Lessons from Peaks Challenge: Part 4 – Peaks!

Cycling and Life…the two are interconnected. So, when training and then actually attempting the Peaks Challenge Falls Creek, it stands to reason that I should have discovered a few things about life along the way. I did. These are those things…

The Ride

I – The Start
Endless flashing lights merge to create a blinking-red glow, silhouetted against a darkened-blue sky. There’s a yawning, emerging energy steadily giving rise to elaborate swaying and building of a multi-coloured mass. Riders arrange and rearrange, constant streams of people with bikes, moving, shifting, restraining, nervous. If you concentrate and trace the minutiae of the mass, the pulsing and flashing reveals the everyday machinations of cycling life; intricate lines of bikes being walked – hopeful – to starting points, riders stretching, massaging, attempting to warm chilled muscles; heat through friction. Amidst the chill there is a tangible buzz of excitement, like a series of spontaneously materialising sparks threatening to spread and light up the darkness. The sounds reinforce this moment, clack-clack of cleats on concrete, clicking of helmets, the murmur of conversation. But it is cold, I’m shivering. I can’t work out if that’s because of the chill or nerves. It is here; the moment, the day, the culmination of the weeks of training. For this. Peaks Challenge Falls Creek.

Kaye and I had driven up from Tawonga South and parked in the Falls Creek carpark. I’d not slept much in preparation, despite the optimism of going to bed early for plenty of sleep. I’d missed out on hours of useful sleep because of the irrational anxiety of an upcoming Peaks Challenge – the anxiety of the unknown. Would I? Could I? What if? The understatement was that I was ‘a bit toey’, but this was still the best way of describing the squeamish, slightly wobbly feeling. Still, the fresh air from the 10°C morning helped keep the queasy sensation at bay as we wound our way up the mountain to Falls Creek.

We’d experienced the pre-event sunshine the previous day; a check-in, a briefing and bike-check. We’d experienced the organising crew come fully alive as they ramped up the stakes – when things get tough, keep going: do it for yourself, do it for your best mate, do it for nostalgia, for your mum. Just do it. I’d been trying to balance all the nutritional aspects – drinking plenty, increasing carbohydrates without feeling sluggish and still looking for a decent coffee! We’d soaked up the atmosphere and drank in the fun and enjoyed the lightheartedness of the preparations. There’d been recognition of those riders who had faced all ten Peaks Challenges, there’d been motivational speeches and some fine repartee. A genuine culture of support and engagement was evident, built through years of testing and trying (well done, BicycleNetwork!) – these were fellow riders, differing motivations, differing purposes, but all on the same quest.

Dawn and the start are rapidly approaching, but the chill is not easing, nor is the jittery sensation. I’ve forgotten my stickers for the bike of the Peaks course and Kaye’s gone back to the car to get them.

I realise I’m in the the wrong starting section – I’m aiming for 11 hours and I’m in the 12+ section. I try to move across sections, but there are so many people everywhere; riders, equipment, bikes and supporters filtering down from lodges like alluvial light, shifting and redepositing, joining other streams of light. I cram into a side section just outside the course rope with the hope of being able to nudge in when things start moving.

Then Kaye’s back; there’s been a delay in starting – some gravel on the road we’d noticed earlier on our way up, most likely fallen from a truck, that had to be cleared. The one day you care what condition the road is in and there are gravel spillages on this first descent! It dawns on me that I have no idea what is happening 200-or-so metres in front of me, down at the starting line. So I continue to stand, shift my weight, check my gear, shiver.

Kaye leaves again, to watch the start from the front barrier. We inch forward, one shoe clipped in, hands touchy on the brakes, one shoe skidding, trying not to bump into other riders in the starting pack. Inching forward. Nervous. Stop. Wait. Inching again. Stop. Wait. A hoot from somewhere – maybe in my imagination. And then we are rolling, some pedaling, braking, I can see the starting line, riders thinning out slightly, rolling, pedaling, braking.

And it gets quicker, inch forward, wait, inching, wait. And, in a sudden rush, there is furious clipping in – clack, clack – and we are off! 235 kms, 4,700m of climbing to go.

