, which made it impossible to push that little bit more across the line, and I could only think bad words as l’Azzardo urged me on.

With the riding done we retired to Gino’s to talk bollocks and watch the passing parade. I should have been elated knowing The Doctor and I had posted the best accumulated time, but instead it seemed a strangely hollow victory. Was it the ad hoc nature of our partnership or the aftershock of l’Azzardo’s crash? Or perhaps it was the knowledge that according to the promotional hype absentees would be given the opportunity of posting times after the event. The prospect of Spunker teaming up with Stuey or Paddles, or new boys Gaz and Boab, was an intimidating one.

Early in the following week I sent out an edict that, in fairness to those who had ridden on the day, we should get it done and dusted at a single re-run no later than the following Sunday. Stuey tossed his cap in the ring and nominated Sunday, but as it turned out Spunker jumped the gun with a solo run at it on Wednesday. No doubt he was worried that the effects of his “secret training” in Margaret River over the weekend would wear off if he left it too long. If so he was right as he set impressive times both on the flat and on the hill. Indeed he has made fools of the rest of us and can no doubt thank his current status as Golden Goolies champion for saving him from excommunication, or worse.

Unfortunately this rousing rebel ride seemed to go against the spirit of having a single re-run so to avoid a conflict of interest I passed adjudication of the event to O’Dirty. He was adamant that we should keep to the spirit of a two-person team event and solo efforts could not be allowed, though he did finally soften and concede that some sort of averaging system could be used to combine Spunker’s effort with someone else’s.

As it turned out all was quiet on Burke Drive on the Sunday following ANZAC Day. Without your humble scribe to goad people into action, and with O’Dirty staying mum, the troops refused to step into the breach and no further times were recorded. This leaves Spunker and his lawyers with a dilemma. Since no-one rode on the second Sunday he could argue that his re-run was the one and only legitimate re-run and therefore consistent with the rules that had been distributed. No doubt he will soon have a chance to argue his case in a beer court, but I feel O’Dirty will not be swayed and The Doctor and your humble scribe will duly receive the 2010 ANZAC Day Two-up Time Trial trophy.

Yes, dear reader, a trophy does exist, and Spunker can take consolation in the knowledge that having been deprived of it last year by the apathy of the tropy committee, he will get to keep his half of it for half a year anyway before it is passed on to this year’s winners. Here for the record are the results.

Other possible titles for this post included “Another one for the trophy cabinet” or some kind of twist on last year’s JDRF Spin post title (”Fuzzy in a warm and gutsy way”?), but in the end it was the redemption of Babel that stole the headline. Readers of this website will know well the physical and mental agony he has suffered recently in the hills and on the coast. Those who know him even slightly would not have doubted that these setbacks would only tighten  the steel in his guts for the eight minutes of madness and pain that is the JDRF Spin to Cure Diabetes.

This year’s preparation could be described as lackadaisical compared to the weeks of research, discussion, thought experiments, and occasional training that lead up to last year’s event. This time around research consisted of reading last year’s post, discussion mainly centred around how to avoid getting completely obliterated if we won the bar tab again, thought experiments were limited to assuming the spin bikes would be the same, and for me at least training amounted to a couple of half-hearted attempts to stay in a low gear while spinning up the freeway bike path on my way to work.

I had some excuses of course. Being busy at work limited the amount of time that could be spent chasing up the finer details of the event, O’Dirty’s mag-trainer had gone home again following its sojourn at Blinder’s and good old Aldo was taking his sweet time getting to the bottom of the problems with the hub on my single-speed. I can only assume the rest of the team found themselves in similar straits.

Things weren’t going so well on the fundraising front either. O’Dirty had been our star last year but with the event coming a bit earlier he was busy junketing for most of the prime donation window. Luckily I got a couple of fat donations from my overpaid Eurotrash friends and Spunker was calmly steadying the ship as team captain and leading fundraiser. The rest of the team chipped in nicely at the end, with a few donations even coming from the notoriously stingy C.C.Coglioni fold and on the eve of the event we were assured of passing the $2000 target required for entry.

