Cycling Adventurer: Randonneuring - Murray and Bacc 1000 2006

The Cycling Adventurer
Randonneuring	Murray and Bacc 1000 2006— 2004

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Learned lessons finally lead to success

Dates: Easter 2006
Route: Bacchus Marsh to Piangil to Bacchus Marsh
Distance: 1000km
Organiser: Alan Tonkin under the auspices of Audax Australia
This article was written soon after the event Introduction

I learned during the Last Chance 1200 in Colorado and Kansas in 2005 that no long-distance randonnee should ever be underestimated. The Last Chance looked invitingly easy — less than 6000 metres of climbing, and "deserts" to traverse in good weather. At the end back in Boulder, I had been battered by some 700km-plus of headwinds, and an endless sequence of rollers that stripped me of any rhythm.

The Murray and Bacc 1000 route covered a large number of Victorian roads that I had ridden at least once and in many cases twice. Except for the start from Bacchus Marsh and sections of the Pyrenees Highway, it looked for all the world as though it would be quite a flat and easy run. Based on that premise, I prepared a ride strategy thanks to pre-event route notes from the organiser, Alan Tonkin. Optimistically, I could finish in 60 hours, 15 hours ahead of the scheduled finish of 75 hours.

Well, things started falling apart before the event even started. I am temporarily domiciled on a large orchard property at Taggerty, southeast of Lake Eildon. To get from there to Bacchus Marsh without a motor vehicle of my own required some precise planning of connections. They involved a lift with a work colleague to Healesville, a bus to Lilydale, a train to Richmond Station to pick up some cycling gear, back on a train to Southern Cross Station, then after missing the vital connection, having to wait for an hour for a connection on the last leg to Bacchus Marsh. I finally arrived at the start less than 10 minutes before 10.00pm departure.

There to greet me was Alan along with my old Tasmanian riding partner Tim Stredwick, and two Victorians, Martin Haynes and Scot Plummer. Scot had put me up at his home after the Dances with Dinosaurs 300 a fortnight previously (thanks Scot and Maria!).

And away we go

I remembered riding into Bacchus Marsh a little under 12 months previously as a touring cyclist, and recalled much of the route I had taken being downhill. That meant riding uphill for the start of the Murray and Bacc. The other three went off the front, while I struggled to get myself together. A full day's work in the orchard and low energy levels did not serve me well. I thought that the climb was long — about 6% — and I started to think after about 10km that I had had enough of this. I had real difficulty trying to get back into contact with the others, and things did not look promising.

Eventually, we reached the turn-off to Daylesford and things flattened a little. Great! Then a torrential downpour drenched us. Double great! It was a portent of weather to come. I crawled into Alan's first checkpoint at Daylesford. I was knackered and said so, but was determined to "ride myself" into the event.

The rest of the night was relatively uneventful, unless you count Scot coming off while crossing ice-click railway lines some way past Daylesford. He was riding with Martin about 200 metres ahead of me, and I say Scot go down like a sack of potatoes and heard that unwelcome sound of bike on bitumen. Scot got up pretty quickly, but later revealed the fall had put a decent hole in his left knee that troubled him.

When the morning dawned, a forecast south-westerly change arrived with vengeance. Winds gusted to my estimate of 35 to 40mph, and were followed by driving rain as we plied our way between St Arnaud and Minyip. I arrived at the Minyip Hotel, and found three bodies stretched out on the floor in front of the log fire. I felt quite good and decided not to join them (or maybe I thought if I did, I might not get up again!). I had noted as I entered Minyip that while the cloud that swept across the horizon from the west and south-west still looked very angry, the rain had eased. I also figured that the wind would become a tailwind at some stage later in the afternoon. Then Martin and Scot announced decided they would abandon, and arranged with Alan for a lift back to the start at Bacchus Marsh. Thankfully, Tim was keen to press on, and so we did.

By this stage, everything below my waist was wet. I obtained four plastic shopping bags from the very helpful publican. Two went over wet socks and inside soaked shoes, and the other two went inside my outer pair of leggings to cover my knees and thighs. I found on the Great Southern Randonnee in 2004 that even a thin membrane of plastic afford by a plastic shopping bag was an effective barrier against the freezing effect of wind over damp clothing. As to my upper body, an MEC jacket I acquired in Canada last year, matched with a polypropylene base layer and a light MEC long-sleeve jersey kept me dry and warm during the weather's onslaught.

My confidence builds

On leaving Minyip, Tim, in his usual style, got into a pedaling zone and disappeared into the distance. At around 300km into the event, I was starting to feel a little more confident that I would go the distance, particularly as I had stopped for mirco-naps on the side of the road Between Maryborough and St Arnaud, before the storm. I have found micro-naps to be remarkably refreshing. I straddle the bike and just put my head down on my arms which in turn are crossed over my handlebar bag. I close my eyes, and it may be a split second or a minute later, but when I feet one or the other of my knees buckle slightly, it is time to get moving again.

I did this three times. Then the storm arrived, and the rain whipping across my face did more than enough to keep me awake. A farmer stopped to chat as I adjusted wet-weather gear, and apologised for the rain. "The first we've had for months," he said.