I pass the start banner, I’m through it. Supporters are everywhere, they are cheering, there are whistles and hooting and clamouring. They’re cheering for me! Then I see it is Daz yelling. The crowd hasn’t gone wild for me, just Daz! Kaye’s next to him. I give a thumbs up, but look more like I’m going to wobble off my bike. I think how hilarious that would be, but only for a moment and then I’m back into the ride.

I turn with the riders around me from the downhill starting straight onto the main Bogong High Plains Road and the pace of the riders whips up dramatically. It is so cold, I realise, as the thrill-distraction of the cheering falls behind. Riders are zipping everywhere and I’m caught up in the frantic chaos. So I just keep picking up speed, swerving, too worried to touch my brakes. This is madness! My bike starts to wobble and I check my tyres. I feel like I’ve punctured; it feels like a puncture. I realise this is not a puncture, it is my body shivering and wobbling my bike. I should have noticed, the chattering teeth a clear give-away. The bike continues shaking. Surely this is unsustainable, crazy riders cutting corners and darting in front of other cyclists amidst chilled conditions with wobbling wheels everywhere. I hang on, it is both exhilarating and terrifying. Very fast for the ten to twelve kilometres of the first descent. Head down, control the bike, stop the chattering teeth, stay on: these are my basic aims right now.

The road from Falls Creek drops at an overall loss of 4%, but there are a few uphill sections to navigate. This is where things start to even the riders out. It is not as frantic, despite the lingering, twitchy nervous energy that is still evident. It is nice to sit up and grind out a lower gear for a short period of time in a few different segments that also has an added benefit of warming cold bodies. Some gaps open up and I pass a few riders and a few riders pass me. More descending and I’m at the drop into Mt Beauty. The mist hangs in the valley but it’s warmer now and the riders around me all seem to be descending at about the same speed as I am, and we form a rough peloton to fly through the Mt Beauty roundabout. I’ve safely navigated the first part of the course, crazy as it was, and am more comfortable on the bike now. It’s 30kms into the ride, I’ve dropped 1,200 metres in 47 minutes, at approximately 38kph. Peaks has begun!

II – Tawonga Gap
It is through Tawonga South that my body really stops shivering. And then I’m onto the first climb up Tawonga Gap. I know this climb, I rode it just yesterday in my pre-Peaks warm-up ride and it is a steady rise. I feel quite good and settle into the rhythm of the first uphill grind. I consider ditching my wind jacket, but can’t think where to drop it without losing it. I take it off and stuff it into one of my back pockets and I consider I probably look like a hunchback in a school play with a costume malfunction. I’ll ditch it in the stop at Dinner Plain, but that means riding with it up Hotham. But it’s too late to throw it on the side of the road now – ah, the big decisions on Peaks! Resolute, I keep the jacket – one important determination done. I focus on a new goal, a next ‘thing’, a much easier one, that of catching the first rider in front of me. I pass a photographer, lying in the culvert, snapping photos of me. I try to look like I’m on a leisure ride, smiling and looking cool. But, like a lot of things in life, I realised too late – the happy-snap was taken much earlier and the photographer is on to another unsuspecting, equally undignified, puffing rider. I pump up the cadence a little; let’s do this climb!

I reach the top of the first climb and I’m ready for a cracking descent. Tawonga Gap, the eastern side, is 7.54 kms – I’ve managed the 6% climb in 33 minutes at nearly 14kph, a personal best.

Then off down the Gap. I feel I know this road well enough with cars, so without traffic, it should be okay and I can maybe pick up some time. I don’t know how much extra time I might need at the other end of the ride and I definitely need to stave off the Lanterne Rouge. I weave in and out of the corners, descending at somewhere between 40 and 50kph, occasionally bumping that speed up a bit higher. Again I pass a few riders and another races past me. I wonder why he’s behind me in the first place. That’s one of the interesting things about cycling, there are some who are great at climbing and others who savour descending. I pass the grove of walnut trees, note the ‘beware-of-bike-riders-who-share-the-road-with-kangaroos-with-skis’ sign and I’m crossing the bridge across the Ovens River at Germantown. Then turning onto the Great Alpine Road and on towards Harrietville, the massive climb that is Mount Hotham and then beyond. With all the descending, I’ve now got to switch into some muscle power and find a group to join for the slight uphill 20km drag to Harrietville.

