Here's What The Poster Read:

Global Gutz Alleycat tonight. All week I've been trying to convince roadies to come down, roll turns with me for the whole 21ks, and set the fastest time in the world. I'm not sure if it'll work out like that, but hey, it's my first alleycat since the trackolympics, and I'm pretty psyched on it.

Bicentennial.

200th post.

Thanks for reading friends, enemies and all those in between.

You Are The Missing Limb.

So far, over the last month or so, this sore throat / lost voice / swollen glands / shitty feeling has been variously diagnosed as the flu, a throat infection and now laryngitis. I've spent a lot of time on a variety of drugs that have achieved next to nothing. I've watched a lot of TV on DVD, sat on the couch, drank a lot of orange juice. It's getting to be a little bit frustrating, not to mention putting a considerable dent in my ambitions. What I'd like most of all is to be accurately assessed, prescribed a course of treatment and then cured. Anyone?

We Play The Roles That They Assign Us.

Given that I scored my second ever DNF in today's Northern Combine race at Gisborne South, I'll concentrate instead on reporting back on last night's Puzzlecat. I don't really think I'll be giving the best picture of what occurred, however, especially given I was drinking coffee and ferrying beer around while everyone else was out smashing themselves and looking in awkward locations for impossible answers to cryptic clues. Best to also look at the fixed.org.au thread to see what everyone else is saying.

Nath and I rocked up to the museum carting a huge load of swag at around 5.45. There were already people there, which augered well for the final turnout. We'd copied a few more maps on the way and spent the next twenty minutes putting them into envelopes with the spokecards and stickerpacks from knog and crumpler. At that point Tara Jayne was still saying she wasn't going to race, so I enlisted her help, and ignored her obvious advantage when she changed her mind and handed in her ten bucks.

When I started talking crap at around 6.30 there were 47 participants - an amazing number, given the freezing cold. Another bloke rocked up a good twenty minutes after the start, but still wanted to race, taking the final number to 48. They shivered and - for the most part - resisted the temptation to open their envelopes and sneak a peak at the diabolical schemes inside.

Riders were instructed that in their envelopes there would be a map with a series of checkpoints marked on it. Each checkpoint had a cryptic question to answer, based on the location. Checkpoints were optional, and each was worth an amount of points. Riders had to return by 8.30, and were docked ten points for each minute they were late thereafter. The rider with the most points at the end would win.

At 6.45 they were on their way. The furthest point was Brunswick Velodrome, with a question based on the plaque on the base of the lightpost at the 300 metre mark. The closest was on a currency meter at the front of the Exhibition Gardens. There were questions based on graffiti, advertising posters, names on benches and shoes slung over electric wires. I had told folks at the beginning that if they couldn't find an answer they should just move on, but surprisingly most people found the answers once they arrived. As such I wasn't bombarded with calls asking for hints, and spent quite a leisurely time waiting for the riders to return.

The first group appeared at 8.15. I insisted they had enough time to hit another checkpoint, but they seemed more interested in the beer and hot chips Nath and I had procured for public consumption. As folks came pouring in we realised that the adding process would take longer than we'd thought, so some poor riders were enlisted to pick up the slack. Blakey, Nik Cee and Denison deserve special shout-outs for this.

Third place went to Alex 4.0, who actually scored the most points by a considerable margin, but arrived twelve minutes late and so lost a good deal of them. Second place went to Michael, who was riding in his first alleycat ever, but who picked a good bunch of riders to stick with. And first place went to X-Campbell, who would've got a special prize anyway for deciding not to ride in his yellow pants. At this point we discovered that our sorting system allowed no provision for figuring out who else was awarded other prizes, so I relied on rider honesty and gave out prizes for first noob, youngest rider, oldest rider, best stack (Nik Cee, again), furthest checkpoint (Pip!) and out-of-towner (Rich!). Sasha from Pony Bikes was at hand to give out the prize for first girl, which - perhaps not surprisingly - was won by Tara Jayne. And the special DFL prize of the ugliest jersey ever and a Gu Energy Gel was won by Trigger, who suffered three punctures and was the only rider to score a negative amount of points.

Folks then retired to Little Creatures Dining Hall, where they were filled full of more chips and entertained partially by flaming hippies, but mostly by their own shared tales of derring-do. At about 10 I headed home to bed, preparing for the aforementioned race that I eventually failed to finish.

Special thanks have to go to Nath, Zoe, Nik Cee, IRide Bikes (for so much stuff!), Shifterbikes (for the rare merch), Pony Bikes (for coming down and presenting some awesome prizes), Sweet Source (for cupcakes, even if I forgot to award them and had to run around handing them out afterwards), BSC Bikes (for billions of puncture kits), Stussy (for a Masters prize that will make a certain 42 year-old totally hip), Crumpler (for continuing to support the fixie scene, as they have done for, like, forever), Knog (for blinky things in abundance, and for stickers!), Commuter Cycles (for being nice guys, and for the free service for first noob), Cranky Sundays (in particular Hans, for sneakers), Yellow Ghost Records (for cds!), Genovese Coffee (for... well, you can figure it out) and Aqto (for the coolest bike designs I've seen on a t-shirt). Also to the security staff at the museum for not cracking it at us, and The Kid Campbell for taking photos and getting them up on the internet in record time.

