James Garriock's Cloudride Part 3.

MOMENTS

“Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaames! How ya doing? You must have a hunger up.

Wait up people there’s a Cloudrider to feed”

I’d stumbled into the café in the town of Delegate with a proper hunger for sure; but the welcome cheered me up well beyond the food. Seeing the Cloudride satellite tracking page on their office computer made me feel part of something bigger.

Left: PC in the Delegate café tracking inbound, high value customers

Experiences like this make the Cloudride and other organised bikepacking races/events special. In Nimmitibel the publican had us sign a photo of the course for later display on the wall “I dunno where you skinny buggers put it but youse sure can eat like a timber worker”. But after a warm welcome and warm dinner it was out into the inky blackness with random wildlife playing a game of “who can get closest to being hit by the cyclist”.

Nimmitabel Hotel ... then and now, pony outside

“What can I do you for luv?” said the woman at the Bomby Bakery; “yeah a sausage roll please” “anything else?” “sure, and a salad roll to take away” “anything else darl?” “half a dozen hot cross buns please” “anything else?” “why not, how about a serve of pancakes with maple syrup and ice cream” “anything else?” “an espresso, and a large cappuccino too actually” “anything else?” “some pecan pie, thanks very much” “anything else?” “oh come on, that’s not enough???”

Above: The “trail” across private property before the Delegate River. In Steve’s words “I’ve just done a straight line across there, you’ll work it out”

While packing the calories away, four weekend riders started inspecting my bike on the street. Like, really inspecting it; pointing and discussing, noting and commenting. Then they came inside tentatively and walked up to me. “James?” one asked, I couldn’t have been more shocked “ah,…yeah” I sputtered, flakes of sausage roll and pancake (they go so well together) flying across the table. “We ride with the group in Pambula where you ride sometimes so we thought we’d ride up and say hi”. That’s a 160k round trip with 2,300 of vert, a pretty big ask for the chance to have a yak to a stinky and incoherent Cloudrider. What a humbling gesture, and one that I couldn’t get out of my mind in the following days.

By the following night I was in the Tubbut community hall with one legend, Trev Fairhurst, just as another legend, Jess Douglas, was pulling out. A great place for a few hours of sleep and an early morning to tackle the terrible Tingaringy. This is the halfway point of the race and has been called many things over the years. Matt Turner called it “the crux of the Cloudride which is to…hike 10km of unfathomably steep Tingaringy Wilderness Fire Trail.” Ross Hamilton said “it was only 37km, but it took 6 hours to complete. This section was easily the toughest part of the Cloudride. Most of that 37km was unrideable.“ Jess called it “M#!#@(%^(!!^% C@^$ H*!!” and that wasn’t the worst. Organiser Steve Watson later confided to me that he’s only ridden half of it, and I commend him for that wise decision.

Above: In the Tubbut Community Hall with Jess before the Tingaringy wiped the smile off our faces

Fortunately, I had ridden the Tingaringy over New Year’s and knew what lay ahead. That’s a lie, I had walked the Tingaringy and knew what lay ahead. Leaving in time for dawn to break at the summit, we were able to descend in the light. On a rare rideable bit I came around a corner at speed and startled some feral horses. For a few moments I was rolling amongst them, before they wheeled around and disappeared over an escarpment and into the abyss. The world had gone from silent to thundering to silent again in a matter of moments and I was left a skinbag full of adrenaline and wonder.

Right: The view from on top of the Tingaringy.

The Cloudride goes through Yuin, Ngarigo, Jaitmathang and Bidawal country and I acknowledge those people and pay my respects to them. No sane person would choose to go over the Tingaringy, and indeed the indigenous people had a far more sensible route up to the high country called the Bundian Way. This was surveyed in 2010 and would be a cracking bikepacking tour if all the land could be accessed, with the prize of eating a Bogong moth to symbolise successful completion.

Above: Sun rising on the unfathomably steep Tingaringy, where does that road go after the waterbar?

Late that same night I was cold, tired, hungry and deep into the KNP. There hadn’t been any sign of another human for hours. Rolling down to the Gungarlin River I was greeted by a blazing campfire on the other side. Two top fellas invited me to sit down and warm my toes in front of the fire. “There are a couple of people in front of you but they didn’t stop, they were in a hurry”. It was a great chance to connect with others, have a yarn, and swallow the jumbo sized family pizza that I’d been carrying since lunch in Jindabyne. What followed was a hard and bone cold night traversing farms on the high plains, fording streams and warding off the midnight demons. Neither the clock nor the bike seemed to move, but the scenery in the light of the full moon more than made up for it.

