Your Cuppa's Getting Cold.

Today's CX lessons:

1) It's important, even if you've just completed a sweet descent, to always pay attention to your line. Otherwise, you will eat shit. Possibly at high speeds, and probably right on top of the bruises you scored when you ate shit two days ago.

2) Cyclocross tires are not equivalent to proper mountainbike tires in wet and muddy conditions. Ignore this and you will eat shit, probably while doing something stupid, like trying to flick out the back wheel in order to improve your line.

3) Always try to get your sponsor's logo in the picture. That's it on the down tube, underneath some mud.

I Don't Talk To Sun Reporters.

Saturday morning grab-bag:

Eleanor of Helmets Are Hot fame is in the running to become the Melburn-Roobaix 'Black Sheep'. You can vote for her extremely witty and well-presented entry here. She's number four.

I just read on No Whip that a woman by the name of Deanna Adams is riding the Arizona Trail 750, which is a 750 mile race through some pretty intense country, and furthermore is self-supported - you have to carry your own gear. There's even a stage where you have to carry your own bike. If that doesn't sound crazy enough for you, she's doing it fixed. And you thought you were tough because you finished Escape from the Suburbs last week.

Warburton Cycle Fest is next week, and I strongly encourage each and every one of you to make the trek out there for some awesome bike fun. You could even catch the train to Lilydale then take the rail trail from there. I'll be racing in the CX race on Sunday morning - god I hope they have a singlespeed category - and Nik and I will be organizing the 'Fixie Omnium' later in the day.

And, finally, to put a nice lid on the "Women What Kick Ass" theme that has developed here, the Thursday Night Ladies Ride is taking off again. They're a pretty damn awesome crew of female cyclists, and if you happen to tick both of those boxes you should rock up.

Against The Laws Of Physics.

Two weeks into my CX-themed break and every ride I discover something new. Yesterday was a double.

Lesson One: If you're going to bunnyhop off a curb, you can't land on too much of an angle. The sideways force will result in a rolled tire, and you will eat shit.


Lesson Two: You can't hit the edge of a concrete block at pace. A pinch flat and a dented rim will result. You will also, once again, eat shit.


On the ride DC asked me if I'd like to be part of a team for the Beechworth 6-hour Enduro. I'm not quite sure what possessed him at the time.

Free Soup Daily.

I may have mentioned recently that during this break from training I've been having a lot of fun riding around on the trails. The amount of fun I've been having is nicely illustrated by these two diagrams.

1) The way I used to ride home:


2) The way I ride home now:

So Versatile.

So, I guess this is a review, of sorts.

In 2007 - hell, maybe it was even 2006 - I bought a Redline 925. For about six months I rode it as it was - like a commuter bike, with fenders and a freewheel. Eventually I stripped it down and flipped the wheel to make a sweet fixie. The frame acquired more stickers in this period, as well as some new parts. My involvement in the fixie community grew and I raced - and placed - in more and more alleycats. This led to track racing, and while for the most part I raced on a track bike, I trained two or three times a week on the 925. That's a lot of laps. I think I even raced it at the club championships.

At some point I hooked up with a bunch of guys and rode it from Sydney to Melbourne, partially fixed, partially singlespeed. We cruised along the coast and did 1100ks in six days.

Right now I'm having a break from track training, and to refresh my love of biking I've rejigged the bike once again. Flipped the wheel back to a singlespeed, threw on some cyclocross tyres and riser bars, and am running front and rear brakes. The bike is perfect for getting dirty, bashing through the singletrack and cruising the fire roads. All of a sudden I'm talking like a snowboarder, telling folks I'm 'stoked' and that the trails were 'gnarly'.

I'm pretty sure that the bike wasn't intended for all of these different uses, but what the hell. It has served me well over the past three or four years, and will likely continue to do so in the years to come.

Best Friends.

A long time ago Nik Cee mentioned to me a race that he had run in Vancouver. He does that a lot, but this one seemed to stick out. It started in some far-flung suburban hellhole and ended back in the coddling warmth of the innercity. The idea itself was appealing enough, but what really roped me in was the name: Escape from the Suburbs.

This ride would be a little different to a regular alleycat. It was essentially a road race held on public roads – the start, checkpoint and finish would be announced in advance, giving riders a chance to plan their routes well in advance. Traffic would barely be an issue, as there would be long stretches of road without lights, intersections or cars. The winner would be the strongest rider with the best route.


A plan was put into place, a sweet flyer produced, and a few months down the track Blakey, Nik and I were on the platform at Clifton Hill station, waiting for the train to take us to Hurstbridge. Our lone checkpoint, Matty Bowen, swung by to talk some shit, speculate about potential winners and pick up the raffle tickets that riders would be given when they met up with him. These raffle tickets would put each rider in the running for a sweet fixie frame from CellBikes, as well as proving they had hit the checkpoint. Win-win.


