The Worst Disease.

Nowhere To Run.

Last night at Brunswick Track Champs (round 1) I knocked two whole seconds off my kilo time. Yep. 1:08:672. And Jay Callaghan, who has taken me under his wing a little bit of late, reckoned it would've been even faster if I hadn't skipped the wheel three times in my start (apparently he was counting). Of course, I dug myself a pretty big hole in doing so, and as such didn't feature in the pointy end of the motorpace, but it's still nice to see those times coming down.

Gotta Find A Way.

You Would Like To Have One Too.

At the Austral the other night I was chatting to my coach about my program for this month. He said I'd finally finished my base training (at which point I exclaimed, "That was base?"), and it was time for me to ramp it up. "There's only one thing," he continued, "When did you last have a break?" I thought for a while, then told him that it was about this time last year. "Well then, after Bendigo I'll give you two weeks off."

Of course, I'll still be in the gym three times a week. But other than that, between the 14th and the 28th I will be available to see bands, go out to cafes, come to dinner and attend parties. Hit me up.

A Shepherd's Sling And Five Stones In Our Hands.

So, the Austral is this weekend. It's a race I have ambiguous feelings about, even though - or probably because - I've never raced it before. Still, in these serious wheelraces with serious money attached, the outcome has usually been determined before the race has begun, and due to the distance the Austral is run over - two kilometres - there is even less chance for the middle-and-limitmarker punks to come crashing in and spoil the party. The best thing about racing handicaps is that anyone has a chance to take them out (something WW seems to instinctively understand), but all of CSV's efforts over the past month or so have focussed on the 'stars' appearing. I'm starting to feel like pack fill and I haven't even strapped on my shoes yet.

So I'm down to race, but don't expect much. I'll probably get B grade, will probably ride off somewhere in the neighbourhood of 100 metres in the big race, probably have odds of around 25 to 1, and probably do fuck all. The saving grace, for me, is that the Bendigo Madison weekend isn't far away, and that this year I'll be there with bells on. Hopefully in some decent form to boot.

My Steering Wheel.

Last Wednesday my Grandma died, so I didn't go to the gym that night. The next day I went out to my coach's place and did a mock-time trial on this compu-trainer thing, which meant about an hour at 92% of my maximum possible effort. The next day was a day off, so I had no real idea how much either event had taken out of me. The answer was, apparently, a lot.

The Victorian Madison Championships were in Ballarat on Sunday, so The Man and I stacked our gear in the car and headed out on Highway 8. We were, as per usual, late. I managed a win in B grade and Sean didn't disgrace himself in D. But come the Madison we were both spent. Before racing we'd both agreed - without hesitation - that once we went three laps down we'd pull out. With former World Cup Madison winners racing that occurred in the first fifty laps. After about eighty had gone by I told Sean I was done. After about eighty five he was too, so we pulled out. Other teams went ten laps down, eight laps down, ridiculous numbers down, but we were the only ones to call it quits. When asked why we had pulled out, Sean simply explained that, "We just didn't want to get it pregnant."

On Monday I went back to the gym and totally destroyed myself. Tuesday I packed the bike and Casey into the car and drove up to my parents' house, heading out towards the Grampians for an hour and a half of tempo. Wednesday I crawled out of bed early and did a session on the trainer, then slid into a borrowed suit (thanks McKenny!), packed up Casey and hit the road for another couple of hours, heading into the depths of the Mallee. We reacquainted ourselves with my lost cousins, shook hands, kissed cheeks, reminisced and tried not to cry. We rustled up some hommus and rice crackers for lunch, ignoring the multitude of temptations offered by the CWA ladies of Woomelang. We convinced my sister to feed us dinner at her house in Bendigo on our way home and my youngest brother to drive the rest of the way from there. We pulled back into the house, finally, at eleven, so I missed the gym again that night.

Then today I went back to work.

Down And Out, Losing Ground.

As we grow older,
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living -


TS Eliot.

I'm A Big Talker.

I grew up in a country town called Stawell, on the final southern fingernail of the Great Dividing Range. Three corners of the compass were surrounded by lifts in the landscape, from the sandstone cliffs of the Grampians in the west to the ambitiously named Pyrenees in the north. Between the northern and western points, however, was a great sweep of flat Wimmera plains, leading onto an even greater expanse of flat Mallee plains. One could continue walking in that direction and encounter only undulations in the landscape for nearly a thousand kilometres, finally reaching the red dirt jags of the Flinders Ranges over in South Australia. Looking west over the town from Big Hill, in the centre of it all, then turning your back on civilization and respite to take in the nothing emptiness to the north. Things came rushing in through that vacant space when the wind swung around, like tastes of dust on the tongue, or bushfires in the summer.

My Dad’s family are from out there, concentrated in a small town called Woomelang in the heart of the Mallee. I was up there over Christmas a while back. A lot of the extended family were there, and presents were being handed out. My Uncle Alan and Auntie Mandy were presented with a huge, square gift that turned out to be suitcases. Mandy looked excited, Alan looked away.

“Now this means, dad,” my cousin Kirsten proclaimed, “that you have to actually use them.” I didn’t really know what she was talking about. Later on, in the car on the way home, I asked my own dad about it. “Your Uncle Alan,” he began, “hasn’t left the farm for more than a weekend, ever.”

Their family – and I guess mine too – have been in Woomelang for four generations. The farm that my Uncle Alan and his kids live on is where he and his brothers – including my dad – grew up. The house where they were raised still stands; weatherboard and corrugated iron overcome by weeds, rot and rust. The new house – clean brick veneer encircled by deep verandas – stands a short walk away. There Uncle Alan raised his own family, who, while doing the dishes, would glance up for a moment and find their family history staring at them through the window.

