A view from the other side - the Marshall's Art

Due to a general lack of pre-race training, I decided it was probably best if I gave this year's event a miss. Since the family had already arranged accomodation for the weekend, I thought it might be my turn to give something back to the sport, so I volunteered my services to AROC.

After a hectic Saturday afternoon on the rego desk (made even more hectic by the near gale force winds!), I was allocated my marshall station for Sunday's event. No detailed briefing - the riders were joining a road; just warn drivers. Everything else was pretty much going to be winging it.

The next morning, I peered down the massive hill I was stationed above, which I vaguely remembered from last year (the endorphins at the time having successfully removed almost all traces from my memory - somewhat like childbirth, I imagine). It looked nasty. I was glad I wasn't going to be climbing that monster.

At around 8:05am, the first of the elites came charging up; a very tight bunch of around 8 riders, making very short work of the climb. Maybe I was over-hyping how bad the hill was, as they certainly made it look easy. Over the next half hour or so, the serious riders popped over the crest like it was a short pinch climb, with only the single-speeders getting off to push.

After a while, though, the number of people riding the hill began to dwindle. More and more walkers would get to the top of the hill and just rest a while, maybe squeeze in a gel, or have a sip of water and a brief chat. Occasionally some brave soul would pedal all the way to the top, but they were becoming the exception to the rule. Eventually, the flow became a trickle. Every now and then, I could spot a lone rider at the base of the hill, paused, contemplating the mountain ahead of them. Then they would slowly begin the long trudge up. I stood looking down, willing them on. After an agonising climb, they would finally summit, but without joy. They knew they still had a long way to go.

At around 10:25am, with the day growing hotter, the 50km riders started coming through. No bunch this time; they were well separated. The number of riders who stayed on their bikes up the hill diminished far sooner than in the 100km event. The level of fitness of participants was definitely dropping off towards the end of the pack. Quite a lot of riders were completely out of water, with several km to go till the first drink station. I gave a dribble of my own meagre supplies to anyone who asked until I also ran out. By around 1pm, the field had passed, and I had to move onto my second shift at the 95km mark.

Driving along the highway, I saw a lot of riders who had passed me had finally succumbed to the heat, and were taking the easy way back to the finish.

At the 95km mark, it was a very different race. The course come along a stretch of singletrack onto a sharp banked right hander around a tree, then crossed a gravel road before disappearing into singletrack again. The road had been blocked off, so there was little to do except shout encouragement. Here, there was a little more grim determination, with most riders seeming to have found a second wind. Only one person came off on the right hander, though I saw as many different ways of tackling that corner as I saw race numbers.

After a long wait, the final 4 bikes came through, followed by the sweepers. We dismantled the roadblock, and headed back to the finish. I felt as exhausted as if I'd rode the full 100km.

Throughout the day, I saw only one major injury (dislocated shoulder), and very little aggro (a heated discussion on the correct side to pass). It was a great way to be part of the event (even if that stretch of singletrack gave me a little pang of regret), and I have to say that Alina and the AROC crew did a fantastic job of making the chaos look controlled. I'll prize my yellow t-shirt even if, like a Sydney 2000 blazer, I never get to wear it again.