I’m pedalling fast, muscles straining. I look ahead and there has to be 100 or so riders forward of me, all spread out in single-file. I’ve managed to join onto a peloton of sorts. It is a great and unbelievable sight – the length is massive; imagine 100 riders end to end, for what would be stretching out for about 200 metres ahead. And there is me, about five or six riders from the back. So I just need to keep up with the rider in front. Easy. Nope. This is hard, because he’s pedaling and then not pedaling. When he’s pedaling, it is a good, consistent speed. When he’s not, we slow, and the line breaks. And then he speeds up only to stop pedaling when he tacks back on to our long peloton. I persist behind him for five or so kilometres but he seems to be having difficulty holding the pace consistently. Then the guy behind us has had enough and goes past. I do too, but our single-file is already breaking and we have to make up the gaps. I speed up. But we are already flying. Still, if I want to make this easier and ride with the group, I have to make the effort to catch those further ahead and close the gap. So I increase the cadence. I feel like a kid on a new Christmas trike. I’m averaging about 26 or 27 kph along this 20km section. I ride into Harrietville, clinging to the remnants of the now broken peloton, still pedaling like crazy.

III – Mount Hotham
Harrietville. Gateway to, well, the rest of the ride. Harrietville, a sleepy little town, the kind that runs out of pub food if too many people arrive on a long-weekend. But that Harrietville has gone and in its place is an explosion of bikes and people. Riders, officials, volunteers and supporters scattered, on every bit of grass, in every parking space, on every part of the road! What is left of this ride is huge, about 160kms still to go and most of the climbing is ahead. Riders are have pulled in and there is a collective sense of urgency. This is an odd sense, the need to stop and refresh but with an underlying urgency to get back on bikes, like needing a toilet stop on the drive back from Canberra, knowing it is going to have to be at Bonnie Doon, but not wanting to do it and then realising you have to. That kind of urgency. But there is nowhere to even lean a bike against anything, even the huge stringy-bark gum trees have bikes encircling their vast waists. I join the bike chaos and unclip one shoe, balancing the sensible need to stop with the desire to keep on the move. I get off my bike and find a spare treated pine railing near the main car park and somehow thread my bike in between the other bikes, like squeezing into a parking space that is too small and then not able to get out of the car. I extricate myself from the pedals and wheels and eat some Clif bar and a banana, filling the water bottle as I eat. I stretch my legs, like I know what I’m doing, walk around a little, have a toilet break. But the state of exigency is nagging, I must move on. I dive back into the mechanical maelstrom of where I left my bike, pull the bike out, a quick check of my food and off I go. I know this road and I’m acutely aware the first part out of Harrietville is steep. I chew on a few energy lollies as I head out.

The first part is steep, as I remembered, although I’m still always surprised. It is quite staggeringly beautiful as well, tall gums push out through the fronds of large tree ferns. The first kilometre bumps up to 10% before easing off to about 7%, which tends to remain at that gradient for the first third of the Hotham climb. I settle into a rhythm again and, somewhere along the way, slightly before The Meg, I end up riding with a guy who is around the same pace and the same ability to talk through staggered breaths as we chat. He’s from Geelong and has only just taken up riding to do Peaks, which is phenomenal. We chat about his plumbing business, his wife who is a teacher, and how he would have liked to be a teacher also. But feels he’s missed any opportunity to do this, reconciled to the attraction of a plumber’s pay rate and the reasonableness of his lifestyle. He chooses when he works, when he holidays (which he admits is not very often – “no work, no pay kinda thing”) and can manage this with the age the kids are at. It feels good chatting between panting and puffing and conversation is a cyclist’s best form of distraction. Before we know it we are on The Meg, that short but nasty reminder not to get complacent; yes, you’ve managed 7% but, as we round the tight corner, the mountain speaks and says ‘I can kick up to 19% whenever I like’, this time only for about 100m. Then the gradient relaxes back down to 12% before dropping off another couple of percent in the next 400m. But this short, sharp slope is enough for the reminder. I sit up a little as the road swaps to the other side of the mountain. We glimpse views of the distant Hotham road across on the opposite side of the valley, the road scarring its way up and into the rock. But looking forward 20kms across the valley is an ominous thing, and not necessarily helpful. Sometimes it is better to focus on the tall green-grey gums to the side and the road you are on rather than the road on the ridgeline miles ahead, with its rocks and sparse, low shrubs and angles that look sharply uninviting.