As a kid I’d always liked him – he was always loud and funny, which is nearly always enough when you’re young – but now, as an adult, something else was emerging. Beneath the bluster, beneath the dusty Mallee dryness, he was so attached to that plot of land, those red dirt paddocks and empty dams and stunted Mallee Gums, that he couldn’t be away from it for more than two nights.

I Think I'm Going To Cry.

Sorry for the lack of posts, folks. I've had no internet other than phone internet (which is only marginally better than no internet) since before Australia Day, when some jackass with a jackhammer jacked his way through our connection. More coming soon. You have my word.

You Came To Me Like A Cancer.

About a week before I get sick and fall in a heap I start to have a lot of bad thoughts about cycling. Really, I should've picked up the pattern before now - or at least Casey should've. The first time I find myself longing for some time away from the bike, or saying that I'm only going to race road or track next year (inversely dependent on the season), or even entertaining the thought of quitting altogether, she should immediately confine me to bed and start intravenously dosing me with Floradix and Vitamin C. She never does, though - mostly because instead of actually saying these things, I tend to keep them in my head, pushing them down until *insert important event that I've been overtraining for* is done and I end up on the couch watching Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey.






Thanks to my sister for the sweet Christmas present - I still can't believe she couldn't find a DVD copy of Excellent Adventure.

I Get The News I Need From The Weather Report.

I did three PBs at the State Omnium Championships yesterday and it still wasn't enough to win the damn thing. And you know when you're building up to something big, then get sick as soon as it's over? Yeah, well, here I am. Sneezing so much that it's getting tough to make out the letters on the screen.

The details aren't all that interesting. I did a 1.10.55 in the kilo, knocking a good second off my former PB, and an 11.42 in the flying 200, taking 0.3 off my former PB there. I also had a crack at my first ever 3km pursuit, and did a 3.39.something, which would've put me on track for a 4.52 4km, and I would've been happy with that. The first scratch race knocked me off my pedestal a bit though - I must've got a bit cocky after the first two PBs, and went into the race with a gear that was once again a bit too heavy. I ended up with a fourth there, which sent me down the rankings. Serves me right for thinking I was better than the heat, the humidity and my own tired legs. Still, I managed to salvage a second place in the second scratch race (held instead of a points race due to the small numbers), which put me back on the podium - if only just - and had Greg Brunt referring to me as "the 3rd place specialist". Eleven hours in a skinsuit and another bronze medal. I think I'll spend today in bed to make amends.

Bottled Violence

Aside from attempting to describe the indescribable - like love, or music, or how it feels to ride your bike really, really fast down a really, really steep hill - it's the poet's job to magnify seemingly innocuous events from their own childhood into incredibly meaningful turning points in their lives. And sometimes yours too. And while I'm no poet - as the four uses of the word "really" in the previous sentence attests - I am fond of attaching meaning to events that probably don't have any. As such, today I'm going to talk about the scar in the middle of my forehead. No, it's not a wrinkle.

I've already written about this scar - and, more specifically, the person who gave it to me - once before, in my now defunct zine. So I won't retell the entire story. But I can't help but wonder, however, if somehow this significant knock to my head altered my brain, and that it alone explains how different I am from my siblings, parents, grandparents and other extended family. No real desire for career or stability, terrible tendency to nitpick current affairs, absolutely no interest in reading the Herald-Sun (apart from on Sunday, when it seems to solely consist of cute pictures of animals). I'm patently not like any of them.

Well, I wasn't. While I did spend my twenties roaming around the globe, writing stories about my exgirlfriends for publication and chasing the extremely poetic and not entirely mutually exclusive notions of punk rock and love wherever I found them, now that I'm in my thirties I find myself comparing my life to my dad's more and more. While he had sired four children by the age of 31 - and I, too my knowledge, have sired none - he was a teacher (check) and played a lot of competitive sport (check). That last bit is the clincher. My dad was involved with the Stawell Tennis Club for most of my childhood, either in a playing or official capacity. As his knees gave out this shifted to the Stawell Golf Club, where he has pretty much performed every role possible, including working the bar for a period of time. And as I get older, and more involved in the Brunswick Cycling Club, I'm starting to think more and more about giving something back, about getting involved in the club after I stop racing. The only thing stopping me, at this point, is that knock to the head. Brains are funny things, however, and it seems the older I get the more mine gives in to genetics.

What's The Story, What's Up With.

The Same Hot Blood.

My current coach used to coach Leigh Howard, and a while back he came to speak to us. I listened pretty hard, and one thing in particular stuck in my brain: that your motivation ebbs and flows. Some days you're so stoked to be riding that you even smile through your efforts, but other days you don't even want to look at your bike. This has been painfully true for me over the past few days. I kinda came off the Christmas Carnivals on a high, and felt like my form was exactly where it should be. But then I did the Bay Crits, where I battled it out with national-level cyclists, and where I wasn't quite as successful. I've been doubting my fitness ever since.

Ah, well. This is where that faith comes in. Whether it's true or not, I believe that if I keep working my ass off - on the bike, in the gym and in the studio - then I'll improve. I'll get some runs on the board and the results will come.

You know who knows about faith (especially the non-religious kind, which is the only variety I endorse)? The Boss.

If You Can Want, You Can Need.

I was under the impression - after a pretty successful Christmas Carnivals throughout regional Victoria, in which I came 2nd in a Wheelrace and was rarely off the B grade podium - that I was in some pretty good form. I was proven incorrect in no uncertain terms during today's Portarlington stage of the Bay Crits. And hell, I was just riding the support race.

When I entered these races I gave myself two goals: stay upright, and get in a breakaway. Now, having come to a few grim realizations, I have new goals: stay upright, and finish a race. Because if I do, Sean the Man has to buy me a Coke.