The Cycling Adventurer
Randonneuring
Giro Tasmania 1000 — 2005
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The Cycling Adventurer |
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Randonneuring |
Giro Tasmania 1000 — 2005 |
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A third successful attempt at a tough event
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Date: January 2005 Introduction
The Giro Tasmania is one of the tougher randonnees in Australia, and probably the world. It covers 1,000km, as the title suggests, and is over a route that basically circumnavigates the island State of Tasmania in Australia. The route was developed in the 1990s by Helen Beggs and Brad Phillips, two Bicycle Tasmania members and very keen cycling toursits. The original has a few side trips to visit various tourism features, but of course for the GT1000, these sidetrips are bypassed.
In total, the randonnee route covers 1033km, starting and finishing in Hobart right outside Parliament House. It traverses the East Coast, runs across the northern part of the island to the West Coast, then through a World Heritage Area and the Derwent Valley back to Hobart.You can find out more information of the route from a touring cyclist perspective by clicking here.
A suggestion to use the route for a randonnee came in planning the 2003-2004 Audax Australia calendar for Tasmania. The first running was conducted at Easter 2003. However, a first attempt at the course was made by me and Tim Stredwick well before that. Both attempts were aborted for various reasons. The second one was at Easter 2004.
But we persisted, and when plannning the 2004-2005 Audax year, we took all the reasons why the attempts weren't successful, and decided that the best time to run the event was in early January 2005.
Now, I have no way of measuring how tough this event really is. I have done PBP; I recall lots of climbing, but the magic height there was around 349 metres on Roc Travezal, so that means the event comprised rolling terrain compared with much of Tasmania. I have done the Great Southern 1200 in Victoria, Australia; there are some decent climbs, but the first 189km section, for example, is flat and there are some pretty flat parts elsewhere. Lavers Hill and a bit into the Grampians are the toughest climbs. For all I know, Giro Tasmania might only be a wimp compared with the hills of Wales and Cornwall in Britain.
I suppose the only measure I can give is one provided by the single Victorian participant who joined us, Gareth Evans. He said after the first day-and-a-half: "This is like doing five Alpine Classics in a row". The Classic is a 200km gut-wrenching climb into the Australian Alpine country held every January.
Later, Tim and I discussed just how tough this event might be. We know that Paris-Brest-Paris (1200km) is reputed to have an ascent of 33,000 feet of 9,900 metres and Boston-Montreal-Boston (also 1200km), climbing of around 40,000 feet (12,000 metres). We don't have an empirical guide to the total altitute gain on the GT1000, but we estimate it to be around 43,000 feet or 12,900 metres... for an event 200km shorter.
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The GT route has more than a few significant climbs that start with 10 percent grades on Bust Me Gall Hill and the long Black Charlies Opening soon after the start. Then follows consecutively Weldborough Pass, The Sideling, Cethana, Mt Black, Strahan to Queenstown, the 99 Bends, Mt Arrowsmith, Wayatinah, Ouse, and Rosegarland.
The Giro certainly can be finished with patience, persistence and planning. A participant doesn't have to be a good climber; if I could finish within the time limit, just about anyone can. But it also became very obvious on the first two attempts that support was fundamental to a successful and more enjoyable ride, and the efforts of the Tasmanian Audax Australia correspondent, Paul Gregory, in leapfrogging us and keeping us well fuelled ensured we had an even chance of finishing.
There are no specific tips on how to ride the Giro Tasmania 1000 in the material on this site, but undoubtedly you will find some implied in there if you decide to take up the challenge of participating in it in coming years (the next one is planned for January 2007).
The Start In the end, Tasmania's reputation for hilly terrain was enough that only three of us fronted up at the start. Me, my regular ride partner Tim, and the Victorian, Gareth, whose previous maximum randonnee distance was 400km — on the Great Southern. Paul was our support crew for the event so we didn't have to carry bedding, tents and changes of clothes.
I had my trusty Fuji Touring and except for fitting new 25C Michelin Dynamics and building a bracket for the three front lights, I did remarkably little to it before the event. I did dispense with the rear rack and trunk bag, and went with an old Brooks saddlebag that had been donated to me by a bikophyle and former work colleague. Other stuff went into a new Topeak handelbar bag that made its debut on the GSR1200.
Tim had his most recent audax frame acquisition, having retired his old Avanti after PBP 2003 and his subsequent France/Spain tour. However, he made a concession to the expected climbing that lay ahead by fitting up chanrings purloined from his MTB.
Gareth fronted with his LeMond. Tim and I looked at each other with that surreptitious knowingness — the granny was 30-27. We gently teased Gareth about the quality of his knees. Gareth had the good grace to admit that he was hanging out for a bike shop where he could swap out the chainrings for an MTB set-up!
A hitch emerged as the 6.00pm start time came and went. One of the rear mudguard mounts on Gareth's bike had disappeared in transit from the mainland, and he had jury-rigged a repair with gaffer tape. Unfortunately, the guard ended up rubbing on the rear wheel, so we waited as he removed the guard entirely.
