Despite my best intentions, I'd been avoiding the Razorback. I was beginning to push my luck a little; Christmas to New Year always provides plenty of work for unmarried locums far from family, and I was beginning to have visions of an attempts on Christmas morning at 5am or on the night of 29th December at 11pm between work and flying overseas. I'd gone so far as to dig out my lights and make sure the batteries worked.

I hadn't scheduled this morning as an attempt. I had planned to join the group up Palmwoods-Montville, as per a typical Tuesday. Last night, a change of plan required I be home and fully functioning before 8am, ruling out the somewhat longer group trip. Still keen to work the legs, and with the challenge looming, I decided that I'd have a go at The Razorback.

So, on three hours sleep and a handful of leftover chocolate, I found myself rolling steadily to the base of the climb. It was 5:45am, windless with the clean sun steaming away the morning dew.

I decided that, if I wasn't to outthink myself, that not looking at my bike computer would be important. I would ride on feel. I stood up on a few of the earlier sections, breathing deep. A few walkers were on their way down, more than the number of tradies in utes whistling up. I passed the NEVER TIRE sign. The road felt good.

At the start of the main climb, just prior to the shop, I got jittery and slowed. My heart was beating hard enough to take my pulse by listening. From about four feet away. I turned the pedals more slowly, sitting and looking around.

I started to overthink things, "I only have three more chances; work's chaotic from here on...", "How will I write about failing from here?", "What if I get a flat?" It was a little paranoid, for sure. I shook my head out and rolled on up, past the turnoff.

At the shop, I reverted to stake-based goals. There were twelve before Hell corner, I think. Things got heavy, and by things, I mean legs, bike, body and breathing. I stubbornly grunted and ground Rosie up the road, standing and pushing hard. I stopped looking up. I watched the white line roll under the front tyre and strained against gravity.


I looked across the road at the arrow signs. They seemed too short. I was past them. I was through Hell corner! The road met me, and I breathed deeply. I expected to pop with every pedal push. I hurt. I stayed positive. I just focused on turning the cranks.

The next few minutes were achingly slow. I briefly spun up to a comfortable cadence and sat, before The Razorback reared its head and stood me back up, sucking at the air. I rode along the ridgeline, the sun pouring across my left shoulder, casting an exhausted, wobbly shadow across Razorback Rd. I looked back down; my computer said 8km/h, and I wondered how I was still upright.

At this point, my vision went a little foggy. I felt awful, sure, but I didn't think I'd pushed too hard. I couldn't work out why I couldn't see. I mean, the white line was there, rolling under my tyres, the air was fresh and tasty. I wibbled and wobbled on the tarmac. I felt bloody feral. In retrospect, the setting was picturesque, but I was in far too much physiological distress to contemplate appreciating it.


Then, after a period of numbness, I clicked. I was riding so slowly that my glasses had fogged, and hence couldn't see a thing. I felt steady enough to take one hand off the bars, just briefly. I saw a corner, saw my chance and snatched them away into my pocket. Unfortunately, my vision remained little blurry and I was stupendously nauseous. I thought, "I'm too far through to quit now. Suck it up. Keep going!"

Then, around the corner, I saw a building. It heralded the chute up to the summit. Just five hundred metres more.

The road narrowed and the trees crossed overhead. I spied the bridge across the road. The nausea evaporated, and I felt stronger, accelerating both against the flattening gradient and the likelihood of success.


A couple beginning the descent, breaking hard, flew past and called encourangement. I knucled down and rolled over the final road mark, battered. I had finished the Razorback.

I struggled to a picinic table and lay down, drenched, dyspnoeic and delighted. After recovering with the help of a full bottle of water, I took a few snaps, twittered and hopped back on the bike.

I rode down the Palmwoods-Montville Rd, revelling in the cool fresh air, dry roads. I passed several riders, "Good Mornings!!" aplenty. I drove home with plenty of fresh goals whirling around my self-satisfied brain, and wolfed down breakfast. The Razorback was Conquered.

Some moments just seem to grab at the eyes and mind. The personality or passion on show, or the loud atmosphere aurrounding makes an imprint on both retina and hippocampus. Here are a few such moments;

It's July in Melbourne and a cold, damp night. The Italian restaurant blasts heat onto the street like a wood-fired oven. Inside, it's dark and relatively empty. The woman sits in the corner, alone, pushing her pasta around in small circles. One hand massages her temple. Her makeup is smudged and her bottom lip trembles as she quietly cries.

The beach is alive. Surfers, walkers, dogs. A couple, late 50's, lean back on the strings of a fabulous red and gold kite. Their faces beam broad toothy smiles at each other. My friend comments on the beautiful kite. They thank him and say they've been doing this once a month for many years. The kite was a wedding present.

She's young and a bit scared. It's Sunday afternoon and she wants the Morning After Pill. The bloke with her is in his forties, temples greying and fit looking. They're both in running gear and joggers. As she starts to answer questions, her voice trembles and she cries, overwhelmed. He quietly says, "I'll leave you to it" and wanders into the store. She's terrified, but okay and calms down; it was her first time. He pays for the medication and buys a dozen condoms too. "Make sure you use these next time, Daughter", he says caringly. "Thanks Dad," she blushes.

As promised, this week saw an attempt on the Razorback. Certainly not my best effort, however, and consequently not enough to break through the Corner of Doom.

