Biting off way more than I can chew.
Not enough hours in the day.
SGB backpack loaded with tools, camera, lens, 2 spare batteries, 2 spare tubes, repair kit, pump, toothbrush, spare knicks and jersey, two pair of socks, phone charger, lights, 2 sharpies, knife, sunscreen, electrolyte powder. 7kg.
After making myself two egg and bacon sandwiches, scoffing a banana, and two espressos, it was still sparrows fart when I rolled off with my bars pointed west.
I was really excited, and equally nervous. I'd never ridden over 220km in one day, let alone attempting to cover a longer distance, by myself, then getting up the following two days and doing it all again. I have never been one to let the unknown deter me, so I took it pedal stroke at a time.
In the short 'commute' through and across Melburn I was reminded how unfriendly the urban assault can be. Traffic lights every few hundred metres, merging lanes, skipping tram tracks, but I was on holiday, and on my bike so not even a cvnt cutting me off in their two door could curb my enthusiasm.
I'd spoken with a few people about routes to take to Adelaide, and my course was selected mostly on what seemed logical. After all, it's all flat on the map, and you quickly forget the weather comes from the West every day. It BLOWS over the land, in from the sea but at this time of year, mostly from the hot north.
The route looked like this on paper.
After a healthy lunch in B'rat, conquering Pentland Hills, and tipping my helmet to Kryal Castle I slid my way south west towards Skipton where I came across every boys childhood dream - their own backyard BMX track.
Gonz had made mention of creating a similar structure of his own.
What I learned from long days in the saddle on the Cannonball Run was that the body is like a steam engine. With no coal, and no water, there is no steam. If you keep the levels high the whole time, the boiler is quiet content to tick over for hours. For some reason it took me the whole day to remember this lesson.
Even though I had a selection of gears, I found myself riding my standard 66" most of the day. You can get up just about anything on it, and cruise happily on the flat at 30kph all day.
I sat a sore and tired cyclist in the shade of a sign that shielded the afternoon sun. The sign listed the next few blips on the map, and my original target was still 100km. I had been beaten by a lack of fuel, water and daylight. After a quck discussion with myself I cut my losses and figured Lake Bolac the place to crash my weary head. Who knows if Glenthomson would be the better option, but as the wick was dying in the engine room after 10 hours in the saddle I wasn't going to find out until tomorrow.
Lake Bolac is a blip on the Western Highway, but it does have a pub. I ordered my first of two pots, icy cold they were, fielded the 'you rode from where' questions at the bar from the locals, ordered a pizziola which was recommended to me by the publican over the regular parmagiana as it was a more substantial meal. He also recommended some light reading about Thomas Varney, titled 'From the Gutter to Glory'
If you are ever stuck at Lake Bolac, stick with the parma.
With a full belly I retired to the Lake Bolac motel, showered, washed my CT kit and hung it to dry, and set my alarm for 5am - ready for another long day on my derriere by myself.
After starting at 6, and stopping at 6 I'd covered 237km, climbed one massive hill, and spent the afternoon chewing the stem between country towns where I'd refill my bidons.
Tomorrow would be even more interesting.