Above: Tabletop mountain “trail” at dawn

The art of the last-second, death-defying dash in front of vehicles is not unique to skippy and his mates. The next night I was descending through pine plantations into Batlow amid sustained rabbity crossfire. Their brinkmanship was very impressive until one little fella took things a step to far. Wait, wait, wait, GO! It took off like it had stolen something and hit my front rim with its skull at maximum velocity. Tonk. The front wheel was knocked off course but looking behind all I could see was a furry little and very still ball on the road. Helmets should be mandatory for roadside bunnies.

I was keen to get to Batlow because the publican had left two entire dinners in a supermarket esky bag under an outdoor table for me. Rolling in around midnight I set the table, got out the cutlery and ate in freezing solitude. After a three hour nap in a local park I returned to the scene of the dine and ate the second meal before hitting the road, my spirits lifted by food and bitumen. As usual, after just a couple of kms the little line on the GPS turned first onto a gravel road, then down some poor soul’s driveway, past their sheds and down to the river which I had to ford. From there it was 90 minutes of cussing up a blackberry stewn path, then on to the Hume and Hovell trail.

Tired? Yes. Race clock was over 90 hours, and the fatigue had come to tease me. I sat down on an embankment in a pine forest for a quick bite; it was only weeks later that strava showed me I’d been there for half an hour, asleep while sitting up. Later that same day climbing the Brindabella Range on disused double track I recall seeing a perfectly formed tuft of grass in the middle of the trail. The next thing I knew was that I woke up with my head on the tuft, with no recollection of getting off the bike or lying down. My helmet and glasses were still on and had dug into my face, and I’d left a little dribbled thank you on the grass for services rendered. It made me glad to be doing an offroad event.

In this general state of knackeredness I tackled the Hume and Hovell trail. Actually the trail tackled me. You know those rough hewn steps you find in National Parks, the uneven ones made from timber with rock and rubble fill? I came around a corner and was faced with a staircase that I wouldn’t have ridden down on my CX bike even if it was unloaded and I was fresh, but by the time I’d made that mental note I was already bucking my way down. It was one of those staircases when the only time you could dismount was when there was a wheel on each of two steps and you couldn’t reach the ground. At the bottom of the staircase was a hard left turn and a strategically placed tree on the inside of the corner. On the outside was an eight foot high wall of blackberries. I’m not really one for negative self talk but “there’s no way I’m making that corner” “I wonder how much this is going to hurt?” and “if it is a soft landing I could have a sleep in there” all wafted slowly through my mind as I wobbled my way down the stairs. Sure enough, I executed an elegant high side dismount with tuck and half pike straight into the wall of thorns. These suckers were huge, in fact I used some of my unlimited time buried in them to make accurate comparisons of their thickness to that of my thumb, and those brambles were thicker for sure.

It says a bit about how gawn I was that I really did contemplate having a sleep before extracting myself. I also calculated how many hours back Trev was, and wondered whether I could wait for him and get a bit of help. Ultimately, it took about ten minutes of torn clothes and skin to get myself out. Little did I know that the day had only just begun.

After refuelling at the excellent Coffee Peddler in Tumut (run by a professional cycling coach with 20 years’ experience; you should have seen his face when I told him I had 1,200 TSS on the clock already) there were only two hills to go. By this time I’m only pushing 130w and it’s coming apart at the seams. I was aiming for a refuel at Wee Jasper, which has one shop. Making it there before the shop closed became my tiny world into which I poured what little I had left. People had told me not to expect too much at the shop but it grew sophisticated, welcoming and plentiful in my imagination. Wee Jasper itself is a set of encampments along the river as the valley begins to open out. I was dry and hungry, and the shop was my only hope…but where was it? I rode from one set of houses to the next not knowing whether the town was in front of me or behind. Finally, in desperation I had to stop. There was a 4x4 ute and a man by the road so I pulled up, but when he turned to face me it was as though I had come face to face with my nightmares. This dude was the human embodiment of all my prejudices. It was the guy who, in my darkest hours, is the one who is going to run me down on some quiet country road. He wasn’t young, he had no front teeth (I kid you not), and his roo bar preposterously big. His ute was old and dusty, and so were his clothes, and as he slowly looked me up and down I regretted stopping immensely.

