Busselton was my designated 'A' race for this year. A group of five of us (Me, Mrs Otter, The Crank, Fat Uter and The Kaiser) had been trash talking and taunting one another for months about the outcome of this race. Reputations were on the line, egos had been plucked and preened and ridiculous amounts of money were spent on tri bling. Having safely stashed Junior Otter with Grandma, Mrs Otter and I experienced the romance of flight the Jetstar way enroute to Perth, damn those toilet cubicles are small...
The trip got off to a good start, our two hire cars turned out to be an upgraded XR6 in engorged red (should blend in well with the Busselton Bogans) and a ute with a yellow hazard light on the roof (hello team car!). We easily fitted the bike boxes in the ute and travelled in convoy to our accomodation booked sight unseen in Busso. Things just kept getting better, we had been told by the owner of the guest house that it was so close we could crawl on our lips to transition (I took this to mean within 50km...) but the crawl prediction was in fact quite accurate as was tested, more on this later.
A quick summary of our group's hopes and expectations:
Otter (Me): the hardened veteren of the team looking for a PB under six hours and needing to stay in front of the other vultures to retain my self styled title of 'Big Race Specialist' (BRS). Also I just had that title printed on my business cards so it would be annoying having to put little 'former' stickers on each card should my reign of terror come to an end.
Mrs Otter: The only girl on tour and therfore the Team Princess. Mrs Otter remained unconvinced that the rest of us were all that funny despite our opinions to the contrary... With the GOR mara approaching, Mrs Otter elected to tick the teams entry box and enjoy the run.
The Crank: so named not only for being a tool but also for his extrordinary long femurs. No production bike will fit The Crank, no production bike box will fit The Crank's custom bike frame. The Crank lobbed into Avalon with damn near 50kg's of luggage and was charged accordingly - those Qantas shares are worth more than the current takeover bid, just ask The Crank's Visa.
Fat Uter: The team morale officer. Fat Uter had announced that it was time to get back into shape. Given that I love watching human suffering, I invited him to join our trip to Busso and ride the bike leg. Through his amber tinted lenses Uter agreed, we purchased his bike the next morning, four weeks before Busso. I told Uter it was a nine km ride, details, details...
The Kaiser: earned his tri name when I was instructing him on the finer points of bike riding prior to his first HIM (his second ever race). I says "Dont worry about the front cogs, leave it alone and just play with the gears on the back, much simpler to start off with". And promptly forgot about that conversation. Three months later we learned that The Kaiser ground out the entire Port Mac HIM course on the big chain ring. Conjure up the voice of Phil Liggett "Thats right Paul, they call him the Kaiser, he's a huge man and he grinds a massive gear"
So that was our team and it was race morning. Can I just say from the outset that 900 and something nervous triathletes in a single mass start is what I live for. I mean, its just downright dangerous but you just cant beat the sweet salty smell of fear in the early morning mist. The theme of this trip just kept getting better when about 200 athletes thought they would start on the far side of the old broken pier away from the crush of bodies in the official starting zone. "You people cannot start further down the beach" boomed the alert official. Good decision, get the less confident, the older, the first timers and smaller females back into the official start zone - no more than 50m wide and about as deep. "Honk!!!" the horn goes and so does me. Remembering my Indian totem "Swims with Clenched Fist" I enter the fray and its on.
I exit the water and I'm feeling good (I mean PED good - and no, I'm not using) I mount my trusty steed and head out onto the bike leg. 1200 odd athletes (individual and team) on a flat three loop bike course produced road trains the size of B-doubles. I'm sitting in the middle of a pack of about 120 riders within a few minutes of leaving transition. I'm pretty sure I'm cheating, I'm jammed two wide, right up the clacker of about 60 others with another 60 odd stuck to my wheel. Yep I'm drafting. Now - I don’t mind sitting three or four meters back on a crowded course, kinda getting towed every so often, we've all done it, but this is just silly. Even I dont feel good about myself.
Seven minutes after leaving transition I find my moral compass and decide to race clean. I chance a look over my shoulder and spot a gap and flick to the outside of the pack. Stuey woulda been proud as I launch my attack. Ignoring the race plan, I sprint off the front of the peleton to freedom. The bike nudges 48 and I put a gap of about 100m between me and the pursuents, I'm riding clean. Several minutes later the same road train of riders roll me up but I have a cunning plan. I stop peddling. I've got a nice heavy disk on with buckets of inertia and the monster draft pack is slowly rolling over the top of me but I am being passed - I am not drafting. I fall back as required by the rules, it takes about ten minutes for the entire pack to pass me, I keep left and (mostly) just let the bike roll. As I fall to the back of the monster pack I re-launch the attack and again gap the hoards. I hear a voice from inside the peleton "He's going again." This is how I spent most of the 2 hours and 37 minutes - sprinting or being passed, but not drafting. Bike PB by about half an hour...