We set off from the front steps of Parliament House at 6.13pm. Two of us knew what lay ahead. The babe in arms set a healthy pace with an impressively high cadence. He was cautious, however, not to get too far ahead, as we were the locals with the course knowledge he needed. We had arranged to meet Paul as the first checkpoint at Orford, some 80km away.
The riding was pleasant. There was a light tailwind (a feature that was to persist for almost the entire ride), and the temperature was in the low teens (deg C). Traffic was also remarkably light by the time we had negotiated 13km of Intercity Cycleway and crossed the Derwent River at Bridgewater. We seemed to be out of the urban environment quite quickly. We had a few railway crossings that we negotiated with some care, and a several little ups and downs, including "Watertank Hill" just after Tea Tree. Over the other side was a two-kilometre downhill that was a nice respite. Then it was a zig-zag to the Tasman Highway, and the start of "real" riding towards the East Coast.
First there was Black Charlies Opening that peaked at something around 300+ metres, then the long straights of Runnymede before a grind up over Bust Me Gall Hill. From then it was a smooth run to Orford and the first stop point at the public toilets (!). Paul had hot water for tea and coffee and a few other bits and pieces waiting for us when we arrived around 10.00pm. The best part about this first section was the almost total lack of traffic, particularly the log trucks that make traversing by bike the narrow sections of road that seem to hang over the banks of the Prosser River seem quite perilous.
Gareth was optimistic. He made some comment about Black Charlies and Bust Me Gall as being hills. "Nah, they're only pimples, mate. Wait till you get to Weldborough Pass."
Getting Past the Doubts The East Coast of Tasmania is like most coastal regions — the roads follow an up-and-down profile as they cross various river valleys. There are a few steep climbs up coastal cliffs that add to the fun. But there are also some boring sections. Tim and I have done this road quite a few times over the past couple of years. And the flat sections got to me even this early in the ride. I started to think: "What the hell am I doing out here? Do I realise just how much riding and climbing and pain and sleeplessness there is ahead of me?"
I suppose the thoughts were strongest between the 100 and 120km mark. You know... that 10% to 12% mark. I started to think about how far it was to just the 20% mark, let alone the 33% mark and then half-way. Then two thoughts kicked in. The first was registering the inaugural imperial century for the year; and the second was that I had promised juciluci on the LD forum to gift a century to her. A line on some bike forum? Why should it mean so much? Well, there are all sorts of reasons attached to that. And it was the motivation to keep me moving on and on.
About six kilometres out of Swansea, Gareth pulled to the side of the road. A rear wheel puncture. I asked if he was ok, and said we would meet up in Swansea which was "just up the road". Of course, six kilometres is a bit more than "just up the road" in the dark on a road you don't know, and I think I could sense a bit of huffiness from him when he finally got to Swansea because I hadn't stopped. Oh well. I've learned to look after my interests first on these sorts of rides, and I wouldn't expect anyone to stop for me. His tyre was a bit underinflated, so Tim took to it with his HPX pump and that did the trick.
The First Power Nap We had arranged to meet Paul next at Bicheno. It was an uneventful section, and we caught up with him at the public toilets (! again) where we were treated to noodles, tea, and other stuff to restore energy. Tim and I power-napped for about 30 minutes. Gareth, I think, was still a bit wired, and messed around with the punctured tube and other stuff. Daylight was starting to bring life to the land and ocean landscapes as we left Bicheno.
Now, there are some bastard roads in Tasmania that I loathe, and there is one that bypasses the main highway starting at Falmouth. This road is boring, requires effort that on first appearance should not be warranted, and usually there is a nasty wind blowing in the wrong direction. Well, I thought I had it under control at first, but then came the last three kilometres. It's subtly uphill. There was a 15mph headwind. And no matter how hard I pedalled, I didn't seem to get above 13km/h. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. This road has just about destroyed me previously. Then right at the end is a 10% grade up to the highway junction. Well, at least Gareth agreed with my assessment. His mood didn't improve much on the way into Scamander, and we stopped at the first shop we could find that was open this early (about 8.30am) for sustenance.
"Coffee please," Gareth asked. Pause — stressed look on face of old guy behind counter. Stressed look on Gareth's face. "Don't you have a machine?"
The old guy had an ambivalent look as he said: "No", and continued to spoon instant coffee into the foam cup.
I leant over and quietly said to Gareth: "This is country Tasmania, mate. There aren't coffee shops out here". I really wish I had a camera. I followed up with: "The best coffee shop on the coast is back in Swansea, and they still wouldn't be open". Even more exasperation on his face.
Tim and I selected our pre-packaged iced coffee/choc milk from the fridge and other rubbish (high in carbs, of course) and went outside to eat and drink. Gareth came out with his foam plastic cup of instant coffee, and left it almost untouched on the window shelf of the shop right next to the front door.
I honestly thought: "Mate you don't give up any form of sustenance on a ride like this". I noticed he called into the service station further down the road, but I reckon his search for caffeine was to no avail. I said to Tim: "He'll need to be careful or he will be a complete mess at the end".
