Between the essence and the descent falls the mountain

We’ve all had a lot on in life recently, it’s made it hard to get out for morning rides, and racing has been put on hold, still we’re cyclists and need to get our fix somehow.

A friend of mine runs a trip up in the hills, staying atop Mt Hotham, ride the hills, it’s good for what ails you. I’ve been almost every time, testing myself against the climb up from Harrietville, as well as Cobungra flats. I dragged the guys up with me, it would do them good to be on their bikes. This trip we decided to go do a serious ride, one to test the mind as well as the body. How little I knew, how true that statement would turn out to be.

Hotham - Buffalo - Hotham, 190km, 3km vertical gain, it was to be a ride to conjure images of T.S. Eliot’s poem, ‘The hollow men‘. We are the hollow legs, we are the stuffed legs. Legs without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion.

Saturday had us wake to the promise of a beautiful day, Jim, Steve, Brian
(BJ) and I made up the group, we started before anyone else, there were ks to cover and they weren’t riding themselves.



The decent as always is my favourite part of the mountains, get into the tightest tuck you can manage, pedal if possible, but let gravity do all the hard work. The couple of rises on the trip to Harrietville saw the huge gaps I’d created disappear as Jim and BJ span past me, gravity is a two edged sword. There was light conversation, everyone was happy, 53 12, these ks are easy we thought.



Somewhere between Harrietville and Bright we stopped to let BJ fix a flat, it was starting to heat up so arm warmers disappeared into pockets, and drinks were started. Hydration is important you know? The rest of the trip the Buffalo really passed without much of merit, no one wanted to sprint for town signs, no one knew what was ahead, I was nervous. Riding into the Buffalo national park the nerves only increased, “where’s the road?!” all I could see was a big hunk of rock and no obvious route up, sure enough the closer we got the faint line of tar slashing its way diagonally across the rocks face appeared, it didn’t look impressed by me.

BJ and Jim were playing games with each other, so I decided to roll up with Steve who was keeping it easy. Buffalo, I found it a pretty honest climb, it has a steady gradient that lets you find a gear and get into a rhythm. The occasional switchbacks don’t drain your energy, but rather break up the ride giving some interest.



Streams flow down the face of the mountain providing places to stop and refill depleted bidons, and with the day getting hotter I took advantage of this, hydration is important.



Google maps had given me a rough idea of how long the round trip was going to be, but really, we weren’t sure. Steve kept track but the road still pointed up when we got to the distance we’d marked. I’m not really sure how far we had left to go when we saw Jim and BJ come back down the road towards us. They wanted to know if we were still going to the top, Steve and I agreed, there was no way that we were not going, coming this far and not seeing the summit would be stupid. Jim and BJ didn’t see the summit, we did, the excitement is obvious.



Steve found a bit more of his descending mojo on the nice open corners of Buffalo, holding 50-60km/h for 15 minutes without peddling is great, but the day is only half done and it was getting on past lunch time so pick up BJ and Jim at the bottom and head back to Bright.

Bright offered us the promise of a bakery, fresh rolls…. What? Out of rolls? Ok how about a sandwich? What? Out of bread? Oh, um I’ll guess I’ll have 2 pies thanks.



Food eaten, we got back on the bikes and headed for home, I wasn’t feeling great. In fact I felt like shit. The food was sitting high, the legs had no power, and doubt was creping into my mind. I did what any sane man would, I sat on Jim and drafted all the way back to Harrietville. It was during that time that Hotham took that opportunity to get bigger, erosion wasn’t going to happen fast enough to make this easy, lucky I had a 27 on the back.



Once on the mountain it became almost impossible for anyone to ride with me, I was barely crawling, I managed to will myself over the Meg but once past the pinch my speed never picked up, I was in a bad place, I was alone, doubt had taken over. In hindsight I can pick out things that exacerbated my mental and physical state, but at the time I just sank deeper and deeper into the hole. I didn’t think I could get any deeper, then I called for the sag wagon, no answer. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.



I got off the bike.

I couldn’t ride up. I couldn’t ride down. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t.

I have no idea what got me on the bike, I have no idea what got going upwards again, it wasn’t inner strength, it wasn’t a magic elixir, it certainly wasn’t god. Maybe, just maybe it was blind stupidity; it’s the only thing that fits.

A couple of k up the road after wishing that every car I saw would see my hand waving limply from the bottom of the hole and rescue me, my prayers were answered. Someone I knew was driving down the mountain towards me. “Want a lift?” Bev asked. I can’t recall if I simply yelped “YES!” or if it was “F YES!”, either way I was happy. I rolled down to the car on the other side of the road, someone was taking photos, I managed a small stoppie and a smile. I had the front wheel undone, it was out of the bike, then I stupidly asked “what was that you said before Bev?”. Bev was going to the bottom of the hill, my pride wouldn’t let me go downwards, so I put my wheel back in and told her to pick me up on the way back up, I started to ride again. Yep, definitely blind stupidity.

I managed to get to the toll booths, finally the day was done, the drink bottle I’d left in the esky would be mine and I could rest and wait for Bev. The drink bottle was gone, there was no where comfortable to sit, 2 minutes later I was back on the bike, a couple of stray ice cubes in the bidon and 10km of pain ahead. ‘Let’s see if I can beat Bev to Mt Smythe’, that was my challenge, 1 short 10% climb. Half way up, though tired, I started to feel like a cyclist, the ice cubes on the other hand had seen better days. I consumed their melted bodies with greed.



At the top my mind moved to CRB, a cruel soul sucking section of road that continues upward through a series of never ending left hand turns, ‘might as well go for it, give Bev a run for her money’. Down I plunged losing all that precious height, right to the bottom of CRB, into the 27 and out of the saddle. ‘This feels good’, the top arrived without fanfare, on to Little Baldy. By the time Bev caught me somewhere along the ridge, I could see the summit off to the right, I was talking to it, I was goading it, calling it names. I was off my head delirious. She beeped as she drew up behind me, I shook my head, thankfully she saw my “drinkies” motion and I was presented with 2 cold fresh bidons of water.

This mountain was mine.



For there on in it was just riding, I was stuffed but I had conquered the mountain that had taken me to a new low. Once past the summit my manic laughter bounced around the hills through the final 2km to the lodge.

Where to tomorrow? What’s for dinner? Anyone got a beer?