Meanwhile,
Uter waits in transition to begin the bike leg of the teams race. Our ring-in swimmer who we met the morning of the race, turns out to be somewhat of a gun. Uter is second on the bike and begins peddling furiously, he's a bit unsure of pacing after I fess up about the whole 9km/90km oversight. He's also a bit worried. To motive Uter, I have made a bet with The Crank. I've bet The Crank a set of carbon chain rings that he won’t thrash Uter with a riding crop if he catches and passes him on the bike. The Crank agrees and (a week prior to the race) visits a bondage shop to make the necessary arrangements.
During pre race check in the technical official questions The Crank, "What’s that crop for?"
"Actually it’s a tawse" says the The Crank (a detail man).
"OK, what’s that tawse for?" persists the TO. “
“Motivation" replies The Crank.
The TO ponders this: not against the rules, not providing an advantage that was an unintended consequence of the rules... "OK, bar ends check, helmet check, proceed." Clearly the TO has now seen it all.
Four of us are on the run course. Uter (his hide unblemished) is thrilled at having kept The Crank at bay, and completed his first extended 9km ride. I have a handy lead over the rest of the jackals, my reign as 'Big Race Specialist' seems assured, I'm toying with the idea of breaking 5.30. Ancient chineese quote from the Hung Dynasty: "pride comes before your heel separates from your foot".
Seven k's to go and a warm, squishy painful feeling is eminating from my left heel, not good so I throttle back. I get to the run turn around for the last time, three and a half k's to go, I cant walk. Time to think outside the square, I try walking backwards - no good. Hopping is OK, I'm guessing I can hop at 8min k's (techni hopping). I hop for about 300m until the right leg runs out of steam. I'm standing still 2 km from the finish. I can see the top of the finish chute - The Crank, running in the opposite direction towards the turnaround sees that I am wounded and smells blood. I'm worried he's still got that f%$king crop... I can hobble but it feels like I'm tearing it worse or I can ceede the title of BRS to The Crank. I'm a shallow, vain, short sighted little man, I hobble at about 6min k pace. The Crank will have to manage 4min k pace if he wants the title - never going to happen. The next 12 minutes are a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure I finish.
At 2am the next morning I give up with stifling my screams by biting down on a tawse I found lying around and call the ambos. My foot is now as big as my ego and that handful of Panadine and Voltaren are just not cutting the mustard. The very nice people at the Busselton hospital smile reassuringly and gently take that crop that I'd been chewing on out of my mouth and inject me full of happy juice. I'm convinced this will last until I get home (about 36 hours later), I'm so wrong about a lot of things.
So to re-cap. I'm now laying up at the Otter Pad in sunny Melbourne. I've just shot myself up with some very potent prescription painkillers and the world is a good place. Managed a PB at Busso (by a few seconds over Devonport 5.56 something), PB for both The Kaiser and The Crank, everybody finished, lots of drama, best event ever. X-ray showed no broken bones so I'm hoping its just a soft tissue injury.
TBC in Singapore 70.3...
The trip got off to a good start, our two hire cars turned out to be an upgraded XR6 in engorged red (should blend in well with the Busselton Bogans) and a ute with a yellow hazard light on the roof (hello team car!). We easily fitted the bike boxes in the ute and travelled in convoy to our accomodation booked sight unseen in Busso. Things just kept getting better, we had been told by the owner of the guest house that it was so close we could crawl on our lips to transition (I took this to mean within 50km...) but the crawl prediction was in fact quite accurate as was tested, more on this later.
A quick summary of our group's hopes and expectations:
Otter (Me): the hardened veteren of the team looking for a PB under six hours and needing to stay in front of the other vultures to retain my self styled title of 'Big Race Specialist' (BRS). Also I just had that title printed on my business cards so it would be annoying having to put little 'former' stickers on each card should my reign of terror come to an end.
Mrs Otter: The only girl on tour and therfore the Team Princess. Mrs Otter remained unconvinced that the rest of us were all that funny despite our opinions to the contrary... With the GOR mara approaching, Mrs Otter elected to tick the teams entry box and enjoy the run.
The Crank: so named not only for being a tool but also for his extrordinary long femurs. No production bike will fit The Crank, no production bike box will fit The Crank's custom bike frame. The Crank lobbed into Avalon with damn near 50kg's of luggage and was charged accordingly - those Qantas shares are worth more than the current takeover bid, just ask The Crank's Visa.
Fat Uter: The team morale officer. Fat Uter had announced that it was time to get back into shape. Given that I love watching human suffering, I invited him to join our trip to Busso and ride the bike leg. Through his amber tinted lenses Uter agreed, we purchased his bike the next morning, four weeks before Busso. I told Uter it was a nine km ride, details, details...
The Kaiser: earned his tri name when I was instructing him on the finer points of bike riding prior to his first HIM (his second ever race). I says "Dont worry about the front cogs, leave it alone and just play with the gears on the back, much simpler to start off with". And promptly forgot about that conversation. Three months later we learned that The Kaiser ground out the entire Port Mac HIM course on the big chain ring. Conjure up the voice of Phil Liggett "Thats right Paul, they call him the Kaiser, he's a huge man and he grinds a massive gear"
So that was our team and it was race morning. Can I just say from the outset that 900 and something nervous triathletes in a single mass start is what I live for. I mean, its just downright dangerous but you just cant beat the sweet salty smell of fear in the early morning mist. The theme of this trip just kept getting better when about 200 athletes thought they would start on the far side of the old broken pier away from the crush of bodies in the official starting zone. "You people cannot start further down the beach" boomed the alert official. Good decision, get the less confident, the older, the first timers and smaller females back into the official start zone - no more than 50m wide and about as deep. "Honk!!!" the horn goes and so does me. Remembering my Indian totem "Swims with Clenched Fist" I enter the fray and its on.