The extent of our undertaking begun to reveal itself on the train. We’d planned to get there ten minutes before rego opened at two, but apparently a lot of others had planned the same. To make our lives a little easier we opened rego on the train, and handed out some badges (because spokecards are so played out). The train also took a long time. As the miles passed the scenery became more and more rural. Folks were a long way from home, and probably wouldn’t be too familiar with the terrain. We started to wonder if people would get lost forever, or get overwhelmed at the foot of a hill and simply give up, or bin it on one of the descents.


These concerns were put aside as we stepped out into the glorious Hurstbridge sunshine. There was a strong northerly blowing, which put a further smile on the faces of riders. We started registration, and quickly realized that we hadn’t made enough badges. We only had 70, and with one train still to arrive before the 3 o’clock kick off we were down to 6 badges. This problem was overcome by taking a distasteful page from the triathlete’s handbook – we wrote numbers on people.

There were, however, a few folks who looked comfortable with the big black numbers now gracing their arms – triathletes. With aerobars, deep dish carbon rims, and cue-cards taped to their forearms.


These folks were nicely contrasted by the usual assortment of hipsters with asymmetrical haircuts, teenage boys with roadbike conversions and aerospokes, hardcore fixie kids in trendy jerseys, and a handful of roadies.


One of these, in full Mapei kit, told us that he was on the way back from Kinglake and decided to check it out. The Brunswick Cycling Club A Team gave everyone a lesson in warming up by riding their bikes to the start – from Brunswick. Shifter Dan rolled up on his C-Record equipped hoopty bike. Andy “TC” White was seen on his roadie. Jay and Coopz rocked matching jerseys from Steady Rollin Crew.


A handful of women from the Thursday Night Ride crew formed a tight knit bunch – for the time being. Vanessa and Campbell rocked up together and were looking fast. Some kid – Eugene – was wearing a bright red cowboy hat instead of a helmet, but was quickly convinced that this was a bad idea. The Knog crew looked like they’d form a united front. In the end we registered 101 riders. Folks scooted over to the general store for last minute bottles of Powerade



and then milled around until briefing.


Briefing was mercifully kept quite short – riders were informed once again where the checkpoint would be – Doncaster Shoppingtown – and that presentations would occur at the museum at 5.30. If they were still rolling around the suburbs at 5 they were instructed that they should head home. They were then introduced to a new idea – the rolling start.

In order to avoid the chaos that usually marks the beginning of alleycats, riders all rolled out of Hurstbridge station together, forced (under threat of disqualification) to stay behind myself and Nik. Once Nik blew his whistle riders were free. As we came out of the station the cars banked up behind us. It was like we were the cool cousin of Critical Mass. Some roadie types, perhaps used to neutralized early miles, made their way to the front. When all riders were out of the station and on to the main road Nik blew his whistle and they were off.


Nik, Blakey and I went back to the station and cracked open some chips. Our train rolled in and one last rider jumped out. “Are you doing rego for Escape from the Suburbs?” He asked. “Am I too late?” We told him no and signed him up. “The checkpoint at Doncaster is going to leave at 4.30” I told him. “That won’t be a problem,” he replied, and took off.

The train seemed to take a long time to return to Clifton Hill. About twenty minutes in we started receiving text messages.
-101 riders? That’s insane!
-No one here yet.
-Traffic is HEAVY at this intersection. Lots of cops around.
-Andy just came through, then Brunswick. Andy went the wrong way!
-Brunswick through. No sign of Dan
-Dudes are walking up the hills
-I’m really spewing I snapped my roadie now (from Matty Bowen)
-Ben Ladner 1st, Sam 2nd. No sign of Andy
(phone call from Andy asking where the finish is. The museum, he was told.)
-Can’t wait 2 hear 1st fixed (one gear, one category – first fixed was Sam McGregor!)
-28 have come in
(phone call from Matty telling us some kid binned it on the hill into Doncaster. The kid is up and talking, but a bit shaky)
-45 are in. Vanessa first girl.
-see you in 5.

We exit the train and, with a quick detour to Nik’s to pick up the prizes, fairly gun it to the museum. When we roll up Tara tells us to go check in. Everyone looks a little wrecked. It’s only about 4.30 – there’s an hour til presentations, and riders are still coming in. This gives us a chance to talk to the riders, hear their stories and meet new friends. Some worlds are definitely colliding – roadies are talking to fixie hipsters, bicycles.net.au moderators are comparing routes with fixed.org.au trolls, men in full lycra kits are putting the hard word on women in cut-off jeans. It’s one of the reasons we were so keen to do this race – that it would appeal to a broad cross section of the cycling community – and seeing it happen is heartening to say the least.