Next race from The Future: Drags. Stay tuned!

Haemorrhaging.

A few people have asked about the three day tour, and how it went for me. So here goes.

Day Zero.

Nath, Caro and I drive up on Friday night, which was perhaps the best decision we made all weekend. Checked into the Glen Erin, four ks out of Lancefield, a nice easy warm up ride away. The first disappointment of the weekend came quite soon afterwards - the spa was outdoors, and didn't seem to have been turned on since summer. We head out to find a place to eat in Romsey, share some bawdy banter and head home to bed. At 9.30. Holiday weekend! Party Hard!

Day One.

Due to sickness in the three weeks previous, I've signed up for C grade, which has earned me a serious amount of derision from some of my peers. But come on. I tried to race the Madison at DISC the Tuesday before and only made it to 30 laps, so I know I'm not in any kind of decent shape. So I'm quite happy when I realise C grade is going to take it easy for the first race. We roll around and not much happens. No attacks, no breaks. I sprint at the end and score a second.

We hang out at the Aspy cafe in Lancefield for a while afterwards. I fear that the cafe is named due to the large number of wait staff with Asperger's syndrome, but that proved not to be the case. One of the waiters takes a shine to Caro (who is ill this weekend and not riding) and gives her a copy of Murray Bail's Eucalyptus, which is one of my favourite books. The novel, however, doesn't seem to be any indication of decency in men.

Everyone is supposedly heading down to the Lancefield pub for dinner, in order to take advantage of the cyclist soup and pasta deal. We follow them down there and get caught up talking tactics most of the night. It's a tiring pastime - there's a lot of pressure - and to avoid concentrating too hard I spend a lot of my energy writing Bruce Springsteen lyrics on the tablecloth.

Day Two.

First up is the individual time trial. I've never done one before, don't have time trial bars or helmet or bike, and am wearing leggings that look like jeans. Quite often in this road racing caper I feel like an imposter, the random punk kid who snuck in and, lets face it, will likely steal a bunch of things. Never more so than today. I do ok in the time trial, but not well enough, and am out of contention for the GC. Looks like I'm aiming for sprint points from now on.

Next is the third stage, another scratch out on the road. Everyone seems pretty wrecked after the time trial - except for me, who obviously didn't try hard enough. It's slow and weary going. Compounding the general tiredness is the cold, and the wet, and the wind. I take the a second in the first intermediate sprint and a win in the next. At the finish I'm supposed to be leading out Sparkey, a fellow Brunswick member who is currently tour leader, but when I launch into the sprint I'm not in the best spot to help out, so I back myself and take the stage win.

Despite the obvious disappointment of there being no spa, I have taken full advantage of the deep bath in our ensuite so far this weekend, and tonight is no different. It is sensational. Afterwards we drive into Gisborne for some Thai. We make terrible puns over dinner and drive home through the dark night of the Macedon Ranges.

Day Three

I find out at the pre-race briefing that my number wasn't showing yesterday, and as such the points I thought I'd accumulated in the intermediate sprints weren't counted. I figure I've still got it wrapped up, so decide to do more work for Sparkey through the hills. This fucking kills me. I'm not a fan of hills at the best of times, and doing work on the front in order to string out the bunch is not my favourite way to spend the afternoon. There are attacks all day, and for the most part we let them go, but with about 20ks to go we send Andrew Gannon out to chase one down. It doesn't really work out that way - the two of them start working together and are a long way out. A group of three St Kilda guys head out after them and look like they're going to catch up, but the next we see of them they're sprawled out on the ground. The bunch neutralises out of respect, then guns it out of there. Folks are pushing the pace, trying to get an advantage before the sprint. I'm pretty much spent, and know that I'm out of it, so I try to block other GC contenders while another teammate leads Sparkey out. It doesn't work out that well - we all end up finishing in the bunch - and when we look at the times later that afternoon we discover that Andrew has taken out the overall prize.

The presentations are at the Lancefield pub, so we head down there again. We spend a lot of time standing around waiting for the photographers to get the lighting exactly right, but when procedings get off the ground we are alerted to the fact that Brunswick riders have taken out A, B and C grades. Not bad. I pick up a bunch of cash for my podium finishes, and a slightly thicker wad for the green jersey. The guy who took a shine to Caro on day one is lingering in the front bar, so we make a quick getaway out the back door, you know, to avoid further awkwardness.

On the way home we talk about the topic cyclists usually talk about after a big race: what the hell we're going to do now. I'm hoping to race as much as possible, score some consistent results in B grade, maybe do some opens. Caro wants to get more racing in, and perhaps do some more training. Nath has a coach writing up a program for him and wants to get fitter. It's good talk, filled with hope and promise and glory to come, but as the city comes back into view we fall quiet.

