Andersons. Oaks. Someone pikes, someone chokes.

Could not believe it. "Ando" Andy, the guy who lives less than 5 minutes from the meeting point, bailing out before his dainty foot even touched his bedroom floor. Drizzling, he called it. A bit icky. And to think that some of those Sydney blokes got up at 5am for this one.

But it's early, he says. It's raining. And I've never liked that ride anyway.

Bloody cream-puff.

Turns out he wasn't the only one.

We're all grouped up at Wenty Falls, all 13 of us, 7:40am on the dot, totally given up on the Cream-puff, thinking, yeah but where's Terminator Todd? Found him hiding behind the dunnies, about to slide back into his car, and slink off home. Upon seeing me, he gets out and confesses that he was about to choof off home, you know, it's drizzling up here.

Man, it's like they've never seen clouds before.

"Come on, mate", I say, "all the groupies are here, come all the way from the Northern Beaches, some of 'em, you can't pull out now". So, feeling the peer pressure, he gets his bike out of the truck, pretends to put the front wheel on, and surreptitiously sticks his thumb on his rotor and gives it a red hot slice. Thumb hanging by a thread, claret gushing, he's looking out of the corner of his eye to see what I'm thinking. Hospital? Ambo? Staples? Is this a homer? Hah. Nice try. Bit of gaff, strap it back on, no worries, come on Todd, we've got to catch up with those Manly Whippets.

So we get lost trying to cross the highway, and cycle around in circles trying to find Giles and the vanguard. Not a good sign.

Eventually, we work it out, and finally hit the fire trail, and then what happens? Somehow, the biggest damned thorn you've ever seen manages to spike itself through Todd's tyre and out the other side. "Bugger", he says, "by the time I've fixed this, might as well bail at the creek. I mean it's cold up here."
Hah. Nice try. Two hands make light work, and then we're double-timing it to catch up with the others.

Needn't have worried, coz just up the other hill, there's Chain-suck Chuck with his chain jammed down behind his cassette, locked in solid, going nowhere. Looked bad, but we worked on it. Probably took about 15 minutes before we wrenched it out, but from that little episode I could see an idea glimmering in Todd's eyes...

Chain suck. Yeah, that'll do.

Somehow, that bloody chain-suck wafted it's way out from Mike's rear derailleur and found a new host. Specialized. Never thought that shit was contagious, but there you have it.

Didn't take long before Todd's chain's flicking around like it's possessed, and after those grinding-granny climbs out of the creek, it also wasn't long before there's murmurings of pulling the pin.

And he did. Said goodbye at Woodford. Gone home to drool over these glossy pictures of some shiny new contraption he's getting built, only one in Australia, sparkly. Yeah, 6 foot travel, light as a leaf, climbs like a goat, turbo-lift, after-burners, chrome, pin-stripes, but is it chain-suck proof, that's what I want to know.

Ah well, lose one, gain another. We pick up Matt, Oaks-virgin at the gate. Not quite Terminator Todd, but there were a few similarities. Like flat tyres and those midget-pumps that need about 2400 pump strokes to inflate a tube.

Apart from Matt's flat, the Oaks was mostly plain sailing. A nice run down the single track behind some funny old fruits shrieking possum mating calls and one bloke on a rigid hybrid with panniers. Normal stuff.

Overall, an excellent ride. Thanks to the mountains boys for a great day, and thanks to everyone else who came along, wherever you came from and wherever you got to. I'm sure you must have had a good time, too.

And good on you Todd for putting up with that chain until Woodford, that's not really cream-puff material.
Not like that Beauty-sleep Bloot character. Cream-puff poster-boy, that one.

EPILOGUE

So I get home, do some shopping, wash the bike, my legs are cooked, I'm thinking about a bowl of ice-cream and a lie down and my mate from NZ lands on my front door-step in a clank of climbing gear.

"Gday mate," he says. "How are ya? How long's it been, a year? Right. Where's the rock, let's go do some laps."

"Aw, man...."

"Come on mate, it's only five o'clock, get your head-torch, let's go. No, this is not bloody rain, it's cloud. You think this is wet, you should see Dunedin."

"Mate", I say, "I've just ridden a hundred damned miles, hills like like the Himalayas. I'm rooted."

"Yeah, yeah, so your legs are knackered. What about your arms? We aren't ballet dancing, mate, we're climbing. Get your rope, cream puff, let's go...."