I was first to arrive at Central Park on the big day. I was prepared for all the noise and hullabaloo of last year, so it was a surprise to enter a somewhat subdued arena. DJ Bronia and her spinning beats were back, but the pneumatic spin-meistress and her manly companion were nowhere to be seen. The crowd was also thinner on the ground despite the weather being much nicer. I guess this was in part due to us racing in the first bracket this year rather than the second, meaning I was arriving pre-event rather than in the thick of things.

Having signed in I immediately noticed that the Kaiser M3 bikes we had so over-researched last year had been replaced by classic flywheel spin bikes from Lemond. There were no cleats on the pedals and we would soon learn that in place of the range of “gears” offered by the M3s there was a preset fixed resistance for each bike and we were strictly instructed not to adjust it before or during our ride. Simple bike computers had been attached with magnets on the flywheel to record our “speed” and “distance”.

Before long the West Perth contingent arrived and signed in and we claimed a table and sat around waiting for Babel to roll up and for the fun to begin. The MC seemed a little disappointed that all the teams were taking it very casually with no stretches or warm-ups for him to commentate on. Meanwhile Spunker, who was up first, was doing his best to unsettle my nerves by standing around in mufti as the minutes remaining to the start ticked by.

Soon enough Babel arrived and Spunker stepped up to the shaky platform for his eight minutes of glory and pain. We had decided that not being able to adjust the resistance made things both simpler and harder. It was simpler because there was no need to think about anything but spinning during the event. It was harder because the low resistance made it more difficult to control your leg speed. Our naive guess was that it was going to be harder to achieve the sort of distances we recorded on the Keiser machines.

After a suitable amount of faffing over the adjustable parts of the bike Spunker set off gamely. He looked to be going well compared to the other riders in the first set, but a harsh critic might have noted that he was a little distracted by the comely competitor to his left, and that he appeared remarkably jolly until at least the halfway mark. By that time it was clear he was going to struggle to crack the five kilometre mark, and despite a significant amount of face-pulling at the end the clock stopped with 4.82 km on the odometer.

An excellent captain’s start had been made, but could we back it up? Cookie was up next and as he had most conspicuously fallen victim to the power temptation last year the pressure was on. We knew he could light up a small town but could he spin like Lance?  Gonzalez and Hull had noted in 1989 that optimal cadence decreased with rider size, but what about maximum cadence? And what would this mean to Cookie anyway, given that pedal strokes are after all just leg movements leaving your body?

From our comfortable position in the audience it was another long eight minute wait wondering if Cookie would break the machine or the wobbly stage would collapse first. It turned out to be the seat-post clamp that could not take the strain, with O’Dirty leaping to reinstate Cookie’s posterior to its preferred position as his seat-post began to disappear into the bike’s frame. Despite this setback he turned in a creditable 4.66 km when the MC put a stop to the joy of pain.

O’Dirty strode to the stage with singular purpose. The casual observer might have thought his steely gaze was set on passing the five kilometre barrier to anchor an historic C.C.Coglioni victory. In fact the prize that held his eye was more personal: beat Spunker! By this time my focus must have been shifting inwards towards my impending eight minutes of pain, for I can recall little of the dirty one’s time on the bike. Suffice it say that he did indeed prove youth is wasted on the Spunker, coming home with 4.93 km.

We were feeling pretty confident with 14.41 km on the board after three riders. As hard as it was to judge other’s efforts without the numbers we felt we’d had the best of the set so far. Unless the second bracket contained significantly stronger teams a win was in the bag, and a strong ride from Babel should be enough to tie it up. But could he deliver? Was he due for redemption or would his face turn Pantone 186C for the third consecutive outing in the C.C.C. colours?

