Let not the calendar nor my varying levels of recollection and commitment spoil a good yarn. For the sake of completeness there are some races I should report on.
The Scott 24 Hour (Oct 2014)
The Mount Buller MTB Festival (Mar 2015)
The Giant Odyssey (Mar 2015)
Wombat 100 (Apr 2105)
The GMBC Crazy 6 Hour (Apr 2015)
...and some other random shit in between.
As such, until these pages are graffitied with such tales, lets just let Gregorian adherence (date order) slip by the wayside..for a while.
Sunday 19 April 2015
Jubberland 6 Hour - Catchup, Catchup
Its a funny place Jubberland. Sounds funny, looks funny, rides funny. Hidden in a green patch of map somewhere to the west of nowheresville its a quasi-natural trail network set amongst what appears to be half farmland and half native bush.
In a way you'd be forgiven for wondering how the hell trail ended up being out here, such is its overwhelming sense of secrecy and remoteness. When I first laid eyes on it, it remember thinking that it resembled singletrack with aspirations to be purpose built - yet won't shrug off its nostalgic, old trail leanings.
That is, it'd have swooping bermed lines that disappear into hostile rocky step-ups or mad A line cliff drops that fell away into mellow green grass hardpack. Looking at it with tourist eyes, it was an acid trip. However, with a little race pace, some soft hands and some hard-eyed commitment and suddenly it all began to make sense. What at first appeared to be half baked trail, ended up being an almost perfectly balanced, beautifully difficult and deeply rewarding whip through the Castlemaine hinterland. It was like a 3 hatted 7 course degustation accompanying wines, or - if you like - a dirty magazine with some really good crossword puzzles.
Race-day cometh and cometh in glory it did. An honest morning crispness was being slowly burnt away by a warming spring sun. All the usual suspects and lycra monsters were present for this, the fifth race of the Victorian Enduro Series. Tobias Lestrell, Kevin Skidmore and even some Nankervii (Tasman this time) were in attendance. Word on the street was that Martin Grannas, a three time category winner of the (ultimately unsustainably) torturous Avoca MTB Marathon was in good form and he too, was seen lurking around in the second row of the starting grid.
In inimitable style, Bruce Dickey of Flat Hill events arbitrarily kicked off proceedings and at some absurdly fast pace the race began. The pack clung together like margarine in milk as the course funnelled us down a long grass slope into the first section of singletrack. I was bouncing around off elbows, still blinking through dust, trying to both hold and get around wheels as the first of the technical sections opened fire on us.
Mountain biking isn't usually that loud. A little wind, a freewheel spooling away, some birds and the odd freaked out marsupial, and thats it. Amongst a paceline of hard men and women under such an assault and the ambiance was different indeed. Rocks and wood pounded upon carbon, be it wheels, frames or the vertebrates perched upon them - eliciting a maelstrom of swearing and the sounds of sudden failure.
By the grace of whatever God I decided to believe in at the time I got through the opening lap carnage relatively unscathed and thus began to settle into another race campaign. In his unflappable fashion, Tobias had rolled away with the team riders leaving myself and Kevin Skidmore rolling through the opening few hours together. We seemed well matched for pace. While I couldn't (and still cant) match him for pure power, I was able to find and finesse some speedy lines through the technical stuff to ensure I was saving my watts to hold his wheel when the trail opened up.
Come lap five and I was 9 minutes 50 up on Martin Grannas. Not that I knew it. Instead what I heard was that had a mere 50 second advantage. Angered and a little scared I attacked the new lap with less flow than gusto. Within about a minute I'd cut open my tubeless rear tyre and found myself with my hands full either spare tube or gritty sealant covered rubber, yet I was able to execute a pro-level speed repair and get back on the trail at the cost of only about 3 minutes. In my mind Martin was gaining and with my heart racing like a chased fox I forgot to replace my spare in transition - a mistake that I realized some 4 kilometers from pit lane on the very next lap. Despite some the very kind donation of a tube and CO2 from a fellow rider, my second rear wheel pinch flat and failure to fix it had me running.
I hate running. I really, really do. I had been running for about ten minutes, pushing my wounded bike, swearing, cursing and flopping into my cleated, carbon soled shoes like I'd had my hamstrings cut when Martin finally passed me. 'Bummer Jase'. I'm sure he didn't do it just to piss me off, but he got out of the saddle and blasted up the hill.
