Day 1: Ballarat to Rokewood , 53km. Conditions: cool, cloudy and blustery
We’re off. A long line of cyclists winds it way out through the outskirts of Ballarat. The mood is upbeat and cheery.
“Hey, there’s Moneghetti,” shouts a schoolboy, and the crowd turns as one.
Our icon marathoner has swapped running shoes for two wheels as the event patron and front-person for charity partner, Diabetes Australia-Vic.
Mona is riding the first and last day and along the route, riders recognise the famous sportsman and call out and wave.
Just before Napoleans, the winds pick up and remain blustery for the rest of the day.
Then we strike our first hill, a long slow rise that brings with it a calve-to-thigh burn.
“Oh bloody hell,” says a schoolgirl on a nearby bike. “Mr Markson said it was downhill all the way.”
‘Who’s he?”
“Our teacher. We wouldn’t have come if we’d known there’d be hills.”
At Enfield, riders pull off for lunch.
Local ladies do brisk business selling tea and coffee at $1 a cup.
But not everyone welcomes the riders.
“This is private property,” a homeowner yells from his verandah to riders resting on the grass. “You need to move on.”
Cyclists begin arriving at Rokewood shortly after midday, transforming the tiny town (population not many) into a bustling metropolis of tents, a slap-up café and bar.
At the Rokewood Hotel cyclists spill out onto the decking and cheer when one elderly rider takes a final corner and spills over directly in front of them.
“Nothing hurt but m’pride,” he says, brushing himself down.
At the takeaway food shop owner Helena Kirby has pulled in friends and family to help with the stampede.
“It’s flat-out,” she says, dishing out Chiko rolls and potato cakes, mostly to teenage boys.
At the official ride campsite on farmland next to the golfcourse about a five minute walk away a U2 coverband is belting out hits.
But by shortly after 10pm it’s lights out for everyone and quiet descends, even in the schools’ camping area. Tomorrow’s ride is 90km and even the hardcore are resting up.
Day two: Rokewood to Cobden, 90k. Conditions: windy
Pain. It starts in the second hour. Old injuries wake up and begin to shout. An ankle I twisted in 1992. A nagging shoulder problem. A dickie knee that I’ve had for years.
Suddenly parts of my body I haven’t thought about for years are all demanding my attention.
The headwind starts about an hour out of Rokewood and doesn’t let up for next 75km.
Bicycle etiquette requires riders to shout “passing” or “on your right” when they overtake you. It’s a sound I hear constantly yet never utter once.
Grandmothers, old blokes with muscled calves the sized of clenched fists, polite teenage boys (a rarity anywhere but here), parents with kids on tandem seats, couples on tandem bikes and even a girl on a fold-away bike. They all pass me.
Beside Lake Gnarpurt, with drought-stricken Lake Corangamite on the other side of the road, the winds whip up dust and grit and it tastes like metal.
At the end of the ride – for many a six-hour slog, for me it’s more like eight – even experienced cyclists are white-faced.
“Toughest day I’ve had on one of these things,” says a schoolteacher from Red Hill. “And I’ve done eight.”
Ride organisers said 150 flagging riders were picked up and transported by coach to Cobden while others called it a day and decided to pull out permanently.
But despite my aching joints, I’ve got a secret weapon. And tomorrow is the day.
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