Onward and Upward We continued on and there was a nice little climb over the hills into St Helens, where Paul was asleep in his car waiting for our arrival. Tim was well ahead, as usual, and had already ordered his full breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and toast. I ordered the same, less the greasy sausages that I just couldn't face. Coke and flavoured milk were the liquid part of the meal. We all knew what was ahead of us — the first big climb, up Weldborough Pass. Tim spotted a couple on a tandem who called into the bakery further down the street. We conjectured whether we would meet up with them. Then a couple on single bikes with Canadian flags flying went past. We wondered aloud whether they knew what was ahead. Well, no more of this dilly-dallying. We got moving.
I went ahead because I knew it wouldn't be long before Tim caught up. It didn't take long for me to catch up to the Canadian couple who had pulled to the shoulder ahead of me. I gave them a happy greeting as I went past. Tim stopped and chatted with them. Not long afterwards he went past me, and I didn't see him again until the tiny township of Welborough (on the other side of the pass) where the next checkpoint was located.
I've pretty well come to expect what Weldborough can dish up. This day, it was quite benign. I stopped at the bottom to take off clothing, rehydrate/refuel, and generally get myself together. Then I was off. Gareth caught up with me about three-quarters of the way to the top. He was optimistic until I pointed out that the next flat was a false pinnacle, and indicated that the cleared forest right up above it was really it. "It's way up there." Why is it I find some perverse delight in doing that to a neophyte...?
Anyway, we ground out the last kilometre before we reached the pinnacle. Then I was away on one of the few fast twisty downhills of the whole ride that was DRY. Gareth said at Weldborough he just couldn't catch up I was going so fast. Hmmm. Good brakes helped. And a bit of knowledge of the road, I suppose. We spent about 45 minutes at Weldborough, behind a little hotel that I have to go back and visit as a proper touring cyclist.
Our next stop point was Scottsdale. In between was another decent climb to Derby, then a section of road that... well... on this ride, if I thought the East Coast link road was a bastard, this was the bitch.
Redneck Alert! I suppose one of the real benefits of riding in Tasmania is that despite the climbs averaging around four kilometres at 5 to 10% grade in many instances, there is a good downhill on the other side. There is reward for the work. Well, the approach to Derby is like that. When you get to the top, the run down to the little former tin-mining township, is twisty and exhilarating. And some township wags have made sure you know you are entering Derby by painting a rocky outcrop to make it look like a huge groper fish. And on the right is a small cricket or football ground chiselled into the hillside with a quaint two-storey clubroom. For some reason I like Derby despite it being just a mere spit on the map. Maybe it's the flat run out of it, and the false sense of the ride becoming easier.
Hah! As if... The next 20km into Scottsdale slowly but surely became a grind. You don't stop pedalling... and I mean working hard on the pedals. You stand. You spin. You don't seem to make much progress. The traffic increases in intensity. The road surface varies wildly from silky smooth asphalt to rough and broken chipseal. There are railway crossings. It's redneck paradise where few locals give you any room because you are on a bike and they immediately label you a greenie — the enemy. Bitch, bitch, bitch.
To cap it all off, there is a 15-17% grade for around 500 metres to take the unsuspecting bike rider from the river crossing just after the Scottsdale town boundary into the township itself. Seeing Paul was like seeing whatever god you like sitting in a shelter adjacent to the park in the small commercial centre. It was time to pig out and to sleep. I think we got about an hour's worth of sleep under the shade of the trees. At this point we'd knocked over more than 300km. We were over one-third of the way there. Ohhhhhh... errrr... Did we really have that much further to go? Another 700km?
Bear in mind we'd already worked hard to get to Scottsdale. The way out was not easy, either. A few ups and downs, and then The Sideling. Another major climb. This was the daylight version of the previous attempt of the GT1000 last Easter. One vehicle went past at Easter. This time, there were maybe seven, including a truck pulling a huge float with a forestry jinker on it. I heard this coming up from way down in the valley, so I knew how big it was likely to be. For me, like a lot of other things on this ride, things seemed to work out. As the monster approached, I knew I could seek refuge on the shoulder of a wide switchback corner without having to stop pedalling or take to the gravel verge. And that's how it worked out. Neither the driver of the big rig nor I missed a beat as he passed me.
We stopped at the picnic area and lookout just before the top of the Sideling so Paul could get a picture of the three of us. Then we rode on to finish off the top and enjoy the run down the other side. Now, this was big-time reward. A long, 15km downhill with lots of hairpins and fast runs. Good brakes are essential so you can penetrate right to the apex of corners, but what a buzz. I had to feather brakes behind Tim a few times until I could seize my opportunity and coast past him. Lots and lots and lots of fun.
Of course, about this time it became evident to me that the tyre selection for this ride might not have been quite appropriate. I had gone to my regular LBS just before Christmas, and all they had in stock were Michelin Dynamics in 25C x 700 dimension. I wanted 28C, but I knew there was almost no chance of getting them in before the Christmas break. I settled for the 25s, and pumped them up to 100psi on the front and 110 on the rear. Well, my backside was starting to let me know that coarse chip-seal gravel was not a good surface for such a high tyre pressure and long distance.
