Early Bird Cycling Part II: The Boulevard

I enjoyed Friday morning's 6am cycle so much that I agreed to go on another ride on Saturday. This time, it was with a group of around ten hi-vis clad riders, on bitumen road, and at the marginally more civilized time of 6.30am. Unlike Friday, the sky was free of clouds and the sunrise beautiful, and the line of fluorescent blobs riding into the sun up ahead was a magnificent sight.

Keeping pace with the group was a massive challenge for one simple reason: These early bird cyclists all rode slick road bikes with thin tyres, lightweight frames, and clip-in pedals, whereas I was on 'The Boulevard'. The Boulevard is the name given to a squeaky blue bike that I wheeled gingerly out of the back of my hosts' shed. Seldom ridden, it is a hybrid bike that doesn't know what it wants to be. The tyres are too thick for pacey road cycling and too thin for journeying off the tarmac. It features enough front fork suspension to be a nuisance on smooth surfaces, but not enough to   handle any rougher terrain. I can tell you what it isn't though: fast.

The route was tough due to its constant undulation. Never a flat stretch, it was long uphill followed by long downhill. However, the brutal nature of cycling is that the ascents take forever, while the descents are over in a flash. Therefore, it felt like I was always climbing. Brutal as these climbs were, they were my only chance to narrow the gap that opened up early on between myself and the rider second from last. Characteristically determined, I took every uphill as fast as I could, standing up on the pedals and staying in a high gear, grimacing at the increasing pain in my legs, and wincing at the momentum I was losing to that bloody suspension. Climb after climb I would make up ground, only to lose it all again on the downhill thanks to the sluggishness of the wretched Boulevard. Eventually I did catch up with my quarry, but only because he stopped.

Shortly after my victory of sorts, I passed the 'Welcome to Broomehill' sign. Now I've looked at maps of the area and seen that Broomehill is quite far from Kojonup. I couldn't believe it. "I've cycled to Broomehill!" I said out loud in a tone of triumphant shock. Several hundred metres down the road I said "I've cycled to Broomehill" again, but this time in a tone of horrified shock. You see, I had suddenly realised that cycling to Broomehill meant only one thing - I would have to cycle back. How stupid I had been! For some reason I had assumed that we would be doing a circular route. But we hadn't turned off once and there had barely been any corners. Moreover, I knew perfectly well that all the roads around here basically beeline from one town to another. However, I was so in the zone that I hadn't considered any of these things. I was so caught up in the gruelling chase and the beautiful morning-sun-illuminated scenery flying past that I hadn't thought at all about where I was going. Moments later, the leading peloton passed me heading in the opposite direction, confirming my fears that the ride was in fact a simple there-and-back route. This was a problem because I had gone flat out on the way to Broomehill. Now I had nothing left in the tank and was only halfway.

The return to Kojonup was an epic struggle. Lactic acid was building up irreversibly in my slowly pistoning legs, the old hand-on-thigh technique was being utilised to help push down one leg, and the lowest of The Boulevard's crunching gears were being treated to extensive use. Even the sky had darkened to reflect my mood. During every uphill I thought I would have to stop, my body wanting to flop sideways onto the road without even bothering to dismount the bike. But on every ascent I pushed through the pain barrier and reaching the top of each hill felt like a small victory. By the time the town's outhouses came into view, the cost of my weary efforts to keep the pedals turning was my sanity.

After riding, the cyclists are joined by friends and family for a coffee in the local café. I arrived to find my fellow riders all merrily sipping and chatting after a pleasant Saturday morning cycle. Contrastingly, I waddled in with legs stiff as wood, feeling like I had just finished the Tour de France, or at least the Giro d'Italia. I had only cycled around 36km, but I went flat out and did it in around two hours, and I did it on The Boulevard.