I really, really hate running. But I hate losing even more. Especially when I've been a douchebag.
So I kept running. I ran until lactic pooled in the back of my mouth. Pit lane seemed miles away and I was passed by chatty rolleurs and kids and the fucking shadows of growing trees but I still ran.
Finally I jumped on my bike to safely roll my flat tyre into neutral spares where I was able to switch in a downhill spec tube and set off in a spirited although seemingly ceremonial pursuit of first place.
Over three laps I'd burnt 25 minutes, turning a 10 minute lead into a 15 minute deficit with 4 laps to race. While the run had killed me, it felt like it was all in muscles I don't really use and so it was almost a relief to be able to tip an effort into a set of pedals. Craig Muir (father of U18 racer Hayden) was giving me updates in pit lane and to my surprise was able to give me some good news. On my next lap I'd turned everything up to eleven and was rewarded by the report that I trimmed the gap to 10 minutes. On the next the gap was now 5 minutes, and on the start of the very last lap I was chewing through the carbon on my stem when Craig bellowed that Martin was 50 seconds ahead. I kept thinking I'd see his orange jersey rushing up at me at every bend but it was still over halfway into the lap when I finally got on his wheel. I'd had this moment played out an attack/chase/counter attack/defend scene so many times in my head that it was almost an anticlimax when Martin amiably pulled over and let me pass. Immensely glad I was though. After bouncing around in the red zone for 90 odd minutes a pitfight with a tough old punk like M.Grannas was the last thing I wanted.
By the time the very welcome sight of the finish line was in view, I was grinning like a thief. As I came down towards my pit I even allowed myself a celebratory victory salute...the opening syllable from a popular Village People track.
Props to Tobias (who was so fast I didnt see him all day) and Kevin who also had a blinder to come in third. Mad ups to Cycles Galleria who ensured my Pivot Mach 429 Carbon ruled, and Pro4mance let the pistons run free with all their good stuff.
Thanks again to Kenny Soiza and Craig Muir in pit lane for their help and patience while the red mist descended and to Bruce Dickey and the Castlemaine Rocky riders for ensuring the stars aligned for a cracking race.
And Jubberland? Awesome. Don't go changing baby. Stay as you are.
In a way you'd be forgiven for wondering how the hell trail ended up being out here, such is its overwhelming sense of secrecy and remoteness. When I first laid eyes on it, it remember thinking that it resembled singletrack with aspirations to be purpose built - yet won't shrug off its nostalgic, old trail leanings.
That is, it'd have swooping bermed lines that disappear into hostile rocky step-ups or mad A line cliff drops that fell away into mellow green grass hardpack. Looking at it with tourist eyes, it was an acid trip. However, with a little race pace, some soft hands and some hard-eyed commitment and suddenly it all began to make sense. What at first appeared to be half baked trail, ended up being an almost perfectly balanced, beautifully difficult and deeply rewarding whip through the Castlemaine hinterland. It was like a 3 hatted 7 course degustation accompanying wines, or - if you like - a dirty magazine with some really good crossword puzzles.
 |
| Jubberland - Rocky Riders Country |
In inimitable style, Bruce Dickey of Flat Hill events arbitrarily kicked off proceedings and at some absurdly fast pace the race began. The pack clung together like margarine in milk as the course funnelled us down a long grass slope into the first section of singletrack. I was bouncing around off elbows, still blinking through dust, trying to both hold and get around wheels as the first of the technical sections opened fire on us.
Mountain biking isn't usually that loud. A little wind, a freewheel spooling away, some birds and the odd freaked out marsupial, and thats it. Amongst a paceline of hard men and women under such an assault and the ambiance was different indeed. Rocks and wood pounded upon carbon, be it wheels, frames or the vertebrates perched upon them - eliciting a maelstrom of swearing and the sounds of sudden failure.
 |
| Jubberland Wallride - AKA Matching wines |
Come lap five and I was 9 minutes 50 up on Martin Grannas. Not that I knew it. Instead what I heard was that had a mere 50 second advantage. Angered and a little scared I attacked the new lap with less flow than gusto. Within about a minute I'd cut open my tubeless rear tyre and found myself with my hands full either spare tube or gritty sealant covered rubber, yet I was able to execute a pro-level speed repair and get back on the trail at the cost of only about 3 minutes. In my mind Martin was gaining and with my heart racing like a chased fox I forgot to replace my spare in transition - a mistake that I realized some 4 kilometers from pit lane on the very next lap. Despite some the very kind donation of a tube and CO2 from a fellow rider, my second rear wheel pinch flat and failure to fix it had me running.