We keep climbing, steady and constant and the vegetation changes. The trees aren’t as tall, and they thin out quickly. My Geelong-plumber friend and I are both looking to keep pace with the Eleven Hour riding group and that group catches us. But we are adamant that we are Eleven-Hour Riders and we try to keep pace. I manage to push my pace up slightly as our chatting dwindles into just the occasional comment, we settle in and listen to some banter from those around us who seem to be able to effortlessly chat whilst riding up a hill. There are about twenty riders in our bunch, but our pace has steadily increased. We reach The Black Hole Lookout and a few riders stop for water. I keep going – I’ve ridden almost 100kms now and the lookout suggests that we have reached 1330m in our ascent. Harrietville is about 20kms behind and there is still 10kms of climbing ahead, some of which are the steepest sections, to level off at Hotham Heights. But I feel like I’m in great shape and my hydration and nutrition seem to be working effectively. Still, I’m not able to chat as easily, so I set about grinding through the rest of the climb.

The Hotham top third is unrelenting and merciless. My legs are feeling the strain now purely from the distance already ridden and length of this climb. There are two sweeping downhill sections along this end of the Great Alpine Road climb, but these are negated by the constantness of CRB Hill – a kilometre and a half at 9% on average gradient, plenty of which is higher – and that final push to the top on the Hotham Summit climb – this, a two kilometre incline of 9%. Here the view is amazing and, despite both driving this section up to ski and riding a couple of other times, the breathtaking layers of distant mountains, with their multicoloured blues, are intensely impressive. The urge to stop and take a photo is strong…resist…use the force…is this about the photo or about resting? Onward.

A photographer moves, lifts his camera, kneels on the side of the road. I’m near what I think has to be the top of the climb. He smiles, murmurs something, gives a thumbs up. But his words are muffled by the blood pounding in my head. My hands grip the bars a little firmer, I keep pushing, turning pedals. I’ve completely given up trying to look anything other than what I look like, so the idea of putting my thumb up is quite difficult at this end of the climb. I manage what must look like a puzzled grimace, somewhere between smiling and exhaustion and I hope I don’t seem rude. I settle in on a more internal, personal appreciation of the stunning view. I continue to push on the pedals, turn, turn, and I can see the road curve for another slope, and more of the same, upwards. Not there yet. I do manage to pass a few people who were with me earlier, but we are all riding on our own now, sitting within our own limitations and pace. A guy flies past me. What?!! I suspect he has had a couple of hours just resting on the side of the road, just waiting almost at the top for someone like me to ride by, someone who is thinking they’re doing okay so he can jump back on the bike and flash past. He’s doing about twice the pace I am. Still mystified, I continue the grind.

Finally I reach the summit of Hotham, and there is a fabulous sweep downhill from the Heights into the village, through the tunnel and onto flat road. I feel like raising my arms, but there is no one to see. I’ve ridden it well, from what I can gather, despite the super-fast finisher who flashed past me and now I cannot see for dust! The Hotham climb I’ve completed in a personal best time of 1 hour and 58 minutes, I’ve managed it in under 2 hours, which I think is remarkable. It is 30kms of climbing, with an overall elevation gain of 1300 metres, average gradient is 4%. So I’m pretty pleased and I’m feeling that my training has prepared me well, despite the legs starting to tire.