I'd be lying if I said I felt fresh on Monday, thanks to a weekend of Cricket and work. Probably not the best state of body or mind to being trying the Razorback, but nonetheless, I had a crack.

I took the opportunity to refine some tactics and get my head in the right place. I nursed myself softly, softly to the shop at the Hunchy Rd turnoff. That's the point when the road climbs up and up at 12%, and the hurt really begins.

Meantime, I noticed two property names on the ascent. The first was an apt description of the scenario "Summer Hills", the second was an inspiration to look out for each time; "NEVERTIRE"

At the shop, I figured that taking it easy had slightly paid off; I felt better than expected, expecially considering I'd ridden a flat fifty earlier in the day. So, in a more positive state of mind,
I divided my goals into micro and macro and pushed the pedals from road-stake to road-stake, setting miniscule 30 metre goals to each corner. Not over-extending myself before the shop is a definite must for a successful attempt.

At the corner of doom, I again fizzled into an anaerobic mess. I'd clawed the last hundred metres to that point and the effort was more than enough to tip me into lactic-land. It felt like being slapped with a cold fish. One positive was the speed of recovery, which was substantially quicker than previous digs.

Last update, I was unsure if the deficit was psychological or physiological, and yesterday's attempt answered the question. Psychologically, I'm all over it. I can push myself until I pop. I can do tactics, and I'm pretty sure I ride smart. Physiologically, my endurance is improving, my hill climbing is much better than a few weeks ago. Today, I smashed my best time on the Palmwoods-Montville climb by two minutes. Unfortunately, when it comes to the sheer gradient of the Razorback I'm not quite strong enough, yet.

Part of me wants to run and hide from this bloody steep hill, to train on 'flatter' rides. I don't think that's going to work. So, I'll give it another crack. Again and again; I'll practice like I play, and hey, if that gets me up, then the challenge will be complete!


The Plan:
1. Keep trying!
2. Start easy, save energy.
3. Get stronger.
4. Be bloody minded.

Two weeks to go.

I know that medicine has hardened me, just a little. It struck me this week during a group ride. The bloke I was chatting with as we hummed through the suburban coast at 35km/h recalled a friend of a friend who'd recently died. She's had a heart attack in her early forties.

Three years ago, it would have really rocked me. I would have thought long and hard, empathy welling inside me, wanting to know the how and why. Thinking how awful, how unfair.

The first thought that jumped into my mind was, "I wonder what the likelihood of an MI is for a 40-something woman?" and visualized a distribution curve. Then, I considered possible risk factors. Then, I thought about the woman's family.

This all happened in a second. Three years ago, I would have thought "Gosh, how tragic!".

It's not that I don't care. It's not that I don't feel. It's just that sometimes, the things that rock a lay-person aren't as raw, as world-changing as they used to be. Evidently, I'm still thinking about this woman. I listened to my riding partner, he talked about the unfolding of events, the death itself, the funeral. Of course I didn't ask anything about risk factors or other medical things; he wasn't telling me the story because he was interested in all that.

He was just telling me; I asked how her kids were coping. I hope they're okay.

I've been thinking about this post for a while; in fact, the idea was sparked one day in June as I strolled down a grey and wind-whipped beach.

On the surf's edge, a pale bronze light flicked the edge of my vision; it was some way up the shore. As I moved closer, I saw it was a tarnished dollar coin, and dusting it off, I pocketed it.

My memory travelled back a few decades to my second year at school. I was a new school, again. I liked this school very much; the teachers were cool. The Principal struck me as old - I'm not sure that he was - wise, genial, but to be feared by a cheeky six-year old.

One lunch hour, a pale bronze light flicked the edge of my vision. I trotted across to where the sparkle had appeared; the base of a tall tree, and saw that there were two coins. A one dollar coin and a two dollar coin, making three dollars. New Zealand had only that year swopped notes for these coins, making the treasure all the newer and more exciting.

I picked them up and looked around for their owner, who was not to be found. I went to the duty teacher and she suggested I give the coins to The Principal, which I dutifully did.

Around the time I finished secondary school, the Principal retired. He'd been in charge of the school for most of its existence, and it was a big send off. At the farwell, the Principal quietly passed an envelope to my Mum. It contained three dollars. And a faded post-it note;

"Capt. Atopic $3 handed in" and the date. I kept the coins at the bottom of my drawer. I was again reminded of the coins when I finished Pharm School and packed up to move out. They stayed with my other primary school treasures. The beach dollar sat on the window sill for months. The idea crawled to a dark corner of my memory, hibernating.

This week, I've moved house again. Everything boxed, schlepped and revealed. Meanwhile, The Principal's coins are stored across the Tasman. Unpacking my desk, I rediscovered the beach coin; and I remembered remembering.

Exams finished Friday, since which time my liver and sleep-cycle has copped an absolute pounding, thanks both to the end of year Cocktails and catching up with a good group of guys to watch the Windies v Australia at the Gabba.

Since exams I've been more than time-poor; I've played Club Cricket, moved house and driven some 600+ kilometres. I was planning on a jaunt up Palmwoods this morning, but even that failed to materialise.

So, a plan - roadmap, if you will - for the next fortnight; Palmwoods once, a long flat ride and a Triathlon on Sunday. Not exactly hill specific riding, thus far. Next week will be almost entirely off the bike, in Sydney. Running some hills each day will be on the cards and some good recovery time, too. Monday 14th will see a fresh attempt at the Razorback.

This is going to be a good, hard graft; 28 days remaining to ride!