When 5.30 came around we presented the following prizes:

DFL went to Tom, who sat around for ten minutes before checking in with Dawn and Casey at the finish.


The doofus award went to Eugene, for trying to attract cops with his cowboy hat. We gave him a helmet. He was later seen wearing it.
Most inappropriate bike went to Justin, who rode his Euro pursuit with a rear disc, no brakes and a dodgy lockring.
Biggest sacrifice to be there went to Beaker, whose wife was going into ‘pre’-labour that day.
Best Team went to the Thursday Night Ladies Crew


Oldest rider went to Mulger Bill, but probably should’ve gone to John. We gave them both prizes.
Youngest rider went to ChrisMark1.
Best attitude went to Giles, because he was number 48 and feeling great!
Best outfit – judged by Jona Gunn (pictured) of Coffee Supreme - went to Mapei Man, whose real name I think was Tim.


First noob went to Ollie ‘Fairtrade’ Phillips.

The one-gear podium looked like this:
1. Samuel Wallace McGregor (also his first race, but we couldn’t give him a noob award as well…)
2. Jay ‘Z’ Dougrey
3. Matt Gray

The women’s podium looked like this:


Left to Right:
1. Vanessa (also in her first race!)
2. Sarah Maree McNabbalinski
3. Jess (also in her first race!)

And the men’s podium looked like this:

Left to Right:
3rd - Jay 'Z' Dougrey
1st - Ben 'PB' Ladner, aka Brother Handsome
2nd - Samuel Wallace McGregor

These folks took home some pretty sweet prizes:

And Travis won the raffle! Travis not pictured. This is Kimmy Lees, barrel girl extraordinaire.


Thanks of course go to the organizing committee, Matty Bowen for manning the checkpoint out in the badlands, Dawn and Casey for keeping control of the finish – often in the face of disrespectful teenage boys (is that a tautology?), Tara Jayne for making both the inflammatory flyer and the badges, CellBikes for providing a frame, a wheelset and thousands of other little bits and pieces for us to give out, Natasha from Crumpler for continuing to support dodgy-looking dudes who want to put on bike races, Jona at Supreme for coffee and playing fashion judge when put on the spot, Kimmy Lees for pulling raffle tickets out of her brother’s hat and screeching out the numbers, DC at Fitzroy Revolution for the helmet, Brent “Velcro” MacKenzie for the Tattoo Voucher, the Littlest Baker for very well-received cupcakes, the people of Hurstbridge for being patient in the face of so much bike traffic, and everyone else for riding, sweating, occasionally walking, sometimes vomiting, constantly smiling and generally having a good time.

Photos c/o Blakey and Chaz. Used without permission, as per usual.

Dugs. Digs. Dug.

This is how interviews should be conducted.

Had It Right Here, Now It's Gone.

Oh man, I'm so wrecked right now. The omnium has come and gone. I knocked another second off my kilo time (1.11.?), finally broke twelve seconds over the flying 200 (11.7) and did a weird middle distance two kilometre pursuit in about two and a half minutes. Scrounged a second in the scratch and the points and came home with a medal. Pretty happy with that.

But what I'm even more happy about, in my current state of exhaustion, is the next six weeks. In which I intend to still ride my bike, but without any intensity whatsoever. As I mentioned here, my body needs the rest. I'll roll around, do some long rides, sleep late on the weekend and drink more coffee. If you've barely seen me for the past twelve months, now would be a good time to give me a call.

Somebody's Sins, But Not Mine.

There's a little event being planned over here, but you better be quick - I hear it's almost fully subscribed. I would've missed out myself but for a quick call from Mr White.

But I'm Not Afraid Of My.

I Consider It A Measure Of My Humanity.

I don't know Marx (well, other than Karl and his brothers Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Zeppo), but I gotta love his attitude to racing.

The best thing about this is, he keeps coming back.

"The thing is, winners do it easy. They have support, natural talent & people cheering for them, slapping them on the back all the time, getting awards, trophies & prizes for just about everytime they throw a leg over a bike.

But me, I’m rolling through when people are packing up. When I look at results I always start at the bottom & work my way up. No one to cheer me on, or pass me a biddon. I have to lay my bike on the ground in the pits, I get the dirt in my face & cop all the rutts. I take the B line & have to walk the tricky bits when course is blocked with riders. I have to pick up after myself & pack it all away at the end of the day. I know every km of the drive back from Mt Beauty & Forrest after a long, long ride. I wash my bike, my gear, clean out the camping gear & vacuum the car so my wife can use the car the next morning. I know how much brake pads & cassettes cost & how long it takes to fit them. My hands are always dirty. When I get caught in the rain, I have to ride home in the rain. In winter I ride at night because I have to do everything else during the day."