At first glance, the rest stop at Dinner Plain looks like an emergency ward in a hospital. I roll out of the giant roundabout and into the stop-over point. I am confronted with scattered bodies, bikes strewn all around and noise, a far cry from the more desolate quiet ride from Hotham. But it soon becomes apparent that this chaos is quite organised, and there are no real signs of casualties. Rather, there is an intensity and an efficiency to the organisation, like things have been triaged, but transient and purposeful. The bodies are all exhausted riders resting and chatting, the movement is groups of people gathering their supplies and filling bottles. There is a synchronisation of riders visiting various stations, like shoppers visiting a market place: stalls to visit for water, for toilet stops, for food and the valet service. I leave my bike on a rack, get my valet pack, grab a falafel wrap and take a load off, still conscious of the need to keep moving. 10 minutes here maximum … I take a bite of the wrap. I nearly vomit. Maybe need to settle things first. I swallow some water to calm things a little, to keep that jittery adrenaline and built up energy at bay; the need to get back on the bike and keep going sits uncomfortably just below the bite of the falafel-wrap. The feeling eases and I relax, occupying myself with swapping things in and out of the valet pouch. It is about 16 or 17 degrees here so I leave the wind jacket in the return satchel. I eat a banana, an energy bar and some cake. That’s all I can manage. I sort out my gear for the next leg as I hear someone yell, “Eleven Hour Group – heading off in one minute!”. Break is over, toilet stop – this takes me much longer to queue up (all of a sudden) than I would have thought it would. I’ve added my bag back to the valet tent already but now bottles need filling, too. Then, I’m off again. Definitely behind the Eleven Hour Group.

IV – Dinner Plain to Omeo
The ride from Dinner Plain to Omeo, although mostly downhill, is surprisingly hard. There is a sense of remoteness and monotony which results in the 42kms seeming like a marathon, including the mental battles that go along with outlasting the distance in such an event. My energy lags after the first 20 kms, pedaling to try and catch the elusive Eleven Hour Group. A group of riders catches me instead. The lead rider simply tells me to “jump on the back…”. I don’t think I can. As this small peloton flashes past, the last rider says that I can. So I do. This is magic and I enjoy some relief, sitting tucked in at the back of the group, sucking in some air, turning the pedals faster but, paradoxically, it is easier. We power along for about 5kms and finally this peloton splits as we reach a slight incline. I take a turn on the front and, for some reason, the rest don’t follow. Do I wait? Do I continue? I look around and a gap has already opened. I keep going, grateful for the boost, but unsure what to do. I continue pedaling, a decision put off is a decision made, I guess. I meet another rider ahead and he slots in behind me. We stick together, take turns leading and pushing each other and finally reach the sneaky hill before the descent into Omeo. This is steeper and longer than expected and, at about 150kms into the ride, it is energy sapping. The distance and the hills are increasingly taking their toll and I try to replenish it somehow. I eat some food, grab some energy chews out of my pocket and practically throw these down then drink in some fluids. I settle in to outlast this hill.

Downhill now and I almost feel like yelling “Weeeeee!” as I race down the winding last drop into Omeo. I’m still with my mate and we stick together as our speed builds. This is probably why I don’t make any celebratory noise, but the feeling is exhilarating. We cover this 8.8km sprint in 11 minutes 45 seconds, averaging 45kph, so it is pulsatingly fast and furious. I know reaching Omeo means there is about 65kms to go and at last I get an inkling that this Peaks Challenge is achievable, so it spurs me on. Yes, there is the back of Falls to take on, but I’ve managed some serious distance and climbing so far and still feel I can roll the legs over. See what a little bit of downhill can do for a bit of confidence! Nonetheless, I am in need of a break. So, as I flash through the outskirts and into Omeo I look for the Feed Station. Despite that nagging feeling of always needing to keep going returning, of not wanting to stop, I pull in. A quick stop, an attempt at recovery, at least a bit of rest. There are an abundance of bananas, as though these alone will get us through to the next stop and, something that, in the state I am in, looks almost magical. Jelly snake lollies! I fill up with water, but it tastes absolutely terrible and I feel I can’t drink it or I’ll gag. I contemplate buying a Coke in a shop but decide against this at this stage. I stick to the proven sugar-banana-energy and the artificial sweetness of the humble snake. I grab a few snakes. I dangle a couple of snakes out of my mouth and grab some more. I drop a hydration tablet into one bottle which minimises the disgusting, vomit-like taste of the water. I check the weather on my phone. It is 26º and I wonder if I can manage with just the hydration water until the next stop at Anglers Rest, another 27kms ahead. I need to keep going, and with 65kms overall still to go, I want to reduce this remaining distance as soon as possible. I cannot see the illusive Eleven Hour Group anywhere. I’m a little dismayed; the reality of this distance and the unlikelihood of maintaining a higher speed than what I’ve been capable of so far starts to dawn on me. I check my phone, check my distance. I don’t really have it in me to keep chasing harder. I’m at the stage of simply trying to ‘maintain’. I’ve ridden to Omeo before, but not out the other side to the back of Falls. A little rested and a bit resigned, off I head, up the first big hill and out of town, into the unknown.