Westward Ho! We met up with Paul again on the outskirts of Launceston. For some reason, I yearned for lots of tea throughout this ride, rather than coffee, and I had several cups at each stop. The other guys got on to their mobiles and let their families know how they were going. Ouch, that really hurts... not having someone to call. We'd happened to park outside a property that bred St Bernard dogs, so we had these monsters — albeit 30 metres away — barking their heads off at our presence. Oh well, we were their excitement for the day, I suppose.
We left with me expecting a huge downhill into Launceston. It took Tim to point out that the downhill I was thinking of happened at least 10km ago, and that we were well into the suburbs of this (not-nice) little city. Fortunately, we were riding through at a time of day when the rednecks were deciding which pub they should drink at tonight, and we avoided the seemingly inevitable aggro that the idiots unique to Launceston present to cyclists.
Launceston is occupied by the descendents of people who thought they ran Tasmania both politically and economically. It was basically a focal point for the rural community. Then the big national and multinational companies moved in and took over the businesses, thereby dismantling the thin fabric of social superiority. Launceston, in my estimation, really doesn't have a reason to exist other than for the University of Tasmania campus, and to provide a home to Tasmania's biggest population of redneck revheads.
Tim and I commented outside out rendezvous point at a 24-hour service station on the number of new utes we had seen, and the tender loving care one guy was heaping on his at the service station. The main industry in the region now seems to be forestry, the home of Gunns, the big woodchip exporter and loggging company, and anyone on a bike is fair game for a bit of greenie-bashing... this despite the fact I have been a business consultant the forestry industry in the past.
Launceston wanted to be the Tasmanian capital, but never made the grade... and never will. Just about everyone I know who has ever moved from Hobart to live there, comes scurrying back in quick time. The fact that the place is overwhelmed by woodsmoke from heaters in the winter makes it doubly unpleasant.
This was the first visit to Launceston in five that I hadn't had aggro from drivers. A friend who moved up there not long before the GT only confirmed the redneck attitude. And yes, it always seems to darned well rain on me when I ride through there.
We left the service station restocking our fuel and water supplies and set off up the hill to Prospect. The hill is just one of those rhythm ones, but it takes a while and for a route out of a city, it can be a bit of a bear. But we got over it, and on to the old Bass Highway which has now been largely bypassed by some high-speed construction. It was getting dark again, and the temperature was dropping. Out of Launceston, the air was quite warm, and I was overheating coming up the hill to Prospect. But now the early-evening air was starting to drop right off. The Bass Highway seems OK to start off with, but after a while it can become quite boring. Especially in the early evening, when everything is closed. We finally got to Westbury and found a 24-hour bakery, which amazed me for the location as much as anything. Anyway, the staff were pretty bubbly, and we refuelled again. Gareth was desperate for sleep and had a powernap across a table.
Deloraine was decreed as the next stop point. The stretch from Westbury to there was almost as bad as the East Coast link road. The kilometres seem to just tick by rather than zip past. We noticed this last Easter on our first, aborted attempt at the GT1000. The feeling was made even worse by the persistent rain then. Tonight, it was dry.
Now, this is probably not really fair. I can only leave you to decide. But...
My bike is equipped with a SON hub feeding a primary Lumotech Ovalplus and a secondary E6 light. I also have a separate Ovalplus connected to an S6 B&M sidewall dynamo as a backup. The primary Ovalplus and secondary E6 make a great set-up. So much so that riders with inferior systems want to follow. Now, Tim has a single Ovalplus fed by a SON. Gareth, however, had a Kathmandu LED and some fancy high-powered battery set-up that he would only use on fast downhills or slow uphills. Through the first night and now on the second I found the other guys either riding beside me (fine) or more and more behind me. Now I wouldn't mind this so much if they would help me by pulling me through the daytime. But no. They would use their saved energy to speed off into the distance. And frankly, I got jack of it. They wanted the benefit of both having my light and drafting behind. So, I just stopped dead in my tracks. I made to have a pee break on the side of the road as they went past. It really got to me.
Anyway, I must have got over it, and after Deloraine, the light issue sort of subsided a bit in my mind. And I actually started to feel guilty. And we seemed to break up naturally — we rarely rode with each other from that point on. Deloraine was a fast-nap spot. About one hour, I think in the barbecue shelter. Me on a picnic table. Tim on the seat of another table. And Gareth on the ground.
The Memory Plays Tricks We hit the road again out of Deloraine and headed for the business end of this ride. We weren't half way yet, but it wasn't that much further down the road from Deloraine. However, the next significant milestone for the event remained the 600km mark, and we still had to make that within the requisite 40 hours. We turned off the Bass Highway and headed to Sheffield.
Well, we got to Kimberley and the left-hand turn that took us suddenly up and up. I rode this section last Easter, but Tim had taken a wrong turning and added about seven kilometres to his ride distance by going through Railton. He obviously got the better deal, but for the life of me, I could not remember the profile of this road. I had ridden it in darkness and fog last time, and I still perceived it as a steady climb before a decent downhill into Sheffield.
