From My Easy Chair
It's Monday evening, 24 hours after our all-day commune on wheels. And just as a seafarer rolls with the waves though walking on dry land, I still feel "on the road". Not on the hilly, twisty, pretty bits of Beach Road or Mount Martha, or the waterfront of Geelong; but on the plain freeway somewhere between Lara and Werribee, tacking across the fresh sea-breeze, staring at the parallel lines of the road as they merge and disappear into the distance...

It's nearly eight hours since our 5.45am start and it's the most intensely focused section of the journey. The road barely rises or falls and there's not much to the left or right that attracts the eye so it's concentrated attention to rhythm and speed. We're way beyond the scope of any of the training rides we have done as preparation - but are pressing on, maintaining a steady, if not respectable 28-30kmh.

The Geelong Road is slow going in a car and no better on a bike. The grey ribbon of highway dominates our thinking and we amuse ourselves with Pythonesque hyperbole on the unrelenting plainness of it all. The wind isn't a help but neither is it malign. It's a constant touch on the right side of our faces.

Alistair is pushing his machine with a quiet determination that has been kept in reserve for just this time, to compensate for the training kilometres he's been unable to do. It's a kind of moral force, tough and trustworthy and there's not the shadow of a doubt that we'll make it without fuss.

Personally lacking in moral force, I'm hoping the many hundred kilometres spun into my legs by way of precaution against failure (and fear of the unknown) will get me through, and with blessedly kind weather it's been possible to ride well below the pain threshold. I've got away without any call for mental toughness.

Dark Star
The alarm was set for 4.00 am but, oddly, habits formed many years ago when I had disposable income and "travelled" have stayed with me and I woke at 3.45, switched the alarm off and slipped out of bed. After many weeks training, immersing myself in amateur sports science, and paying (s)lavish attention and lavish dollars to perfecting the bicycle mechanism, the morning had finally arrived. It was time to bring it all together: me, my bike, my sports accoutrements - singlet, t-shirt, bike shirt, arm-warmers, leg-warmers, socks and shoes; two bottles of "sports" drink, three carbohydrate "sports" bars, and four sachets of viscous carbohydrate "sports" gel (more about those later), two bicycle tubes, tyre levers, allen key, mobile phone, money, ferry ticket and handkerchief.

Was that everything? It would have to be. I racked my bike onto the back of the family car and ate my high-carb "sports" breakfast (Weeties, with a bit of fibre and dried fruit). Now all set. Bronwyn at this stage had risen, and by agreement rode shotgun in the car working through a coffee with the idea of being awake by the time she had to drive home. We arrived at Nick's West Melbourne address at about 5.00, having borne witness to hardy packs of cyclists - red and white diode lights flashing - roaming the city streets in the pre-dawn, converging on the starting point at Dockland Stadium. Alistair arrived at about 5.15 with his wife Sue, who looked marginally less awake than Bronwyn. The team was complete. After a quick pose for a "before" photo, we rolled the kilometre down to the start.

Beside the Telstra Dome there was a milling crowd, just like any football match really, except each crowd member was mounted on or was wheeling a bicycle. There was little overt organisation but the mass of wheels seemed to know what it was doing, so we obeyed and pretty soon and with little ceremony, we were off.

The way to Frankston was a road we had travelled some few times before so the first thing that really caught our eye was the fact that only the Seven-Elevens were open. Already oblivious to the fact that it was only 6.00 am we were incredulous: the cafes in St Kilda and along Beach Road were closed! Among the non-cycling humanity were a good few ravers and assorted other souls making their way home.

The weather was calm but decidedly cool and by the time we arrived at Mordialloc, a traditional stopping point, it was time for the first of many toilet breaks for the day. The habit of maintaining steady fluid intake was not being matched by our rate of transpiration - something had to give - and it was the bladder.