V – To Anglers Rest and the Back of Falls
This is a lonely road and a dreary landscape. I look out to the east and see brown. Miles of land, pasture I think, all bronzed and rusted. The sky is blue, a stark contrast to the endless dirty-sepia of the layers in the distance. I come to a river crossing and a frayed, dilapidated bridge. I cannot believe this is used by vehicles; it is weary and splintered, as though it has borne the weight of too much neglect and too much loneliness for too many years. The bridge shudders and sighs as I ride across the plastic path laid down for cyclists, and it seems to breathe in, as if to suggest that at any moment its value and worth in its singular function will simply crumble into the river and oblivion. But I ride on, anxious to rid myself of this melancholy. I shake my head and ride on, out to wind my way up Bingo Gap, a 4km climb at 4% gradient out of Omeo and up to Anglers Rest.

Part way along this climb I’m joined by a peloton of riders, about 12 or 13 in all. I’m adamant that I am going to stay with this group and I weave my way into the middle section. There are two columns of us and we are about six riders long. It is this group that sets a fast but manageable pace for me, a bit of a lifesaver at this stage of the event. I can’t really help in setting any kind of pace, so I slot in and pedal. We are close on the road, really close to the tyres of those in front, and I’m up against the shoulder side of the road. At one stage I almost get too close to my front rider; I brake, trying not to swerve, and just avoid clipping his rear wheel. Next chance I get, I swap to the outside and give myself a little more leeway from the rider in front. We are fast now, the peloton speeding into Anglers Rest. We arrive, gulping in air but so very pleased with the kind efforts of those few pace-setters in front.

The water is stored in a huge bladder-like container that bubbles and gurgles on the lawn of the local cafe like the Blob. This water is a significant improvement on Omeo water. The temperature is cooling down a little now and, despite this, I drink a full bottle of water. More bananas and lollies. The bananas are all green, but I grab a half one anyway. I’ve run out of my hydrating tablets to add to my water, so I use the freebie powder provided. This is lime flavoured and feels like a treat … a very exciting moment … lime, or is that perchance a tasty twist of lemon with the lime! All I’ve had thus far has been metallic-berry flavour. Ah, the little things in life … these moments seem huge under the circumstances. I jump back on the bike, cross the bridge and am off again, steeling myself for the last push and the final peak.

VI – The Final Peak
I make my way the last ten or so kilometres to WTF Corner, which marks the beginning of the final peak. It hasn’t been too difficult apart from a few very steep, but short inclines. I feel elated that I have made it this far and turn the corner into the first part of the climb and hit the steepest part first. It is relatively short and as I round the first hairpin, I look at the markings on the road. There are tributes and accolades to all the courageous riders who have ridden all ten Peaks inscribed across the road.

As I fleetingly glance at these legendary markings proclaiming admirable feats of physical endurance, I notice a little further up the hill, a message: “Paul Reid – you’ve got this, son!” My first response is that someone has the same name as mine, and that it could almost be a message to me, until I realise that it IS a message for me! I can’t believe it. In this desolate, out-the-back-of-nowhere place, there is a fantastic message of encouragement and support to me! The ‘son’ on the end gives it away as to who it is from – Darren. This spurs me to push harder, to grind and grit, and turns ‘WTF’ Corner into ‘What’s The Fuss’ Corner, crunching courageously through the next 800 metres of 12% incline before the road flattens out a little and I can ease up.

I’m out of the seat, back in and grinding again, the aches and strains are emerging, being felt by all the riders around me. It is clear this is the biggest part of the challenge so far. I think there was a photographer there – snap … whirr … snap. By this stage I am so past caring about photos.