We did not have to wait long to find out - from the off it was clear we were witnessing a master spin class as his feet whirled into a cadential blur. With two minutes gone he was on target to be the first rider to crack the five kilometre mark. At four minutes it was still looking good. At six minutes the brow was furrowed and the flow of sweat was enough to fill a small river. The flesh was weakening but the spirit was strong. At eight minutes a resounding benchmark had been set at 5.14 km. The power of Babel was evident and his unnecessary redemption was complete.

This left your humble scribe in an interesting position. Like Babel I felt the need for redemption, following my disappointing result in last year’s spin. On the other hand we were in a strong position and it might make more sense to cruise to a consolidating distance rather than blow up trying to emulate Babel’s performance.

The first task was to forget glory and tame the machine. Somehow it had not occurred to me that these flywheel beasts would not have freewheels, so my first spin of the pedals is best described as ignominious. Having overspun against the light resistance I stopped pedaling only to have my feet kicked off the pedals by the momentum of the flywheel, forcing me to sit there for half a minute feeling like guess what I got for Christmas as the pedals slapped away at my feet.

With that embarrassment behind me and various adjustments made to the rig all was in readiness as the MC counted down to the start. But, wait! The computer isn’t resetting! The countdown continued as my calls to stop got louder and more frantic while my pit crew fruitlessly pressed the reset button. Then almost as one the MC heeded my plea and the button responded.

Now we were off. I was immediately surprised how hard it was to keep the flywheel and the reported “speed” steady. A little too much effort sent it spinning wildly at an impossible pace, but ease back a little and it slowed rapidly below the target zone that nudged at forty km/hr. Things soon got worse - my seat was too far forward and I found myself squeezed between its nose and the bars, making smooth pedaling difficult. Each effort to push myself back to a comfortable position cost me dearly, as the speed plummeted down to the low thirties, and before long I would slide forward again. For a while I thought I should try to make the best of it, but then I thought better of that and caught O’Dirty’s eye. Already a bit breathless I could only wheeze “Seat back!” and thankfully he quickly got me into a better position.

With my position stablised and smooth pedaling restored I was able to sit in the high thirties. Now the minutes just had to tick by. At one point O’Dirty wandered past and whispered that the MC was coming past checking speeds. I saw his shoes in my peripheral vision and made sure to spin it up a little: “40 km/hr!” was the call. Then I was into the last minute. It was getting really hard to continue, but I was getting great support from my one-woman pit crew for the day, who was calling for a little more effort whenever I flagged. Then the MC was back on the air, surely to start the ten second countdown, but no, it was still thirty seconds to go. Finally it was over, and through bleary sweat-filled eyes I could see Babel in front of me, but only by 70 metres.

I staggered off and sat down and was wisely advised to get up and keep walking around. Perhaps it was the only way they would know I was still alive. Then the long wait through the second bracket. We remained confident but inevitably nervous after last year’s result. Here and there there seemed to be the odd good spinner, but no team seemed likely to threaten our total of 24.62 km.

In the end we won by more than two kilometres, but only after a nerve-wracking call as Team IBM (”IBM - was that us?”) came in third and second-placed “Business and Private Banking” were announced as “C…B.A. Business and Private Banking” with an eternal pause between “C” and “B”. Then came the seemingly endless prizes. A couple of bottles of wine each for winning the fundraising contest. Oddly the lucrative bar tab was now the prize for the main event, along with another bottle of wine, a trophy, an alleged month’s gym membership, and… a box of fruit.

Armed with our booty we retired to the George for a quiet celebratory drink. Brief contemplation that we might have done the best distance nationally was quashed within hours when O’Dirty confirmed that two teams at the Sydney event had totaled over 25 km, though it was heartening to know that with a team of five Babels we’d have beaten them all.

That night I rode from the CBD to Zippy’s parents’ place after work. My pace was slow and as a quicker rider passed me I wanted to shout “I’ve got a laptop and three bottles of wine in my backpack, and I rode really hard for eight minutes at lunchtime!” A week later the ripped adductor muscles in my legs were still complaining whenever I asked for a bit of extra effort on a hill. How could eight minutes do more damage than the nine and a half hours of the Five Dams?