Perception, however, quickly turned to reality when we turned a right-hand corner and were confronted with a wall — 400 metres straight up a grade of between 15 and 18%. Tim stood and powered away. About a quarter of the way up I heard a clatter from behind me, but I was too busy in my granny staying on track and aiming to get to Tim's red light stopped at the top. Eventually we found out that the cable on Gareth's battery light had dropped down into the front wheel. Nothing too major.
We wandered off pretty pleased at having got up that one... then suddenly there was another climb, same profile, but maybe a bit shorter. Tim stopped just as we started up; I don't know why. But again I made it up without too much difficulty. "Bring it on!" I thought. We pondered at the top again and waited for Gareth. Then a few minutes after setting off again, we looked up and saw two headlights literally zoom down from the sky, do a big left-to-right sweep, and speed on past us. It was a car, of course, but it damned near freaked the living daylights out of me — mostly for the knowledge that around that corner lay yet a third hard climb.
So we got to Sheffield which was a particularly inauspicious occasion. Tim stopped again, this time to call up Paul on his mobile to make sure he was awake and ready for us at the next checkpoint. Gareth dropped back as well. I rode on alone with some more rewarding downhills. To my left, I could see the dark silhouette of the Great Western Tiers rising virtually straight up beside me. Our next checkpoint was the picnic area at Gowrie Park, an almost deserted former hydro-electric construction village. We knew that one of the longest "straight-up"climbs was not far ahead — around five kilometres of Cethana on grades of 10 to 15%.
We napped at Gowrie Park in the picnic shelter. I can't remember for how long, but probably between 30 minutes and an hour. Anyway, it was getting on to daylight when we departed. And I think there was some drizzle starting up. Certainly the fast drop down into the Cethana valley was tempered somewhat by a slick surface — the type of conditions that I have become very wary of since dislocating and breaking my shoulder the previous September. The climb seemed to go on for quite a while, but eventually we popped over the top at Moina (pronounced Mow-eena). We waited for Gareth, who was starting to struggle a tad on the hills with his relatively high gearing.
Almost Halfway There So the journey continued. I had forgotten that the road from Moina onward to Cradle Mountain and the West Coast involved another 10 or so kilometres of uphill. Nothing gutbusting, but it would have been nice to get on to the Middlesex Plains a bit quicker. The weather was starting to turn a little nasty. Fortunately the winds were either from the side or behind, but the temperature was dropping, and the showers were increasing in frequency. We trudged across the Middlesex Plains and passed a few locations I remembered from last Easter. Daisy Dell, the turn off to Cradle Mountain, some big-dipper rolling hills. Then a thought I had in the back of my mind suddenly came forward after crossing the first of several cattle grids. There is a bloody steep climb to herald the end of all this and start the run down to the Murchison Highway to the West Coast.
The climb is about 600 metres and around 15%. Then, it loomed over yonder. Left to right, a big scar up the side of the hill. Between me and it was a flat bit with a cold wind blasting across it. Then a gentle uphill, then a cattlegrid. I saw Tim up ahead. I didn't know what was going on in his mind at the time. He diverted around the cattlegrid and on to a gravel bypass track. I followed suit. Wet rails and I also don't see eye to eye after I broke my hand falling on a train line near New Norfolk last Easter.
So, granny came to visit again. And I just spun as best I could up the hill. I finally crested the top, and saw Tim pulled up next to Paul's car. I continued on, calling out that only six kilometres remained to the 600km mark and that we were well inside that vital 40-hour deadline. I stopped just after 600km ticked over (my computer was being used as the master one) and the others dragged in behind me. I pulled a sleeping bag out of Paul's car and sought refuge from the wind behind some low shrubbery. Gareth did the same, while Tim put up his tent.
Paul booked us in, then went off to Tullah to collect some supplies. I curled up and slept on and off for 15 minutes before rain started again. Paul had disappeared, Gareth had claimed the only tarp. Then I remembered the emergency mylar blanket in the handlebar bag, and set that up as well as I could to keep the rain off. Another 15 minutes or so of broken sleep followed until Paul returned. I climbed into the back of the vehicle, and caught another 15 minutes of powernapping after eating a meat pie. Then I thought I might as well get going again. There was still a way to go to Strahan and plenty of hills to climb on the way.
The other two followed eventually, and in his usual style, Tim didn't take that long to catch up with me. However, he did stay behind until I stopped to pee just outside the Tullah township boundary. We headed for a café in what is yet another hydro-electric construction village that is more a tourist town now. We got stuck into the usual array of food and drink — hamburgers with chips, chocolate milk drinks, and for me Coca-Cola. Gareth came in about 20 minutes after we did.
By this stage my bum was starting to remind me very, very regularly that it should not be subjected to this torture. But I willed myself not to let air out of the tyres. I would get to Hobart without making any mechanical adjustments to the bike, I thought. And my backside and I suffered in quiet disregard for each other (actually, the truth is I need new pairs of good-quality knicks as the ones I have are now three years old, have done around 8,000km each, are past their use-by dates, and I have lost enough weight for them not to be a snug as they might be. But blaming the tyre pressures sounded good at the time).
