Gloves Off
Never was the phenomenon of normalisation more evident than in the abandonment of social graces (most notably modesty and embarrassment) the longer the "tour" went on. Whereas the early part of the ride saw scores of riders invading tiny bayside toilet blocks or discreet relief being taken behind a thicket of scrub, the latter kilometres more commonly featured proud and very public displays of bladder evacuation. This was particularly true on the Geelong Road between Lara and Werribee where the scanty presence of sufficiently sized roadside flora made discretion difficult, if not futile. In one spectacular incident an entire team, replete with matching livery had a young shrub completely surrounded as they attacked with a concentrated stream.

When an ocean liner visits a port on its maiden voyage it is paid cascading tribute by fire-tenders with large water cannons. Had this poor tree been the Queen Mary it is doubtful that the shower scene would have been any more remarkable. The several hundred motorised observers who passed by probably enjoyed that treat as much as the team seemed to savour the moment of group unity.

Moving closer to the city brought no greater decorum however, demonstrated by a magnificent line-formation executed within sight of the Westgate Bridge up-ramp. There, a group of half a dozen riders stood and darkened a "noise screen" with an exhibition of synchronised urination that might have been played out on any Saturday night, in the relative privacy of a bluestone laneway beside a pub. This performance was illuminated by full afternoon sunshine upon a "stage" raised slightly above road level, lending it a weird, striking grandeur that may have exercised the imagination of a Russell Drysdale. It is possible that this brief but impressive act was witnessed by hundreds. Yet there was not the slightest hint of performance anxiety.

But then, you do want your mind to be clear for the ascent of the Westgate Bridge, Melbourne's greatest man-made land mark (Civil Engineering), on such a sparkling afternoon.

The Bridge [1]
For reasons I'm still not completely clear about, I decided that the 205km mark was the right moment to "sprint" to the top of the bridge. Soaring like a bird (say, an Emu on a bicycle) I rode up the curved ramp in a deluded (slow-motion) tribute to Marco Pantani. Sprint is here used in a relative sense in case I mislead with impressions of speed and bustle. Perhaps more accurately the "move" could be described as a "breakaway", in the way that an iceberg "breaks away" from a glacier. Anyway, no matter, this was my Alpe d'Huez.

I don't think anyone was impressed, perhaps they didn't even notice me as I crawled past. They were probably too busy admiring the magnificent view. Close to the summit, just as I was - perhaps - beginning to breathe a little more audibly, the mobile phone rang, and I completed the picture of the archetypal mid-life knob-head by "taking the call" as St Kilda and the bayside suburbs revealed themselves beyond the crest of the bridge. I hung-up and descended in a very gentle manner down the southern ramp into the now very refreshing sea-breeze. Even though there were still around three kilometres to go, that felt like "it".

The Westgate - The Bridge [2]
At Brooklyn we re-joined the freeway - now called "Westgate" - for the final few kilometres to the eponymous bridge. The Westgate Bridge exercises an allure over the cyclists of Melbourne. Any event that promises a trip over the bridge always attracts thousands of participants. It's a safe bet that all have crossed by car several times and wished the experience could have lasted a little longer. It's also probable that many riders are aware of the deadly events that occurred during the construction of this span, perhaps investing each crossing with a small reminder of mortality that can make it an almost spiritual experience.

For me it was my third bicycle crossing and it promised to be the best, perhaps because it came at the end of our long "preliminary" as a kind of reward; perhaps because of the magnificent weather and lighting conditions, or perhaps just for the sheer "king of the world" feeling you always get atop this mighty structure.

I carried none of these thoughts with me as we cleared the last of the traffic lights and commenced the steady rising, right-handed curve to the top. As described elsewhere I thought I'd "take off" and try to sprint to the top. The only explanation I can offer is a combination of exhilaration, excitement and satisfaction over covering the preceding 205 km that led to this celebratory effort - a tribute to the day, our nearly twelve hours on the road, our hundreds of kilometres of training and - as I reached the top of the arc and saw the beautiful, colourful city below me - celebrating, well, everything.

Then, of course, the mobile phone rang and as I rolled down the southern ramp under tight brakes I spoke to my son Lewin who, on behalf of the waiting family, wanted to know where the hell was I? What could I say? In the sky!

Marathon
In 490BC Pheidipides, a professional runner, was supposed to have completed the first Marathon by running from that town to Athens bringing news of the Athenian victory over the Persians. Upon delivering his message he apparently collapsed and died from exhaustion. Like Pheidipides several riders had no sooner completed the entire journey than they fell from or were knocked from their mounts at the finish line, possibly due to the sudden requirement to stop and make a right-angle turn at their very moment of triumph.

It was a tough contract for weary riders, and it was wickedly infused with schadenfraude that none of the unlucky victims merited.

Of course no-one died (as far as I know), but maybe a few did in a theatrical way. Surrounding the finish was a crowd of waiting friends and relatives, so any falls were not only a threat to life, limb and machine, but were also very public. At that great moment of confusion and fulfilment, cyclists' wary eyes lifted from the road, with clattering consequences. One rider, brought down within a metre or two of safety gingerly picked himself up; no real harm done, but at the final pedal of 210km it was fair cause for a rueful sigh. His message to the waiting crowd: "So close".