up the hill

When I lived in Croydon and rode the Dandenongs, I blithely referred to it as ‘up the hill’. Today I ride up the hill for the first time in a year.

I start at the gridiron field in Croydon. It’s about ten klicks from there to The Basin. From The Basin to Sassafras is seven kilometres on the road known as The One-in-twenty, or ‘up the hill’ to me. It’s a classic time trial climb and every cyclist who pedals this strip of bitumen knows his best time.

I guesstimate this to be close to my hundredth ascent over a period of ten years, but probably only my third in three years since I moved to Bendigo.

My best time is 19:19 when I chased a veteran but brilliant competition cyclist named Dave Moreland to the top. He was having a leisurely chat with John, the bloke I set off with from the bike shop in Croydon. Half way up Dave asks John where that other bloke went.

“He’s just behind us,” John says. “I think he’s going for a PB.”

We stop at Olinda and they ask if I got my PB. I tell them I did but decline to claim it because I sucked wheel all the way. Dave tells me not to be silly: a PB is a PB however you get it, he says.  

So 19:19 is way out there. Until this Beamonesque achievement, breaking 21 minutes is a monumental effort that I manage maybe twice. Otherwise I regard any time under 23 minutes as acceptable, a sign of good form and fitness.

I know I won’t crack 23 minutes today. My training hasn’t involved any serious climb like The One-in-twenty. All I want today is to find a rhythm and to stay strong. I do that.

I probably negative split—do the second half quicker than the first—but I only look at the stopwatch when I hit the 50kph sign at Sassafras. I’m OK with 25:40 but it indicates that I need plenty more time up here in the Dandenongs.

Another three kilometres and the ride tops out at Olinda. From here it’s all down hill.

And indeed it is. My training regime falls to pieces. The next three days I work in Melbourne, training teachers and mental health workers on Wednesday and Thursday, and an all-day meeting in the city on Friday. I don’t get a chance to ride.

On the Saturday I return to Bendigo but my rhythm is broken. I don’t ride and I don’t write all week. I go to pump class and cycle class at the gym, but I’m not on the road. I could ride two or three times but I’m stuck. Stuck? Yeah, just stuck.

Approaching the weekend I’m psyched and ready for a big comeback, when disaster strikes. At Friday pump class I ‘tweak’ my back before the class begins.

Proceed immediately to my next post.