I exit the water and I'm feeling good (I mean PED good - and no, I'm not using) I mount my trusty steed and head out onto the bike leg. 1200 odd athletes (individual and team) on a flat three loop bike course produced road trains the size of B-doubles. I'm sitting in the middle of a pack of about 120 riders within a few minutes of leaving transition. I'm pretty sure I'm cheating, I'm jammed two wide, right up the clacker of about 60 others with another 60 odd stuck to my wheel. Yep I'm drafting. Now - I don’t mind sitting three or four meters back on a crowded course, kinda getting towed every so often, we've all done it, but this is just silly. Even I dont feel good about myself.
Seven minutes after leaving transition I find my moral compass and decide to race clean. I chance a look over my shoulder and spot a gap and flick to the outside of the pack. Stuey woulda been proud as I launch my attack. Ignoring the race plan, I sprint off the front of the peleton to freedom. The bike nudges 48 and I put a gap of about 100m between me and the pursuents, I'm riding clean. Several minutes later the same road train of riders roll me up but I have a cunning plan. I stop peddling. I've got a nice heavy disk on with buckets of inertia and the monster draft pack is slowly rolling over the top of me but I am being passed - I am not drafting. I fall back as required by the rules, it takes about ten minutes for the entire pack to pass me, I keep left and (mostly) just let the bike roll. As I fall to the back of the monster pack I re-launch the attack and again gap the hoards. I hear a voice from inside the peleton "He's going again." This is how I spent most of the 2 hours and 37 minutes - sprinting or being passed, but not drafting. Bike PB by about half an hour...
Meanwhile,
Uter waits in transition to begin the bike leg of the teams race. Our ring-in swimmer who we met the morning of the race, turns out to be somewhat of a gun. Uter is second on the bike and begins peddling furiously, he's a bit unsure of pacing after I fess up about the whole 9km/90km oversight. He's also a bit worried. To motive Uter, I have made a bet with The Crank. I've bet The Crank a set of carbon chain rings that he won’t thrash Uter with a riding crop if he catches and passes him on the bike. The Crank agrees and (a week prior to the race) visits a bondage shop to make the necessary arrangements.
During pre race check in the technical official questions The Crank, "What’s that crop for?"
"Actually it’s a tawse" says the The Crank (a detail man).
"OK, what’s that tawse for?" persists the TO. “
“Motivation" replies The Crank.
The TO ponders this: not against the rules, not providing an advantage that was an unintended consequence of the rules... "OK, bar ends check, helmet check, proceed." Clearly the TO has now seen it all.
Four of us are on the run course. Uter (his hide unblemished) is thrilled at having kept The Crank at bay, and completed his first extended 9km ride. I have a handy lead over the rest of the jackals, my reign as 'Big Race Specialist' seems assured, I'm toying with the idea of breaking 5.30. Ancient chineese quote from the Hung Dynasty: "pride comes before your heel separates from your foot".
Seven k's to go and a warm, squishy painful feeling is eminating from my left heel, not good so I throttle back. I get to the run turn around for the last time, three and a half k's to go, I cant walk. Time to think outside the square, I try walking backwards - no good. Hopping is OK, I'm guessing I can hop at 8min k's (techni hopping). I hop for about 300m until the right leg runs out of steam. I'm standing still 2 km from the finish. I can see the top of the finish chute - The Crank, running in the opposite direction towards the turnaround sees that I am wounded and smells blood. I'm worried he's still got that f%$king crop... I can hobble but it feels like I'm tearing it worse or I can ceede the title of BRS to The Crank. I'm a shallow, vain, short sighted little man, I hobble at about 6min k pace. The Crank will have to manage 4min k pace if he wants the title - never going to happen. The next 12 minutes are a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure I finish.
At 2am the next morning I give up with stifling my screams by biting down on a tawse I found lying around and call the ambos. My foot is now as big as my ego and that handful of Panadine and Voltaren are just not cutting the mustard. The very nice people at the Busselton hospital smile reassuringly and gently take that crop that I'd been chewing on out of my mouth and inject me full of happy juice. I'm convinced this will last until I get home (about 36 hours later), I'm so wrong about a lot of things.
So to re-cap. I'm now laying up at the Otter Pad in sunny Melbourne. I've just shot myself up with some very potent prescription painkillers and the world is a good place. Managed a PB at Busso (by a few seconds over Devonport 5.56 something), PB for both The Kaiser and The Crank, everybody finished, lots of drama, best event ever. X-ray showed no broken bones so I'm hoping its just a soft tissue injury.
TBC in Singapore 70.3...