To those who haven’t checked the blog for a while, take the time to scroll down (past this post) to important posts and notices below.

Sorry all that the pictures are late. Doing this gives you an appreciation of the workload that goes into a professional photographer’s day. Not only do they have to take the pictures hanging off a motorcycle, but they have to download them onto their computer, apply any retouching to cropping and exposure, edit the content, upload to the website with a caption. Having to work seems to put a barrier on playing with the toys.

Having the gear that works is the minimum requirement. Not only does pro stuff look cool, but it often is quite weatherproof, and got more settings to allow the camera to adjust for one’s own inadequacies (photographic I mean).

Thanks to Chuck for driving around the course to catch up with the riders, allowing for more variety in the action. It was almost looking like a long walk back for a time (must remember to keep all your batteries charged Chris). In all a dreary day turned into an exciting one with good racing and spectating – well worth the trip down.

Le Kuan

The fickle finger of fate had decided I would not go on the ride today – as my alarm had been conveniently left off.

It goes without saying that I was grateful in joining the great masses in a state of slumber on our literally God-given-public-long-weekend-holiday.

I woke again at about 8am (an unGodly hour by our standards) to face a dillema. How do I face everyone having not ridden this morning? Scarborough Beach Rd is usually a fast ride, and as it includes a longish hill, and a stretch of exposed highway, normally not one I enjoy particularly. If we had the statistical record keeping that the boys on the cricket channel have, I’m sure it rains 67.3% of the time, and I get dropped 98% of the time (both of which happened on the way to the last SPR breakfast not held at home base A.K.A. the clubhouse, A.K.A. Pete’s home. In fact I was happy not to go as I had a 58% chance of being caught at the  lights on ScrBchRd (could be shortened to SBR) where you are going at 75kph after climbing the hill, and 87% chance of being yelled at by a cashed (not so under these strained financial times) up Bogan from Trigg in a Malloo ute.

Anyway I had decided to try out my new toy, and to surprise the group with some action shots. As fortune would have it I live just a stone’s throw from the route of the ride. I know how those lucky devils must feel in France come July. A short stroll would put me in perfect vantage to catch everyone as they rode past. As we live in Australia, this precludes the shirts off, spraypaint the road and running with antlers on a gridiron helmet antics. Shame, as I had just got the devil costume back from the drycleaners – they ask no questions…

A few peaceful minutes passed as I waited at the park on Victoria Ave for the SPR peloton to ride past. I took the oportunity to take a few test shots at some birds’ backsides as the flew / jogged past. I didn’t know that enjoying nature could be so revitalising!

About 10 other cycle groups had ridden past and I had almost given up hope when I saw the SPR formation crest the hill. Resplendent in team colours it was surely an impressive sight. I barely had time to click off a few frames when it was all over. My aspiration to become a sporting photographer was looking like by hopes of becoming a half decent cyclist. Alas it in actuality is much harder than it seems. Those shots you see in magazines or on the web must either:

1) Be staged

2) Be the result of extraordinary luck

3) Represent 0.0000001% of all usable shots – the rest being boring / out of focus / got the wrong cyclist / blurry etc..

4) Be the result of imense talent (which obviously must take some work to get)

Anyway:

As I reviewed my pictures I contemplated – what other extravagant equipment could help redress my lack of talent (see the parallells with cycling?), and if my wife would go for getting a motorbike license so I could perch on the pillion in front of the group (so much easier than actually riding on the front of the group). My musings were cut short by a phonecall from Christophe which started with the usual “Bonjour Melvyn, how are you today?”. The next “What are you doing this morning? There has been a bad crash”. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight – that was not really what I wanted to hear. Needless to say I drove over as soon as I could to find thankfully only superficial scratches on the bikes………………. and more importantly seemingly minor injuries on the riders. The events around the crash will be discussed again and again I’m sure. They include a gumnut, about 5 bikes, and a small quantity of blood. Luckily the do not involve anything like plaster / slings – or worse – an emergency call to PBK on Easter weekend. It must be said that it sounds like the events were unavoidable misfortune.

I will make a plea (to be serious, at the peril of sounding like a nanna), to all cyclists, as the most vulnerable of road users, that as we enjoy the privilege and cameraderie of competing in our sport, that we don’t lose sight of what is really important especially during these holiday times – staying safe.

Oh, and looking stylish whilst doing that.

Le Kuan

I was quite fired up to go to the lecture at ECU as posted by Lorraine earlier in the blog. The title was a tantalising “MYTHS, SCIENCE AND PERFORMANCE IN CYCLING” and the promise of an international speaker in little old Perth was always a good endorsement.