I pass a few riders, one group in particular who appear to be struggling and are motivating each other. I was able to speed my pace up a little across a relative flat stretch – this incline was about 4% – and have now hit the long and arduous climb, the Raspberry Hill Climb, up to Trapyard Gap. This 9kms is challenging, at an overall average of 8% gradient. As I make my way up this first part of the incline, the rain begins to fall. At first, it is just a light, very fine almost dusting of rain, but now it has built, and steadied into a heavy incessant fall and is running down my face, I’m fogging up my glasses and my jersey is soaking. There is a definite cold wind blowing in and, whilst this stretch is reasonably sheltered amidst the tall stringybark trees, the dampness of my shirt is starting to feel shudderingly cold. The temperature has dropped significantly; what was about 26°C in Omeo feels like about 12° now. I pass a rider stopped on the side of the road, a motorbike escort attendant with him. I wonder what is up; he appears chilled and shaky. Further ahead, a rider lies at the side of the road with a silver space-like thermal blanket. Another rider further up the slope is stopped on the side of the road with a second motorbike attendant also stopped, passing him a can of Coke. What has happened here? The change in weather at this stage seems to be taking a toll and the temperature as we climb further continues to drop. I hunker down, looking through the mist and the rain, through my foggy glasses, for Trapyard Gap. I’m placing all my hopes on a bit of wondrous Coke and, optimistically, for the road plateauing out to the finish.

Trapyard Gap offers a slight chance to rest and recover, a slight downhill section for a kilometre or so. I’ve stopped and grabbed my Coke, coveted it like a Christmas present, gulped it down. I’ve had my water filled by a volunteer and eaten another banana. I can almost sense the finish, off somewhere in the distance, but at least perceptible. I can finish this ride, I’m certain. But Trapyard Gap to the Falls finish line is another 23kms. I join with a group of riders, all of us soaking wet, and the chatter is simply artful distraction. Our legs continue to turn over the pedals, and we push up the penultimate climb, the 2kms at 5% of Bogong High Plains Road. We are all in this together, we are effectively helping each other by taking our minds off the shivering, off the interminable rain, off the ceaseless climbing. We are bands of brother-riders, a fraternity, who don’t know who the rider next to us is or our individual stories, but we share a moment in time, united in a cause and camaraderie. Finally, one last tough climb; it is just under one and a half kilometres and 7% gradient, a ferocious and brutal final twist in this challenge at 220kms into the ride. The weather closes in, the temperature continues to drop and the tall trees give way to the scrub and grasslands of the open plains and the last 10kms to Falls.

I pick up speed. My legs are so tired, fuelled by Coke, energy chews and lemon-lime hydration fluid. But really, I’m riding on adrenaline now. The riders in the final sections of the last climb have now separated, as though our binding moment has ebbed silently into indifference and we’ve moved on, its purpose complete. We go our separate ways, amiably, each moving into a steady rhythm of our own choosing. I tack on to the back of a group. It is with absolute delight that I realise it is the Eleven Hour Group! This group is fractured and there are only three or four riders, but the Bicycle Network jerseys are leading it. My freezing, tired chest rises and falls with some sort of rain-soaked pride, I’m buoyant and almost laughing out loud, as the salty sweat-rain runs into my mouth. I’ve caught the group that has been elusively ahead for most of the ride and I’ve managed to claw back some of that difference. I feel powerful again and I ride for about 5kms with the group. I glimpse the Rocky Valley Storage Dam to my left and I’m on a downhill slope. I’m able to add more speed, despite my tiredness, and I recall someone famous suggesting that your body can do much more than your mind thinks it can. I am this thought personified; I can’t remember who said this, so that pretty much confirms the sentiment. I’m sure I’m pushing my pace up to over 30kph on this downhill section and I leave the Eleven Hour Group behind, determined to put some space between me and them, just in case I fall in a heap and they catch me again.

I race around the dam, I catch another rider in a green jersey and we match speeds, helping each other out. The rain is icy, like pinging hail on my face and body and is getting in my eyes. I’ve finally tucked my sunglasses into my pocket. I need the protection, but cannot see the road or the rider in front of me clearly, not helpful in the constant flecking rain. The glasses have finished their usefulness. Green-Jersey man and I race each other across the dam wall. We’ve blitzed the Eleven Hour Group and continue speeding towards the finish line, energy tank empty, but riding on something that is not able to be defined. We follow the road up and away from the dam and I can see the ski lifts heralding the immanent ride into the resort.

Suddenly, there are people cheering as I wearily flash past, down the wet road. The road curves, a slight incline and it is up into the finish.