By that time it just would have been weird to ride off, so I asked where the shop was. “Down there mate” he said; then after a pause, “but it’s closed you know”. “What? Why? How?” I was devastated, and just a bit overtired. “they’ve gawn home, it’s a bloody nice day you know”. “why? You in a hurry mate? Shouldda driven if yer in a hurry”.

I don’t mind saying that by this time I was pretty overwrought, as though my salad roll and choccy bar actually mattered. In truth it didn’t – I was 10 hours ahead of my nearest competitor and 10 hours behind second place, so nothing was going to change. And what was I racing for exactly? Nothing. A race with no prize.

But that’s not what I said; instead, it all poured out as if this guy cared. But when he found out where I was going, and where I’d been, his demeanor changed at once. “Up there! On that? Strewth.” “Doctors Flat Rd and then Uriarra, geez cobber you’re in for it” But I didn’t have the calories for it, that much was clear to me. “Mate, well Wee Jasper isn’t gunna let you down, no siree” and with that he climbed into his ute, spun the wheels in a big 180 and sped off back up the road.

Too tired to care, I lay down in a meagre patch of shade, and after a few minutes I heard someone thrashing a motor and a great dust cloud appear from over the hill. Seconds later my guardian angel was back. He had made me two roast beef rolls, and added a bunch of grapes, a banana, a tub of yoghurt and a small bottle of water. I was speechless. Here was a man who represented all my prejudices confounding them with generosity and kindness. What could I say, how could I repay? There was nothing for it but to humbly offer my thanks and promise him that I’d tell anyone who would listen that Wee Jasper didn’t let me down.

As I pedalled off into the valley bathed in the now setting sun I felt elation to match the misery that had nearly overcome me just half an hour before. Soon enough though, the maths began, and I still had a woefully inadequate number of calories for the job at hand. A few hours later I was in all kinds of trouble with a hunger flat I couldn’t fix. The cloud had set in and I was averaging seven kmph. Aware of my fatigue I walked every time I felt unsure; the risks were too high up there on a cold night with nobody around.

And then it happened. The downhill was short and the cloud was thick, so I couldn’t have been going more than 20, but the single lane had brush right up to it and a little embankment; just perfect for an ambush. Like a furry brown cannon ball the wombat shot out a meter or so in front of me without even time for me to hit the anchors. I hit its hindquarters hard, and my seat bucked me high into the air. I was up there so high I had a good chance to study the ground that was quickly rising up to meet my face when all of a sudden it was over, the rear wheel grounded and I rolled onwards. Seconds later the adrenaline hit and I was a quivering mess, my hands shook so much I couldn’t keep the bike straight and had to stop riding.

Nauseous with fatigue, shaking from my wombat suicide bomber and hungry beyond words the final night of the Cloudride passed excruciatingly slowly. The last kilometres were especially awful, where the course turns away from the suburbs and into a pine forest instead of down to the finish line. It felt like I was skulking around Canberra like a low life instead of the triumphal entry I’d earned. But there at the end, at 3am, was Steve Watson, organiser and tireless supporter. I swallowed three meat pies at a servo before falling asleep somewhere in a park.

When morning broke my first order of business was the local swimming pool where I knew I could get a shower. Rolling gingerly down Lonsdale St I ran across the local roadie bunch who took one look at me, knew me by name (or by dot) and took me to their local café. A coffee and a pastry and the chit chat of cyclists at cafes the world over again gave me a lift.

Left: Shootin’ the breeze in the café with the Canberra peleton.

So it’s time to return to the original question, why should you do the Cloudride. I reckon there’s three reasons: Firstly, the course. The Monaro is amazing, plus you get Tantawangalo, Tingaringy, the Jagungal and Brindabellas thrown in for free. And Steve arranges for the Cloudride to traverse private property that would otherwise be inaccessible, so you can’t just go and ride the course any day you feel like.

Secondly, the people. From the crazy competitors to the crazy locals the people make you feel like you’re part of something bigger.

Finally, the challenge. This is a serious undertaking, one that you might not put yourself though voluntarily. But as everyone who does these things says, you can do more than you can possibly imagine.

I must thank all those who supported me, but particularly my riding mates who I count myself blessed to know. Steve Watson must also be acknowledged, he’s an inspiration and does countless hours of unpaid work to help more people experience bikepacking. Bicycle Network and Hub kit also helped: zero saddle sores is quite the achievement! Ultimately though, without the support of my family these kinds of endeavours would be both impossible and pointless. Thank you.

No, I’m fine. Really.