My wife actually conceded to spend some “bike time” with me and come along as she has a passing interest in training and exercise physiology (we get entertained by that geeky stuff at home).

After rushing through the all day operating list to make the 7pm start (no patients were disadvantaged by trying to get out on time – only trainees) and gulping down a quick dinner we made our way to Joondalup ECU. My wife was co-piloting, and I have learned long ago that she always is right.

We progressed slowly up Thomas Street to be confronted with something not usually a hinderance on the bike – rush hour traffic. More tedious than doing a trackstand at the lights, I was secretly jealous as I saw rider after rider pass. It also gave me a chance to reflect on (appaling) Perth drivers’ behaviour. I think one problem is the attitude that every last spot needs to be fought over and cars left and right were revving up to beat the Yaris to the next lights. People simply cannot stand to “lose” position in the stream of cars, and the senseless swerving and lurching makes traffic less predictable and consequently less fluid.

That behaviour is carried over with merging, as it is not the done thing to let someone into the lane lest they actually drive in front of you. Some drivers couldn’t believe it when I wouldn’t contest the spot in front of myself and gave way. They seemed quite smug to be 3m ahead of me in a queue moving at 3kph. One day I’ll go for the spot, but preferably in an old beat up uninsured Valiant. Newer cars like Prados and polished HSV utes seem to shy away when a carefree old banger with no paint to lose muscles in.

Anyway we arrived at Joondalup ECU with most of our cool intact in plenty of time to find that the talk was titled “MYTHS, SCIENCE AND PERFORMANCE IN CYCLING“. Unfortunately we found out it was subtitled something like “the influence of crank lenght and pedal velocity”…….. Oh dear – we had left out eggheads at home and were not keen on a tedious dissertation (that is what we go to work for).

Anyhow as 7pm rolled up, the room filled with young cyclist types, older masters been cycling before you were born types, not sure if you are an exercise phsiologist or a cyclist or both types, two women who were somewhat patronised by the predominantly male crowd who looked like they were actually very fit riders themselves and demonstrated their seriousness by actually brining paper to take notes types, myself, fuming wife, Jerard, simmering Lorraine (spearate incident the night before).

James martin himself was actually quite good speaker, but had unfortunately lost some of the crowd in his esoteric talk. I will summarise:

Crank length does not seem to matter with MAX POWER (study of 16 with 3 crank lengths from 140-220mm at differnt cadences)

Crank length does not seem to affect fatigue due to the lever effect (as we have gears on our bikes). Fatigue occurs proportional to a pedalling harder, and more times (duh!!)

Pedal speed seems to be the buzzword with regard to making more power.

Pedal speed is proportional to metabolic cost (duh!)

No magic formulas or secret tricks – to go harder and faster you need to get stronger and fitter and more aero/reduce load.

All that stuff about making circles round the pedal stroke is likely to be fallacy – we have ample proof in Johnny and in the past Alistair who kick butt riding in tennis shoes and not doing an upstroke.

I actually suspected as much, although physiology reseach is seriously underpowered statistically when comparing to larger trials in medicine. There were other “highlights” of the night in some questions that came up, but even now I can feel the heat radiate from my wife as they came up. I must say however that it was quite worthwhile to see a scientific discussion although I probably owe my wife bigtime for indulging in my hobby.

Maybe she would like a new bike? Something in 48cm frame?

Le Kuan

DISCLAIMER  – My chronicle of the voyage down Benara is from my perspective and may have been embelished with artistic license to make it a good read. Apart from Brett, who can vouch for the veracity, or lack theroff, no one else can claim to have seen or experienced the strange and wonderful events on the ride after we dropped out of the group after a flat.

he day started innocently (and early enough) with a short ride before the ride to City Beach to pick Jerard up. I get scared of the dark, so riding in a group is preferable. The East wind was blowing steadily, from the outer suburbs. One could almost detect the stench of stale VB wafting through the air over the scent of lavender and frangipani of the Western Suburbs. As dawn broke, all manner of sins masked by the dusk gloom were uncovered. Zombie like creatures staggering home from Claremont HJ’s to their gloomy daytime dens scurried across the street, scattering shards of treacherous broken glass on the roads. My trusty steed carried me well up rolling hill and dale to the seaside hamlet of City Beach, known for bracing winds and castle like abodes resisting many a tempest from the ocean.