I hate running. I really, really do. I had been running for about ten minutes, pushing my wounded bike, swearing, cursing and flopping into my cleated, carbon soled shoes like I'd had my hamstrings cut when Martin finally passed me. 'Bummer Jase'. I'm sure he didn't do it just to piss me off, but he got out of the saddle and blasted up the hill.
I really, really hate running. But I hate losing even more. Especially when I've been a douchebag.
So I kept running. I ran until lactic pooled in the back of my mouth. Pit lane seemed miles away and I was passed by chatty rolleurs and kids and the fucking shadows of growing trees but I still ran.
Finally I jumped on my bike to safely roll my flat tyre into neutral spares where I was able to switch in a downhill spec tube and set off in a spirited although seemingly ceremonial pursuit of first place.
Over three laps I'd burnt 25 minutes, turning a 10 minute lead into a 15 minute deficit with 4 laps to race. While the run had killed me, it felt like it was all in muscles I don't really use and so it was almost a relief to be able to tip an effort into a set of pedals. Craig Muir (father of U18 racer Hayden) was giving me updates in pit lane and to my surprise was able to give me some good news. On my next lap I'd turned everything up to eleven and was rewarded by the report that I trimmed the gap to 10 minutes. On the next the gap was now 5 minutes, and on the start of the very last lap I was chewing through the carbon on my stem when Craig bellowed that Martin was 50 seconds ahead. I kept thinking I'd see his orange jersey rushing up at me at every bend but it was still over halfway into the lap when I finally got on his wheel. I'd had this moment played out an attack/chase/counter attack/defend scene so many times in my head that it was almost an anticlimax when Martin amiably pulled over and let me pass. Immensely glad I was though. After bouncing around in the red zone for 90 odd minutes a pitfight with a tough old punk like M.Grannas was the last thing I wanted.
By the time the very welcome sight of the finish line was in view, I was grinning like a thief. As I came down towards my pit I even allowed myself a celebratory victory salute...the opening syllable from a popular Village People track.
 |
| 'Young man'...um you're not talking to me are you? |
Thanks again to Kenny Soiza and Craig Muir in pit lane for their help and patience while the red mist descended and to Bruce Dickey and the Castlemaine Rocky riders for ensuring the stars aligned for a cracking race.
And Jubberland? Awesome. Don't go changing baby. Stay as you are.
Tuesday 14 April 2015
Fat Tyre Flyers - Officer Six Hour
The Officer 6 Hour had the mid winter honor of being number 4 of the 7 events that form the Victorian MTB Enduro Series. I'd done OK to date, with two wins and a runner up in the 40+ category and I was pretty keen to adorn my VES campaign with a little more podium glamour.
Bad weather was somewhat in Melbourne. It growled and strained against the sky like a pod of hungry whales as I departed, but as I approached race central, it'd let - totally, almost laughably loose. When the rain came down, it did so by the metric tonne.
Within a minute I was snorkling.
There was discussion and I slopped my way to race central. A few furrowed brows as the commissaires blinked through the deluge. As good mountain bikers would have it, irrespective of the weather, we raced. The rain may have turned a dry Officer trail into an accident with a chocolate truck but there were significant measures of points, pride and pity to be earned, and though few riders would have been saddened by a decision not to race - they were not unsurprised that we did.
Bad weather was somewhat in Melbourne. It growled and strained against the sky like a pod of hungry whales as I departed, but as I approached race central, it'd let - totally, almost laughably loose. When the rain came down, it did so by the metric tonne.
Within a minute I was snorkling.
There was discussion and I slopped my way to race central. A few furrowed brows as the commissaires blinked through the deluge. As good mountain bikers would have it, irrespective of the weather, we raced. The rain may have turned a dry Officer trail into an accident with a chocolate truck but there were significant measures of points, pride and pity to be earned, and though few riders would have been saddened by a decision not to race - they were not unsurprised that we did.
I'd already switched onto a mud tyre for my front wheel, hosed my frame with silicon spray (helps the mud slide off) and did my warm up in shoe covers and full winter combat wear. I was sort of ready, though there are few things that really prepare a rider for a 6 hour mud-mauling.