So, as we struck out for Warracknabeal, I felt quite energised. Tim and I had arranged with Martin to take over a motel booking for the overnight stop at Patchewollock, but as we left Warracknabeal, I said it was unlikely I could make that rendezvous, and that Hopetoun seemed a much better proposition for sleep. I like Hopetoun. My first encounter with it was in the 2004 Mallee Routes 400, organised by Les Solley. Well, Les came to the fore again. He was out of town at a rodeo, he but he enthusiastically phone up Monica and arranged for her to keep the Bon Bon Cafe open until we arrived.

When we eventually arrived, Sue was there to offer moral support and arranged for us to sleep in the scout hall. The hall proved to be a very cosy place to be as temperatures plummeted outside. I had slept in the hall before the Mallee Routes 400, so it was like greeting an old friend again. My shoes were still soaked, and my feet were suffering severely from the cold despite the plastic bags. Cold feet were to remain a problem for the remainder of the ride.

I think we had three to four hours of sleep before hitting the road again sometime about 3.00am. Tim was optimistic about the sun rising around 6.00am. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was some degrees well north of Hobart, and sun-up wasn't due until after 6.30am.

The road through to Patchewollock was the same as I had traversed in the Mallee Routes 400, and I enjoyed it, perhaps for the rollers it provided. Tim and I met up again at the Patchewollock crossroads still in darkness. Dawn came near Walpeup, where we turned eastwards towards Manangatang and thence Swan Hill.

At 7.00am, things were still closed up at Walpeup. Things were different at Ouyen. However, I got lost there, and spent 15 minutes trying to find Oke St and the Fairydell Cafe. Of course, I passed Oke St way back on entering town. Tim had already ploughed his way through a breakfast hamburger. As became the trend for the ride, I used Tim as my gourmet sampler, and then ordered "what he had". As we recovered our legs and enthusiasm, a cafe patron rolled up to the table, and asked how far we were riding. Then he spotted the brevet cards, and commented about it being an Audax ride. We filled him in on the details, pleased that someone could identify with what we were doing.

Manangatang reveals its appeal

Despite my various destinations while cycle-touring in Victoria over the past 12 months, I had never been to Manangatang. I just love the name; it has a lilting rhythm to it. I had first heard about it when half the population of Robinvale, to the north-west, evacuated their town and headed for the annual Manangatang races. I was in Robinvale for a while waiting to pick up harvest work.

Well, I finally got to Manangatang, where the cafe was the only place in town that was open. I met up with Tim and Alan, who had completed his mission to drop off Martin and Scot. I offloaded my drybag containing my sleeping bag and clothing for Alan to transport. Tim and I were both apprehensive about the southerly wind which at that moment was a side wind. It wasn't such an impediment then, and was unlikely to be for the next 42km to the Piangil corner. But the story could be different after Piangil as we would then set off in a southerly direction towards Swan Hill. It was a case of press on, and ensure we had enough of a time buffer to take a decrease in average speeds because of headwinds. Despite the wind, there was a bit of sunshine to help our cause.

Piangil came and went. And so did the wind! Suddenly, there was no headwind to impede our progress. What a relief. Mind you, progress for me was measured at 20km/h. Any faster, and I could feel my legs starting to wane. Still, 20km/h wasn't too bad after 600km.

We rendezvoused again at the Nyah Pizza Mart, but despite browsing through there for 10 minutes, nothing appealed to me. I mixed up another batch of jungle juice (the Bob Bednarz version), and we departed for Swan Hill. This section along with the following one to Kerang seemed to me to be cold and probably the most boring of the whole ride. In fact, I could toss the next section to Boort into the equation. At Swan Hill, my appetite again was questionable. I settled for a cup of tea at the BP service station, and some muesli bars to sustain me to Kerang.

Despite the boredom of the stretch, my heart was sent racing when a blue-and-white Toyota bus converted to a camper went past me with literally centimetres to spare. The driver simply did not alter the vehicle's line as it went past. I later mentioned the incident to Tim, and he had a similar experience. A serial idiot loose on the road was something we didn't need.

Alan met us again with sustenance at Kerang. I can't remember what I gobbled down, but whatever it was, it was good! We left for Boort in reasonable shape and spirits, safe in the knowledge that Alan and sleep-time awaited us at Boort. Again, this stretch was cold and long, but I noticed quite an amazing phenomenon — as I rode past some very large willow trees, the air warmed. There were only three or four of these trees and corresponding pockets of warmth, but the change really struck me, along with the thought that I could easily curl up and nap under the shelter the trees provided. After all, I had done that under an oak tree before the Dancing with Wolve 300 and the leaf litter proved to be remarkably comfortable as a cold barrier, while the leaves on the tree were effective umbrellas.

But I kept going, and caught glimpses at the end of long, long straights of Tim's bright red LED taillight. There is security in the knowledge that there is another rider on the road, even if we are a kilometre or more apart. It's something about having someone looking out for you.