I found my trusty compatriot, waiting for me with ample provisions (a bidon of cytomax and a GU) for our voyage of exploration and discovery into the Shire (of Guilford). We had an anxious short wait for the third in our party – Ryan, who would guide us to the meeting place South of Perth. A Mistral was brewing as Ryan arrived, with a cheerful grin of half grown facial hair. We traded customary small talk as we ventured forth to the east lands. Ryan soon set a breathless (for me) pace into the wind. Like some enchanted force, riding in front he made our journey easier breaking the wind (some would later be less charitable about Ryan’s wind breaking – but that is another story to tell). We soon made good time into the Sun, taking every oportunity it seemed to visity every undulation on the way.

Not a moment too soon we had arrived in time for the great departure. Riders from far and wide had gathered to make voyage into the Lands of Benara. There were Clan Trek, whose numbers had dwindled from pre-eminence, Giants from East Asia, exotic folk from Pinarello and Colnago, and the new force of Cervelo whose numbers had been swelling of late. Of almost fifty we numbered as we made off away. Some notable absences were noted from Fondreist who would surely be missed.

The tempo built up along Mill Point Road, a sign of what would come. A procession into the Sun, and wind as we headed onward Eastern Highway, relentlessly grinding away. At the front of the pack riders threw themselves against the wind as it tore at their limbs, sapping away strength. The front runners bore the brunt of the force, as following riders sheilded themselves, saving their energies for later. We took a circuitous route past the green fields of Ascot, crossing the waters and finally turning onto the road to Guilford.

There were mutterings in the pack as when likely points of ambush or attack would form. For now however, it seemed the elements had driven both friend and foe into silent work against the relentless wind. As we were nearing our goal, enthusiastic chargers increased the pace, eager for battle. The more experienced folk who had seen foolhardy efforts in the past steadied themselves for later efforts. As I was musing on what lay ahead, I gave a cry out as I discoverd that my steed had trod on some glass and was going lame! Selflessly I urged fellow adventurers to go on to their destiny, as I was equipped to make repair and return. Brett of Cervelo had seen my need and against my urging prepared to stop. He had courageously done so as we were in the middle of no-where with little defence against local neanderthals should they attack. We were fortunate as we had ventured early, and they had not yet roused from slumber.

Together we prised the shard and made preparation to repair my steed. Before long, with makeshift repair, we were able to set forth again. The body of adventurers were no where to be seen, but we did not despair as we carried within out hearts and minds a map of the wastelands. We took a little travelled short-cut discovered by Paul of Tomassini and his loyal friends Wally and Greg (both with Trek – but fortunate enough not to have permanent ties to any one clan). Through Bassendean, we made left turn down aptly named Lord Street. I was a little filled with trepidation as this would take us to the less friendly lands of Lockridge where allies would be few and far between. Together we drew breath trying to make up for lost time – charging up small hills – before our tresspass was discovered.

Without incident, we made the round-about of Benara. We had driven hard, but were not rewarded with signs of our fellow adventurers. We could see to the east where there must have been an epic battle, with feats of legendary strength and overtaking. We knew from previous skirmishes that the outcome would have been nasty, with riders strewn down the length of the road, the strong making flight from chasers that they hoped would be just that little bit weaker. Our only hope was to make flight ourselves like the wind after our friends as we had plans to meet up at journey’s end.

Riding like the wind again we took turns to make the pace. We could hardly hear the wind over our own exertions as we raced across the flatlands, as though chased by demonic dervishes. No other riders loomed on the horizon, our task looking hopeless – until fellow Brett took inspiration. He knew of another less known route, down Crimea Street that would intersect the main road. As we turned, I was pleased with what I saw –  a wide, clean, empty double laned street that could be taken with pace. We redoubled our efforts making good time to Morley. We however were not rewarded by our companions who surely must have only recently departed. Tantalisingly close, we had decided to track back home down Beaufort, knowing our friends may have been delayed down trafic lights on Railway.

Brett again found inspiration with the chase, making a route though back streets across the railway over bridge in Inglewood. At once we caught a glimpse of our goal in the distance, close but making good pace away. We set chase with gravity aiding, but in vain. We simply could not make gain on riders at full speed! No matter however as the river was near, and with every second our journey’s end drew closer. We could hear the cheers coming from the drinking hall as we drew in, both of us relieved to make journey end unscathed.

My friends, that concludes my tale of our tentative journey on Saturday. I will save for another (more guillible) time the tales where we escaped certain calamity from natural and un-natural forces with our powerful sprinting, or where we scaled steep icy peaks in the big ring with little effort against unspeakable foes. I am sure that in time the true battles and exploits of the main group will come to light, but for now my humble chronicle will serve to mark that day.

-Le Kuan