Mt Black came up next on the hillclimbing register. I was not that bad, although I was starting to get leg weary and even though I tried initially to stay off the granny ring, I had to concede a drop to the small ring as the grade varied from eight to 12%. At least the traffic was reasonably light, as it surprisingly had been for the entire trip during tourist high season. I was able to take the high lines on many of the corners. I was back in what I thought was familiar territory now, having lived on the West Coast for two years back in the 1970s, but counting off landmarks in a car is much easier and quicker than on a bike doing 8km/h up a hill. I crested Mt Black and braced for another fast run on a slick road surface down to the mining town of Rosebery. I could see that I was not going to have any more unfettered fast downhills because of the dampness. Oh well, Weldborough Pass and The Sideling were fun.
There really isn't much else to record on the way to Strahan. It's lumpy terrain, but you get used to it. I was pleased to get over the last major climb of the day and on to the level bits past Melba Flats and towards Zeehan. Then after Zeehan, there was another short, sharp climb to pop me out with a grand view of Ocean Beach and the Indian Ocean about 150 metres above sea level — which surprised me, but then I had been pushing on the "flat" road because I was slowly but surely climbing. I pedalled on to Strahan and dodged a moderately heavy downpour. My computer's distance ticked over 725 as I pulled into the Strahan Backpackers.
I tried to find Tim, but he wasn't around, and I couldn't find his bike. So I unclipped the computer, but left it in its bracket, and rode off to the shop to get dinner, a motley collection again of frozen pizza, icecreams, and a selection of stuff for breakfast tomorrow morning including bananas, tinned fruit and so on. Paul already had a can of Ricecream that I had stashed in his car and was my second breakfast strategy. As I was about to leave the shop, Tim came through the door; he was showered and already freshened up. He gave me details of where the room was. This was all about 7.30pm. We had a four-bunk room. Trouble was, Paul was checking up on Gareth, and hadn't arrived with our towels and soap and stuff, so I made do with liquid soap from the washbasins and a heap of paper towels. I did feel better, although stretching was a bit problematic in the shower — my quads in particular were quite sore at this point.
Homeward Bound Tim and I finally settled down to sleep about 8.30pm, giving us around four hours until wake-up time. I stirred a little when Paul and Gareth came in, but I seemed to get full value from the hours. My alarm went off at 12.30. Gareth sort of roused himself, but just wasn't able to get in the groove. Tim and I were ready to leave at 1.15am when there was a power failure in the township and everything went dark. Now that was fine until I got to the exit of the backpackers carpark and went to check my speed with my helmet light, only to find my computer missing. Initially, I thought it had been stolen, then I remembered I had left it loosely in the cradle after disengaging it. Dammit! I told Tim, and we went back and did a quick retrace search, but to no avail. I do tend to rely on my speedo and distances, as much for the mental arithmetic involved, so this final day of riding was going to be something of a challenge. In addition, it was still raining, adding to a certain degree of misery.
However, for some reason, I soon shook myself out of the lethargy. And I got to enjoy the climbs and dips and swerves of the road between Strahan and Queenstown. There is one corner I have always looked out for; I lived on the Coast back in the 1970s and regularly drove the road. An uphill sweeping left-hander with the adjacent bank skimmed away to provide better daytime sightlines. I know this corner signals an end to the 20km of climbing and we can enjoy some downhills and straight-line riding. On the previous ride through here, it took an eternity to come through. Tonight, it was there in a seemingly much faster time.
It was still raining when we made Queenstown around 4.00am, and we sought shelter under the awning of a motel on the way out of town. I think it was at this point Tim was having another hard time. Paul was supposed to have met us there, but missed the link-up after sleeping in at Strahan. Tim then revealed that he had almost pulled the plug just before that 600-metre 15% uphill at the 600km mark the day before.
"I was ready to turn around and go back to Cradle Mountain," he said. "I thought: 'I ride my bike for fun, and I'm not having fun anymore'. The only thing that stopped me was Paul had my sleeping bag in his car and I couldn't have gone back to Cradle without it. And I had to get over that bloody hill to get it at the halfway point, and then I would have had to climb back up again."
Maybe I am improving my outlook greatly on these long rides. Except for the first-night doubts about the distance and obstacles ahead, and that business about lights and drafting, I hadn't really thought any really negative stuff, much less considered pulling out, especially now we had been on the West Coast where transport options were somewhat limited.
To Sleep or Not to Sleep Onward and upwards as we tackled the "99 Bends" from Queenstown to Gormanston, and into the World Heritage forest areas. The Bends are another four or five kilometre climb followed by a great downhill to the Linda Valley and onwards to Lake Burbury. I could tell Tim was starting to fall asleep as his bike wandered across the road several times before swerving back again. It was just after dawn, and he was ripe for a rest. We got to Bradshaws Bridge across the lake and he was already settling down for a nap. I didn't feel like one at that stage, but was going to stay with him. Then I decided that if I was awake, I really should keep moving forward.
