Ride report by Le Kuan
After waiting for the latest news on the blog, I came to the conclusion that it would probably be too much to expect Peter to write it up as he did not actually do the ride (but his presence was not far).
We milled around the car park, numbers swelling but a little directionless. Many had just turned up “to do the ride” and not checked the route. Some had checked the route, but not looked at the map. I was in the position where I had checked where we were meant to be going, and somewhat remembered the way from previous excursions. My last attempt at leading the group on the ride was one Sunday after the meeting point had just changed. We had a few detours in suburban Como, which resulted in one of the riders leaving in disgust.
Anyway, being the “leader” by default, we progressed up the climbs of Coode Street. We hadn’t got far, when I was encouraged to see that Pete had taken on the role of Tour photographer Graeme Watson, and had positioned himself on one of the slopes. I got out of the saddle, to try to make myself look more powerful in the shots, as it’s all about the look you know. I digress, but I can’t help but think that young Ben’s childhood memories will unfortunately be filled with sweaty men in green tights.
I was beginning to get the hang of leading, with Dr Markus (not a urologist) in front of our procession. I was musing to myself what a responsible task it was, pointing out the road hazards, not getting lost, and most importantly setting the tempo so that our social group did not get strung out, gasping for air, and unable to indulge in the Saturday chit chat. There’s little danger of us going too fast with me leading the way (it’s bloody hard work – especially after going for a ride before the ride with Ryan and Jerry).
We had a bit of a warming up spin, picking Dougy up on Canning Highway before crossing the freeway. I had in fact made it to the hills of Risely Street before having to let others have a go setting pace. A traffic light split the group, but we were soon united by some soft pedalling. The boys (it’s always the boys) must have woken up eager as the pace picked up on Murdoch Drive to the stop lights on South Street after another photo opportunity.
When we stopped to turn right at the lights, we groaned as we saw a huge truck slowly headed for Fremantle with what must have been a part of an oil rig (or for Jerry’s new outdoor barbecue in his new palace). It was useless for drafting as it was mainly comprised of air between what must have been 10,000 tonnes of steel bars. There was a long procession of already irate drivers, and 50 bikes taking up the inside lane may have caused an ugly scene. Miraculously, the lights changed, letting us follow behind the convoy and a suspiciously nervous looking learner driver. Much unlike other sprint stages, the group did not just swarm en-masse all over the road. I was surprised to see a relatively orderly pace line. People must have been intimidated by the traffic and truck (you may beat it on the way up a hill, but it may catch you coming down). As the truck pulled away however, people were starting to go for it. The undulating hills do me no favours as I dropped back due to my nemesis – gravity.
We regrouped at the Stock road lights where a small traffic jam had formed due to the large load attempting to make a left turn. The cyclists threaded trough the stationary cars and fortuitously, we were all together again after turning right. We saw Ryan talking to someone in a car, and thought that he was giving a motorist a serve, but were relieved when we saw it was Pete (he sure does get around). We mostly kept it together up the hill, over the top, and down again to regroup at the lights. Through the lights, we made a left turn up the steady climb on Marmion Street. Although it was not a designated “sprint point”, the wolves were ready for blood, and again everyone was off. I also made note that Davina was NOT having a rest day today. The climbs and descents made for fast and spectacular riding, more so for one young lad whose rear dérailleur had exploded.
The pace naturally came down as we made the turn left onto Stirling Highway. It accelerated however thanks to the efforts of Nick on the front. I could see the signs that some people were less comfortable with the pace, so I self-righteously went to the front to bring it down a bit. It worked to some extent as we headed north along Fremantle’s beaches, being buffeted by the wind. Words of warning to keep the pace down through Cottesloe were going through my mind, when the pace again went up. You can’t hold back all that testosterone and it was all hell for leather again (if you DO want to hold back the testosterone for some reason, come and see me at work and I’ll “fix” you up). From memory, it was a lovely day with plenty of sunshine and beautiful waves and other scenery, but I can’t picture it clearly, as it was a blur of speed.
The pace eventually settled, as we went through the busy part of Cottesloe, courtesy of a lady walking in front of the bunch with a pram, underestimating the power of bike brakes. It’s hard to stop confidently when your brakes are just some pencil erasers rubbing onto a skinny aluminium rim. Spent, the group (likely less a few members) made for the hills toward Swanbourne and Dalkeith. The hills and traffic fragmented the Rouleurs who managed again to regroup at the Dalkeith lights. Here I resumed my customary place stalking the back of the group. Pace is really not going to be too quick down the double bends. It did pick up past Waratah Avenue and on the slight descent past the Bowls club. The subsequent rise in the road always sorts riders by their level of commitment, and we were soon rewarded by the fall and sweeping bend of one of my favourite pieces of road. The hill seems perfect for powering up, as you are always carrying a bit of speed. It depends on unfortunately your level and duration of power in what style you make it to the top. Wheezing breathlessly, I managed to stay in touch with those I had overtaken earlier to make it down the hill, past UWA. My least favourite road is the roundabout that has been under construction for three months. I suspect that in China the same bit of tarmac would be built overnight on a public holiday.
Anyway as we turned down Mounts Bay Road, you could feel the tension of the sprint. The pace wound up and the group stretched out in single file. I couldn’t see over the horizon to the lead, but I think it was Nick doing the CSC thing to punish everyone again. No guts, no glory, so I made a move to reach the front. By the time I had reached about ¾ up, I knew it was futile and time to seek refuge in the gap Schneiderman had considerately opened. From there, it was hang on and grit your teeth, waiting for the sawing sound of rubber on the road for the green flash to ride past. I looked up to see that Ryan had miraculously come from behind to win the sprint closely followed by Jerry. (Those who write further Saturday blogs are free to cut and paste the preceding sentence. As you may conclude, here is not much you can do to maintain any tension whatsoever, as the end result is as predictable here as any cheap porno – but less messy).
Efforts over, we weaved (courteously crossed the lanes) all over the road to get to the coffee shop. This is probably where some coordination really is needed as we must avoid becoming road-kill. Instinctively, I know that everyone moves to the left, but unless you are leaving the group and headed for South Perth on the path, you should really be on the rightmost lane to cross the road. Also, it helps to indicate to the cars who surely must be confused by riders in all three lanes. Calling out cars also helps those riders in front without mirrors. No point ending a good ride (and it was very good) on a bad note – kudos to Pete who seems bordering on insanity with his dedication to keeping the rides worth attending (as reflected by the swelling numbers).