Sleeping cold on the toilet floor

Boort was another stop for sustenance and, this time, some sleep on the floor of the men's shower room in the public caravan park's ablutions block. It's perhaps an indication of how tired I had become that I got out my sleeping bag, settled into it, then remained cold for the next 2½ hours, instead of cosily wrapping myself and sleeping bag into my bivy — that remained in my drybag and became my pillow. Oh well... I didn't realise the error until well over 130km later.

Wedderburn was our next stop, and the day dawned with sunshine and welcomed warmth. From Wedderburn, the terrain started to change with hills becoming more and more frequent. The hills were as welcomed as the warmth, but not so the roads! There is one thing about Victorian country roads that really irritates me, though. In widening the roads, and spending as little as possible, local councils and VicRoads have conspired to apply chipseal over shoulders without smoothing the edges of the original sheeting. The ragged edges remain and usually are right on the line where cyclists are expected to ride! My backside was starting to feel the battering of having to negotiate these rough zones. My right ilio-tibial band also had started to play up as it had on previous long rides, largely because my right foot tends to twist and drop away from the pedal as I tire.

We passed through Maryborough again, with Alan providing support. We met up again with him at Creswick, as the final support checkpoint before the finish. Alan had informed us at Maryborough that there would be climbs out of Clunes and then Creswick. Clunes was OK, but Creswick? Well, it was dark, and the road seemed to keep going up and up... and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Despite that delight, however, the longest, or should I say, the most frustrating part of the ride came as I turned on to Springbank Rd. This is only 7.5km long and runs parallel with the Western Freeway. But it set a trend for the last 47km as I continually asked myself that age-old question, "Are we there yet?"

The merge on to the Western Freeway did nothing to alleviate that apprehension of wanting... willing... the finish to draw closer and closer. About 5km along the freeway, I spotted the unmistakable red tail-light of Tim's bike propped on the kerb and Tim in the foetal position on the other side of the barrier, asleep. I slid past, knowing that Tim was quite capable of looking after himself.

The next landmark was the overpass at Ballan where we turned of for Daylesford almost three days previously. Pardon? Almost three days? Hold on, I could break three days for 1000km here! Sixty hours as a target time disappeared within hours of the start, but hey, this looked like a good substitute!

On and on and on and on...

So the frustration mounted. I kept looking for the lume of Bacchus Marsh — the light penetrating the skyline above the hills. But to no avail. I passed the BP service centre at the "top" of the hill out of Bacchus Marsh. To my dismay, I discovered that unlike the impression on Thursday night that we continuously climbed for 20km, there were in fact ups and downs. And after 980km, some of those ups now presented their challenges. None more so than the off-ramp to Bacchus Marsh. I remembered negotiating it with the bike fully loaded nine months previously, and it was no easier this Sunday night unloaded. Still, I made it without visiting granny (the smallest chainring was never used for the whole ride). I then made it over the last little rise so I could coast down to the finish at the service station where Alan's van stood out like a beacon.

I pulled in with an elapsed time seven minutes short of three days (or 72 hours). I think I caught a hint of surprise in Alan's expression as I pulled in, and one of his first questions was: "Where's Tim? As it transpired, Tim arrived about 20 minutes later, just as we set out on a sortie in Alan's van to find him. He had had intestinal problems for some 200km, and he finally succumbed along the Western Freeway, stopping to nap and let the stabbing pains pass. (Things didn't stop there for him -- his trip home on the Spirit of Tasmania the following night was beset with even more major intestinal eruptions.)

I was delighted to finish in the first instance, and to finish in less than three days was, frankly, exciting and a real achievement for me. Interestingly, I finished the seemingly much tougher Giro Tasmania 1000 in January 2005 only seven minutes inside the 75-hour limit, so there was effectively only three hours difference in my two 1000km ride times, despite the Murray and Bacc being much flatter.

As with the Last Chance, the Murray and Bacc had presented its own set of challenges, not least the weather and the relative boredom, especially in some of the cold night riding. I had a radio that I kept tuned to the Australian Broadcasting Corporation's regional Victorian service, and that helped somewhat in whiling away the lonely hours. The talkback in the early morning, however, is a magnet for the weirdos, though...

I do have to pay great tribute to Alan Tonkin. His support was fabulous. He really put himself out, and he and wife Maria provided us with an array of food that kept us (and me in particular) happy. The Anzac biscuit in energy-bar form was my absolute favourite. And if you ever get a chance, try Parsons Rice Cream warmed gently over a stove. Delicious!

Anyway, I seriously doubt whether I would have completed the distance without Alan's support, and his attention to detail on the route instructions. Well done, Alan. It also was great to catch up and ride with Tim again, and to hear about his venture into frame building as the Velosmith. He rode on this event his French-style randonnee bike, a very nice looking and finished red machine.

For my part, the Murray and Bacc became a warm-up and back-up qualifier for Boston-Montreal-Boston. This year (2006) probably will be the event's final iteration, certainly under the directorship of Jennifer Wise. BMB ranks with PBP as a classic 1200, so it is an event that I am keen to ride. Then it's on to PBP 2007!

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