I stopped at Nelson Creek, and chatted with a bushwalker waiting to cadge a lift back his vehicle parked at the start of the Frenchmans Cap track. I shared a small can of fruit salad with Tim after he arrived, and we set off again. I called to Tim to meet up again at the Collingwood River. I got up over Victoria Pass from the Nelson River Valley without any difficulty and it wasn't long before I was enjoying a flat run where last time I was here, I lost a bolt out of my front derailleur. There we no such mechanical problems this time. Long story short, we grabbed another 10-minute nap at the Collingwood River, then were about to set off for the Franklin River bridge when Paul suddenly loomed on the scene. I dived straight in for my Ricecream and shared half that and half a can of baked beans that Tim had also found. We dissolved a few other food items, then left Paul to his own devices to wait for Gareth, who was some 15km behind by now.
Tim powered off ahead again, but stopped at the toilets at the Franklin River. I went past, then 500 metres down the road, settled down for a 15-minute powernap on the grassy verge beside the road. Tim went past and that was the last I saw of him until Derwent Bridge, except for the easily identifiable tyre marks I saw on the damp road as I made my way up Mt Arrowsmith. This was the highest point of the entire ride, at a little bit over 900 metres above sea level. But it still wasn't going to be all downhill from here. Ooooh nooo.
Tim had arrived at Derwent Bridge 45 minutes before me and had cleaned up a hamburger and other stuff. I ordered a burger and hot chocolate and got it down as fast as I could so I could leave with Tim. Just as we were ready to go, Paul arrived to let us know Gareth was still OK, but a fair way back. We knew there was still an imperial century to ride, and we had around nine hours to do it in. For me, this was when the adrenalin started to kick int. I get anxious about maintaining the pace, and this anxiety was made worse by knowing what lay ahead. My intestinal fortitude also was taking a turn for the worse (stomach cramps), although I still don't have a clue as to why.
Anyway, the section between Derwent Bridge and the first crossing of the Nive River at the bottom of a steep valley is another one of those long and boring sections of road. It was livened up only slightly by a group of old American cars that passed me, including a creamy coloured Ford something or other that cut a bit too close for my liking. Anyway, I was pleased to see the drop down in to the Nive Valley and the two-kilometre climb out of the other side, just for the variety it offered. My mood probably wasn't helped by the overcast weather, although the rain held off until... you guessed it — a ripsnorter of a run down to the valley beneath Tarraleah for the second crossing of the Nive River. Rain and a slick road again greeted me. I was on the brakes most of the way down. Sheesh!
I visited the men's conveniences at the picnic ground next to the power station at the bottom, then started the six-kilometre haul back up to Tarraleah. Just when you think you have it licked, around a corner is another "wall" that demands the last bit of energy in your legs — granny gear or not. I was relieved to cross the fast-moving water in the canal that feeds the hydro power station, and set off for Wayatinah.
Now Tarraleah might seem to be another high point in the ride. But there remains a fair bit to do despite the fast downhills that intervene. I was getting better at these, slotting into top gear (44-11) to get to 53km/h at around 110rpm cadence, then powering as far as I can up the next rise. Certainly, the fact that I wasn't hampered by cooked Achilles tendons, nor a broken shoulder like the past two times I'd ridden in this area, made me feel a whole heap better about things.
The turn-off to Wayatinah at the bottom of the hill was a mere blur, and across the bridge I went, dropping from 70km/h (estimated) to around 12km/h in the space of 200 metres. I had reminded Gareth of the climbs out of Wayatinah, and Paul had reinforced it.
"I told him about the three climbs from Wayatinah," Paul mentioned at Derwent Bridge. Hang on there pal! THREE climbs. Make that [I]six[/I]! Anyway, at a stage like this, what's a person to do, but just settle down, think nice thoughts, and grind away until they are out of the way? The hills did fight back however, even after the big six, and my next stop point, Ouse, seemed to take an eternity to emerge. I consulted my watch, and the signs outside little cafe indicated another 90-odd kilometres to Hobart. Hmmm. I still had an average of around 17km/h to maintain. It should be achievable if I don't get a puncture or have any other sort of meltdown.
The last substantial climb on the route is out of Hamilton, about 15km down the road. It goes up for about five kilometres. OK. Done! Next! The last couple of times I had been through this part of the world had been at night, and in one case with fog. Doing it in daylight put a different value on my surroundings. "Oh, they're the houses that those fences or lights or dog belonged to". Generally, the road continued downhill, although I wasn't allowed to forget my pedallng technique as the wind strengthened a little from the west — a right-quarter headwind — for a while. Darn, that might upset my carefully crafted average to the finish.
And then the ride became a slog. The one pleasure was seeing the guy on the side of the road with his big fancy old creamy coloured American Ford, broken down and waiting for a tow truck. I had a chuckle. Not overtly. Just to myself. He deserved it for cutting so close to me. At least I was still mobile on my faithful bike!
Almost There! I successfully negotiated the skewed railway lines at Lawitta that had brought my left hand undone last Easter, then another crossing a few kilometres further on. I stopped at New Norfolk for a final refuel, and set forth. A finish within the deadline of 9.00pm (75 hours after we started) was within my grasp. If I could make Granton and the exact 1000km mark by 8.00pm, I was in with a chance. And to my delight: (a) I did make Granton, at 7.45pm; (b) and there was a gentle tailwind to usher me towards Hobart.