When We Love.

Well, the Northern Combine Three Day Tour is upon us, and due to my lungs sounding like a bowl of Rice Bubbles whenever I try to attack a hill, my priorities have been realigned. Before I had hoped to win. Now I'd like to survive. It will be tough. But I have been assured that our room has a spa, so even if I drop out after the first stage I will be able to spend the rest of the weekend lounging in the bubbles and reading my book. Win-win.

Touch Me, I'm Sick

Against my better judgement, tomorrow night I will be riding in this.

The Madison is not really my favourite race, as endurance is not really my thing, but it is always good watching. My partner PB Ladner (the PB stands for Pretty Boy) and I - the original Team Handsome - have both been individually laid out with the flu all last week, and will not fare well in the race, but intend to out-heckle the smartest of audience arses. Come on down.

Warriors, Come Out And Play.

I Wonder, If I Pierce It.

We spend a lot of time sculpting our bodies, trying to convince them to do things that they really don't want to do. After a while has passed our bodies start to take the shapes we want them to, and we can convince ourselves that we are in control. But like the Nicole Kidman character tells the Tom Cruise character in Days Of Thunder, control is an illusion. And it only takes one virus, one infection or even one day of not being able to speak to remind us of this. We like to think that it's a give and take relationship - if we treat our bodies nicely, it won't fail us when we need it most. But that's bullshit too. I need my body now; there are only two weeks til the Northern Combine Three Day Tour and all this time off the bike isn't going to help. And I have a friend over from the states who I'd like to be able to entertain, but really, the novelty of phlegm wears off after a while. I'm good to my body, you know? If it were all about a fair exchange then none of this would be happening. No, all I can tell myself is that life is cruel, and do what I can to enjoy sitting on my couch under a blankie, watching Arrested Development.

Jungles Of Doubt.

I'm not having the greatest run at the moment. Covered in scabs from a crash a week or so ago, run down by an influenza I'm doing my best to convince everyone is swine-related, unable to ride my bike for more than an hour at a time, and now, finally, dispossessed of my voice.

I'm generally a pretty talky bloke, but there are times when I go a long time without speaking. Mostly when I'm asleep, sure. But also when I'm out on the bike, or typing these posts, or, well, yeah, asleep. Oh, also in the morning, when I'm trying to read the paper. But now that I'm consciously trying not to speak so much, it weighs heavy on my mind. It's not that it hurts to speak. It's just that when I try to do so the voice that comes out is that of a midlife drag queen attempting to be sexy. That's an image I don't want to project. So I'm trying not to talk. And it ain't easy.

Exile Town.

Stoked on new wheels, I turn up for roller training late and a little pissed off. I've forgotten my stuff for yoga afterwards, haven't thought about dinner, and have just come out of a meeting (I was going to write 'a frustrating meeting', but realized that it was a tautology and decided against it). So I change into my kit and start smashing it. Nath bails out early and offers to provide some resistance. I tell him I'm fine, and that I'll just spin faster. But on the final effort he wedges a broom in between my rear roller and the floor. It takes me by surprise, and I momentarily let the cadence drop below one hundred. But I grind it out and before long the smell of melting nylon fills the room. That's right. I melted fabric with the sheer force of my legs. Next week I hope to steam some red bean buns with the heat escaping from the top of my head.

The Revelator

The other thing about cycling is that sometimes there are crashes.

You Mean Competitor, Whatever.

The history of cycling as a sport is defined by corporate interests, from the Tour de France (begun as a way to sell newspapers) to the Northern Combine races that torture me on the weekends, sponsored in part by clothing manufacturer Ventou. Our team jerseys are littered with logos and our favourite riders have their pictures on our energy bars. It's what keeps the sport alive, like it or not. I choose to like it. If a company chooses to invest in events that are environmentally ok, encourage a healthy lifestyle and are also totally sweet to boot, then I'm provisionally down. Hell, it's better than them investing in the Grand Prix.

I've had events sponsored in the past, but had never thought about being a supported rider until Nath suggested I go talk to the folks at the Fitzroy Revolution. So I did. And they, despite having read this blog, decided to pick me up. I'll be riding in their team colours for the first time less than twelve hours from now.

Wish me luck.

I Told You.

here's the lowdown.

riders will be given a map with a series of checkpoints. each checkpoint will be worth a different amount of points. you do not have to go to every checkpoint - indeed, it will be impossible to do so, as all riders must return to the museum by 8.30, and there will be lots. riders returning after the time limit will have points deducted. the rider with the most points will win!

the puzzle parts of the equation will be a) deciding which checkpoints to hit and b) answering the questions at each checkpoint. tricky stuff!

there will, of course, also be prizes for first noob, first out-of-towner, DFL, first person to finish who is of the opposite gender to the winner, person who hit the furtherest checkpoint, etc, etc.

ride anything you want - fixed, free, gears, hybrid, mountain bike, bmx, chopper, whatever.

sponsor details coming soon.

And I For One Support It.

This is the best thing I've ever written and you didn't even read it.