Malcolm Gunn

It's just not cricket - (it's cycling)

Posted by Malcolm Gunn on 10 April 2010 | 1 Comments

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One of the reasons I spend most July evenings watching the Tour of France unfold is the appeal of watching fate play its cruel hand in the fortunes of seriously competitive men. The stakes are high and gambling on a breakaway that might or might not succeed is a bold move. So often, what seems like an unassailable leads get whittled down to nothing by a team effort from the peloton in the last couple of kilometers and those who have pedalled their brains out to stay away are consumed by the peloton and spat out the back, spent and sore. I feel for these men, for I have been there - in my own modest way. As recently as Saturday.

 

While the Graperide is no Alp d'Huez switchback hell in the Alps, it is a good ride and having rode 3:02 in the last two years, this year there was a job to be done. Nice to have the consistency, but it's on the wrong side of 180 minutes. Right from the gun, I set about catching the previous groups of 100 riders ahead. My goal was to catch the second group that would put me 4 minutes ahead of anyone in that bunch, and sit in the bunch until I hit the hills of Queen Charlotte Drive where I would drop as many as I could. And pick up a bunch for the tail wind ride back to Renwick.

 

That was the plan. The first part worked fine, but with just two of us working at the front of the bunch (thanks Andy), the effort required was way above budget. One really shouldn't taste bile so early in a ride. I consoled myself with the promise of a more sedate pace once we hit the headwind towards Picton. By the I'd be in a faster bunch, pulling away from my start group. We'd caught the second bunch by time we swung out onto SH1 at Spring Creek, and were closing in ever so slowly to the remnants of the next bunch up the road. I was flagging a bit and decided that once we caught them, I'd sit up and have a breather. We urged a few others in our group to assist and we got a response from some that helped and we were able to have longer breaks from the sharp end.

 

Around Tuamarina, with only about 50m to the group ahead, a whirring of spokes announced that we were being joined by another bunch - no problem with that, until I get the cheery greeting from Gabrielle and Alan. It was nice to see them but it meant that the group who had just joined was the same one I crossed the start line with. They looked fresh and I felt as if I had just done the Karapoti. A stray water bottle went straight under Gabrielle's front wheel - luckily she had the composure to roll over it, rather than trying to go around it while in a tight bunch.Our ever-growing bunch swept along to Picton vaccuuming up riders in its wake.

 

As we crested the hill that leads down into Picton a tyre exploded to my left and a rider pulled off. The bunch had strung out on the hill and I chased hard to catch Alan going down so we were together again going into Queen Charlotte Drive. Alan stayed close as we tackled the first big hill, but I was well clear by time I summited. Through Ngakuta Bay I was pretty much alone, but Alan re-joined me with a bunch of his merry men through Linkwater. Again I had succumbed to the bunch. Half a dozen of us lapped it out at the front across the Linkwater flats to the bottom of Mahakipawa Hill where we scattered on the climb and then regrouped after the downhill run into Havelock. At last the wind was behind us as we swung left for the final leg south back to Renwick, but far from making this a cruise, the pace went on and it was a scramble to shut down the odd gap that appeared in the ever-growing peloton. Things settled down and for once we had good order in the pack and a good paceline had us hitting over 50km/hr in places. We scooped up lone riders but many others, running on empty, failed to get on board. Everyone was concentrating hard and those who had anything in the tank strung out the peloton in the last few kilometers so that by time we crossed the Waiau River again, we were single file and hurting.

 

I spent the last couple of kilometers searching for the middle ground between my right hamstring seizing up with cramp and drifting off the back of the pack. Soon enough the driveway into Forrest Estate dictated its own sensible pace and we all rolled in, Alan 11 seconds ahead, and me reflecting on what was and what might have been and what should have been. Whenever I needed a bunch, I was on my own. Somehow they just formed behind me and made a mockery of my efforts. Three hours had passed but it had been an enjoyable ride despite my strategy being spectacularly unsuccessful.

 

That's part of the appeal of cycling - it is an amalgam of strategy, fitness and even a bit of luck. It combines the heady thrill of fast paced peloton riding and technical descents with great scenery. It most certainly isn't cricket.