You Don't See Us.

This guy takes sweet photos and seems kinda stoked when they appear on other people's facebook pages. He doesn't ask any money for them and doesn't make any money from them. I guess that's one way to go about doing things if you're going to use other people's images for your art. I'm ok with this.

This guy also takes sweet photos. I once called him up to see if I could use one of me on my facebook. He said "Fifty Bucks!" but was just taking the piss, later confiding that I was perhaps the first person to ever actually ask him, after years of seeing them crop up all over the internet. The photos are watermarked, and the watermarks lead viewers back to his blog. His blog makes money from advertising. Although he occasionally has dubious taste, I'm also ok with this.

This lady sometimes also takes a good photo, but is pretty keen on you not using her photos without paying, which kind of makes her the cycling photography version of Metallica. But boy, does this rub me the wrong way. It raises all sorts of question about who owns the image, especially when the image is taken as seperate from the artistic representation of it. There are lots of photos of me in her various galleries. Does she have the right to profit off my image? I'm not sure. But like Metallica she seems to be picking the wrong demographic to complain about. Metallica fans were generally also Napster users - dorky white teenage boys - and these fans deserted the band in droves after the suit succeeded. The people that Ms Cole is asking to cough up are the people in her photographs (and incidentally, are also - generally - dorky white boys), and if they ask her not to photograph them - or keep stealing her photographs until she decides not to take pictures of them - then she won't have anyone left to shoot.

Don't get me wrong. I've got no issue with people wanting to make money from their art. But in this digital era, taking photos of people and then asking them to buy them off you seems almost quaint, like a scam some hustler would try in a third world city. Like musicians before them, photographers are being forced to think of new ways to make a profit. And that's alright - perhaps even a good thing - but there's not much worse than hearing someone complaining about being left behind.

Not By Pennies, Dimes Or Quarters.

Punk's not dead. Or perhaps it is. Perhaps it is and we should quit living in the past. Or perhaps it is, and that's a good thing, because it has morphed (and continues to morph) into something more interesting. Punk, however, doesn't have layers of bureaucracy, administrative bodies, government subsidies - punk is not, despite the best efforts of a bevy of major corporations, institutionalized. Perhaps this why punk, in its different forms, continues to thrive.

Cycling, unlike punk, is institutionalized, which is why it ends up in situations like this or this. It's pretty easy, however, to simply blame the governing bodies in question. That's how things work in an institution - when something goes wrong, you blame those above you. But perhaps, if cycling - and in particular track cycling - is going to continue, we need to think more like punks. We need to take events out of the hands of the institutions and run them ourselves. The events we run and the track cycling we race won't look the same as the events and races that have been organized by Cycling Victoria and Cycling Australia over the past one hundred years, but they will be more inclusive, more vibrant and, what's more, they'll be ours. For us, by us.

This Broccoli's Dead.

Also this:

Maybe She'll Come Back To Me.

My relationship with handicap racing is a relationship that features the odd moment of glory, with a whole lot of domestic violence in between. And like a battered spouse I keep going back for more, you know, because it might just work out this time.

My first handicap races were in Bendigo, at the Madison Weekend. I'd had a win in a scratch race, and was feeling pretty confident. The outcomes quickly destroyed this confidence. Pretty much my whole family had come out to watch, and my brother Miguel captured the moment perfectly when he informed me that I had just been "swallowed up like a hamburger". Because I'm still something of a newcomer in this game, I generally get a pretty decent mark, which only really works ok until the backmarkers come through like a steamtrain, express to the finish, not taking any passengers.

I say that I generally get a decent mark, but that's only generally true. My first road race was a handicap. By the time the road season rolled around I was riding in A grade at on Tuesday nights, and someone, somewhere obviously equated success on the track to success on the road. I was with a pretty fierce group, and got dropped after about fifty kilometres, suffering some fragrant humiliation in the process.

Occasionally, though, things work out. If there's enough distance between your group and the next; if everyone in your group is prepared to work their arses off; if the groups behind you aren't particularly well organized; if you get a good push; if you're lucky, then you may be able to stay away. And this was the case in the Melbourne Cup on Wheels on Saturday night. I was with a bunch of guys I knew, and who I knew would be able to keep the pace pretty high. There was forty metres between my group and the next. And we worked our arses off. With about two hundred metres to go my training partner Joel 'Chopper' Leonard came past. I expected him to be leading a train of Olympians, Six-Day Racers and World Champions, but they were nowhere to be seen. So I hit it. So did the two guys in front of me. I saw Chopper cross the line, his fists in the air, and must've sat up a little bit, which allowed Barry Forde to pip me for forth by a tire. Still, fifth in the Melbourne Cup on Wheels is ok by me. Even if it means I might not stay in the frontmarkers group for much longer.