By this stage, of course, my thigh muscles were starting to protest at any activity beyond being still, or rotating at a steady pace on the pedals. Getting on and off the bike and starting to pedal verged on the excruciating as the muscle fibres indulged in their own version of torture. I tried to keep as smooth as I could, and avoid sudden acceleration (yeah, as if!), even through the chicanes of our major arterial cycleway. I kept looking at my watch. 35 minutes to go. Hmmm, still 10km out. 20 minutes and another five kilometres left. (Don't do the maths on those figures - I am drawing on a very hazy memory at this point, but I think you get the point).
At least I was on the downhill run right now, literally down to sea level. I negotiated the one remaining set of traffic lights, rode around the edge of the docks and on to the entrance of Parliament House where we had started just over three days previously. My finish time was at seven minutes to nine, 8.53pm, an elapsed time of 74 hours and 53 minutes. A whopping seven minutes inside the time limit. There was a theme catching on here for me: PBP 1 hour [I]7[/I] minutes inside time limit. GSR 1200 was 1[I]7[/I] minutes inside cut-off. Now GT1000 a bear [I]7[/I] minutes inside the limit.
Sadly for me, there was no-one around to share the occasion with. Tim had his family waiting for him about 90 minutes previously and they went off to celebrate. Paul chaperoned Gareth in about 15 minutes before midnight. I just got on my bike, cruised home over the Tasman Bridge in the granny gear, up over Rosny Hill (see... the hills never stop in Tasmania!) and into the local bottleshop to collect a bottle or two of champagne. I then struggled around to the local pizza joint for a takeaway supreme. And celebrated my achievement close to midnight.
The Aftermath Apart from finishing within the time limit, the best part was pulling up from the ride with no major ailments as bugged me on previous 1200 rides. No cold or flu as on PBP, although I did have a stuffed nose, and ulcers on my tongue. No odd numb spots, like on the right side of my lower back as on PBP. No ITB strain or hotfoot or right shoulder pain as on the GSR. My backside was protesting a bit, but I blame the shorts and high-pressure tyres (and certainly not the Brooks saddle, definitely not the Brooks B17!!!). And my quads were screaming for mercy, but then they took only two days to clear away the soreness.
Emotionally, I felt pretty good, too. I hadn't contemplated not finishing at all, even when things got a bit tougher. The experience of the GSR and the southerly buster storm taught me that I could survive just about anything. My rehydration was OK, but not brilliant. I still seemed to pee regularly enough. Early on the ride, I had funny fluttering sensations in my chest, which I later put down to (a) a bit of nervous tension; and (b) some odd breathing symptom. My heart rate seemed to not want to come down under 110 for quite a while even after resting. Post-ride it has been OK. I am about due for my eighth anniversary heart attack check-up, so I might mention it to the doctor (who said my heart did a double-beat from time to time, and to not worry about it).
I also had more sleep on this ride than the GSR, and probably about the same amount as on PBP. But I am finding that power naps are a good way to go with maybe one decent block of sleep somewhere after halfway. It might not suit everyone, however. I found that on the GSR, Paolo from Brazil, dropped off to sleep on his bike and eventually withdrew after he had had a four-hour block of sleep. Tim was doing the same — dropping off after a good rest. And it seemed Gareth did likewise. I had a few little naps, but I seemed to improve as the event proceeded. Whatever keeps the wheels turning, I guess.
My food intake was a mixture of total rubbish and my liquid energy mix comprising maltodextrin, fructose and glucose, commonly known as Bob's Jungle Juice. I didn't use all my little packets, but I obviously had enough of it throughout to keep my body going and more importantly, keep me in a relatively positive frame of mind.
My bike worked as well as it has ever done. I finally had the gearing finely tuned. The lights worked out extremely well. The only problem was the lost computer, and I've replaced that with a slightly more upmarket version and it has a partner — SigmaSport makes a small single green LED light with a reflector to light up handlebar instruments. Gareth had one, and as luck would have it, my LBS had one on the shelf right next to the computers. At AUD$22, I thought it was a steal, and a great solution to a problem that has bugged me for a while. The switch is very easy to operate (too much so, in fact), and the throw of light is modest but adequate.
The Future? Will I do the GT1000 again? A similar question was asked right after PBP and I said an emphatic "no". But I am easily led, and I am definitely planning (or at least dreaming) of being there again in 2007. It took only about two weeks to change my mind.
Same thing has happened with the GT1000. At the moment, I'd be happy to help out organising. But give me another couple of months after I've worked on a few strategies to improve my time, and especially my hillclimbing, and I might be there again at the start of the next one, whenever that might be. Tim's already started thinking like that.
Finishing the GT1000 was the last piece to go into the Randonneur 5000 award jigsaw. I won't be able to claim it until 2006 because of the way nominations are managed — they are taken at the end of the current audax season which runs here from November to October. But I am the first Tasmanian resident to qualify, and I am quite proud of having achieved it in a tad over two years (the first event was a 300km qualifier for PBP in December 2002).
If you are into climbing and want a reasonably tough event, and certainly I estimate the toughest in Australia, come and do the GT 1000. You will become a legend just by finishing!
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© 2005-2006 Rowan Burns — The Cycling Adventurer |