The Rider in Green and I, despite not actually talking to each other for the 6 or 7 kilometres, glance at each other and cross the line together. I look up, searching for a familiar face, as I realise I’ve made it, I’ve completed my first Peaks ride.

There are people collapsing ahead, I slow my bike, brakes squeaking and I unclip one foot, riding up the slope to the Placings Tent. I wonder why volunteers are giving black plastic bags to riders and what look like hot drinks in paper cups. I stop, my body tenses, I struggle off my bike and I begin to shiver uncontrollably. I see Kaye! Daryl is there too. They cheer me, a kiss from Kaye, a shake of the hand and pat on the back from Daz. I am drained, completely exhausted and physically and emotionally spent. I try to grab my phone from my back pocket. I can’t stop my hand shaking, I can’t finish my Strava timing, my hand unable to make warm contact with the button on the phone or plug the code on the screen to unlock it. I give the phone to Kaye and, blubbering incoherently, ask her to stop the timing and complete the event. All I can irrationally consider at this stage is that if it’s not on Strava then it didn’t happen! I realise what the black plastic is for now and take a bag, also grabbing a warm, vaguely-chocolatey tasting drink in a paper cup. But, as I try to tip the cup to my mouth, my hand ticks and I spill most of the liquid. Cold chills descend over me, wrapping around my body and seeping deeper inside. I realise my teeth are chattering and despite my efforts, I cannot stop them. I can’t successfully get the drink in my mouth. I drop the cup in a bin and make my way through the Placings Tent. I am thrust a placing ticket with my time and a Peaks Challenge Finisher’s Jersey. I relax a little, I make my way around the barrier and say hello properly to Kaye and Daz, and I realise I’m incoherent, my mouth seems to be dribbling and there doesn’t seem there is anything I can do about it. I don a black plastic bag. Kaye helps me and hugs me. My mind crystalises a little and finally reality sinks in. Despite the cold-induced shuddering and intense trembling of the physical moment, the emotional moment is important, too. It is time to enjoy the feat, the accomplishment and the satisfaction. I’ve finished Peaks.

VII – Aftermath
It took some time to get warm again. I hadn’t sensed how cold I was, while riding that last 30kms to the finish line. The final 35kms from WTF Corner took me about two and a half hours, despite my flashy and fast sprint finish at the end. Kaye and I tend to believe the temperature up at Falls Creek at the time of my finish was only a couple of degrees, although we are not sure. Some who completed the ride earlier didn’t get caught in the rain and cold at all. Despite the ending, it was an epic ride and a remarkable experience.

Officially, I completed the Peaks ride – 235kms – in 10 hours 51 minutes, passing and finishing before the Eleven Hour Group! My Strava has the ride at 237kms – my elapsed time was 10 hours 54 minutes, with a moving time of 10 hours and 5 minutes. The Peaks Challenge Falls Creek is promoted as 4,000 plus metres of climbing. My Strava recording has this at 4,762 metres, well in excess of the ‘enticing’ suggested amount of climbing.

By any self-trained, amateur rider’s standards, it is a gruelling and intense ride, requiring all possible spirit just to finish and that’s what makes it such an achievement. Can you do the Peaks? I think it is worth a try if you love cycling … and certainly worth the challenge. The words of Darren sit in the back of my mind always, when he reckoned I could do this simply because I was “middle aged and bloody stubborn”. I consider this idea, that when people believe you can do something, the tiny, sometimes fickle belief begins, it moulds itself, takes a form, an action and, through reinforcement and positivity gives rise to self-belief. Then it becomes a thing. When it is supported and encouraged it can finally, in its completeness, be realised. Today I am a Peaks finisher!

Thanks to Bicycle Network for the event, for the amazingly supportive cycling culture and atmosphere created for it and the care for the riders during the ride. Thanks to all who watched my progress during the race – I didn’t actually know that it was possible to track this online as I was riding. Later I realised there were so many people following and showing support for my ride – thanks to all who did. There were stalwart supporters who encouraged, had faith and built up my confidence. Thanks especially to the resolute and relentless support from Kaye, who drove me places, picked me up, waited for hours, planned, organised and always, at every opportunity, encouraged. Thanks, my friend.