'Dedicated racers' is another term for a small field. We thundered up the opening climb as the rains tumbled down. The Officer trail is what you may call pretty organic. It's old school evolved rideable walking trail, with ninja-pinch climbs, tight corners and more disruptor features than a game changing iPhone app.
In the dry, its killer fun, mad technical and a brilliant, if brutal, nostalgic trip to what we all used to race on before people got paid to make trail. In the wet its like being caught in an avalanche of wet socks.
The trail held up ok for the first lap. It still had something resembling structure and grip but within an hour serious leaks were beginning to appear. Double digit gradients and were now tyre deep in mud and going both up and down required a level of bicycle manhandling totally disproportionate to the speed of said bicycle.
My front wheel was holding in just fine, but my back wheel was searching for grip and finding none. Every now and then any forward momentum I had would run for the side exit as my back end broke away and slipped sideways off the trail.
Three hours in it was becoming a real slog. By the time the 3 hour riders were testing their metal circa 1:00pm there had been enough water and wandering rubber on the trail to render it almost completely unrecognizable.
Big pools of water had now formed over technical catch-outs, muddied into opacity - leaving a rider needing either an excellent recollection of the line choice at each corner or blind luck that they didn't mutilate both bike and body. The climbs were hard in the dry, but under these conditions it was like scaling a mountain of icecream. As I came through transition I heard somebody say something really, really nice to me.
The race has been cut short - I only had 60 minutes to go.
60 minutes meant about two laps, and with a handy lead over an equally soggy Peter Shaw in second (40+) all I needed to do was swim another few miles of this Shawshank escape and I'd be ready for a 35 minute shower and a full body enema.
And a very pleasant shower it was too when I got to it. A little win to stretch my lead in the VES, some more bike schwag and a new chainring shaped medal to hang on my full sized mannequin of Dennis Lillee.
Despite the conditions my Pivot Mach 420 Carbon ran without issue thanks to Cycles Galleria and while I longed for a clean pair of glasses I never wanted for energy, thanks to Pro4mance Sports Nutrition.
Moreover, a huge shout-out to a certain Kevin Skidmore who not only toughed it out for another great result, but shared my sojourn through the Somme and to Kenny Soiza who supplied us with unsullied food and grit-free water for the duration of the race. And thanks to the Fatties, (Fat Tyre Fliers) who against the odds, still put on a great race and had the good sense to call it short.
In the dry, its killer fun, mad technical and a brilliant, if brutal, nostalgic trip to what we all used to race on before people got paid to make trail. In the wet its like being caught in an avalanche of wet socks.
My front wheel was holding in just fine, but my back wheel was searching for grip and finding none. Every now and then any forward momentum I had would run for the side exit as my back end broke away and slipped sideways off the trail.
Three hours in it was becoming a real slog. By the time the 3 hour riders were testing their metal circa 1:00pm there had been enough water and wandering rubber on the trail to render it almost completely unrecognizable.
Big pools of water had now formed over technical catch-outs, muddied into opacity - leaving a rider needing either an excellent recollection of the line choice at each corner or blind luck that they didn't mutilate both bike and body. The climbs were hard in the dry, but under these conditions it was like scaling a mountain of icecream. As I came through transition I heard somebody say something really, really nice to me.
The race has been cut short - I only had 60 minutes to go.
60 minutes meant about two laps, and with a handy lead over an equally soggy Peter Shaw in second (40+) all I needed to do was swim another few miles of this Shawshank escape and I'd be ready for a 35 minute shower and a full body enema.
And a very pleasant shower it was too when I got to it. A little win to stretch my lead in the VES, some more bike schwag and a new chainring shaped medal to hang on my full sized mannequin of Dennis Lillee.
Despite the conditions my Pivot Mach 420 Carbon ran without issue thanks to Cycles Galleria and while I longed for a clean pair of glasses I never wanted for energy, thanks to Pro4mance Sports Nutrition.
Moreover, a huge shout-out to a certain Kevin Skidmore who not only toughed it out for another great result, but shared my sojourn through the Somme and to Kenny Soiza who supplied us with unsullied food and grit-free water for the duration of the race. And thanks to the Fatties, (Fat Tyre Fliers) who against the odds, still put on a great race and had the good sense to call it short.
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