Worlds Away

Sun hat, bag full of food and drink, deck chair and a shaded spot on the hill by the Skoda sign…settled into our claimed territory for the day of the elite men’s race, from this vantage we could see across to the descent and down toward the bailey bridge obscured by tree canopy below.   With straight line clear views of the riders climbing this sharp little 900m pinch our position offered plenty of opportunities to site the stars and aim binocular or camera lens – at least until the UCI photographer perched himself in the fork of the shade tree right in front of us...luckily this was a bit uncomfortable for him and he pulled stumps to find someone else to stand in front of.

We arrived early on the Sunday morning, boy in pram and all, just after the elite men had made their start from Melbourne city at ten.  A four Km walk from the closest parking spot we could find hiked us across the leafy suburb of Newtown, through a posh coffee strip for a morning fix to go, then gradually up to the top of the second, and in our view decisive, climb.

We were welcomed onto the hill by a local, Laurie, with warm handshakes and banter.  Though not really a follower of cycle racing, he was genuinely excited at the prospect of watching the world’s best in his ‘backyard’.  While we set up our chairs he bustled about preparing picnic table, BBQ and rugs for the day’s entertainment, and chatting excitedly to all-comers.  Most exciting was the dropped hint that Cadel’s wife Chiara was apparent fine friends with the family camped in a roped off section nearby.  They were expecting a visit during the day from the queen of the world champion, and we rubbed our hands at a prospect that turned out not to be.

We then settled in for the wait.  Broken at intervals with the nursing of an over-tired boy who refused to drift off to sleep, the floor show unfolding before us included free cow bells handed from a passing van, the erection of the inflatable Skoda arch ( quite a debacle and it never did manage to stand up quite straight ) and the steady stream of spectators walking, with and without their bikes, up and down the hill.  Favourites were the pseudo devil with obligatory plastic trident and can of Victoria Bitter in hand, perched on the grassy bank in red spandex and fluffy fake gnome beard, and the trio of young bucks dressed as mock nurses in bright red costume - looking increasingly self conscious and bikini-tan lined on their hairy chests – nice man-boobs guys.

At last the buzz of helicopters.  They had reached the outskirts of Geelong town proper.  The helicopters proved a handy aspect of the event.  It was possible to maintain an understanding of where the riders were on the course at all times from the position of the three television choppers.  More waiting – then finally, the lead break of four broached the hill to a rousing cheer and the flash of cameras.  The crowd rose as one to their feet, even though they would have been able to see perfectly if all had stayed seated, to add their call of encouragement.  Really buzzing now, the crowd remained standing, and waited, and waited, looked at each other, exchanged excited sightings and predictions and then waited some more.  Twenty minutes passed with increasing confusion.  A lap was expected to take about twenty-five minutes.   If the bunch didn’t arrive soon, the break would be getting a free ride home on the back of the main field.  

Again, at last, the electric rise in excitement.  Marked by two hovering choppers, the whole peloton could be seen on the descent approaching the Bailey bridge kink.  Then finally, shoulder to shoulder across the road, they sauntered up the climb looking very unflustered by the time gap, growing heat and deafening roar.  Simon Gerrans near the front, Albi tucked in there, Stuey on the far side with Cadel close to his back wheel.  Dodger and Matt Goss hanging about the back of the bunch, as if about to fetch instructions from the team car that was only one or two back in the line.

With the last straggler over the top, the crowd returned to their chairs, radios and even laptops to check the time gap.  Ten minutes later the break came through again, to another rousing cheer, raising many overheard conversations about a ruling if they made contact with the main field.  No need to have been concerned.  That was a close as the break ever got to catching on.  By the fifth lap twenty minutes had dwindled to just a few minutes and the attack was losing fire power.

All together again with three to go, the Belgians, Italians and French came to the fore, and each time Gerrans was there to cover the move, while Cadel scrambled over the top of the climb to remain in contact with the first fifteen as small gaps formed – his crouched and low style very recognisable from the hill.  Stuey was always there too, digging in over the top, more upright and braced with his arms and shoulders, obviously not as fluid on the steep pitch of the climb, but hanging nonetheless

A prospect for the gold, Gilbert attacked to a mighty cheer in the closing laps as the field continually split on the first climb, closed together at the bottom of the descent, then split again over the top of the second climb right in front of us.  Still some five or six thousands of metres from the finish line on a down hill run, any group would have to work extremely hard to stay away to the line.  As the riders finished the tenth lap, much of the crowd had dissipated, heading toward the big screen, located in the park at the base of the hill.  With the leaders past on the final lap, gaps appeared along the fence and we snuck down hoping to catch a glimpse of the trailing gruppetto.  Sure enough here they came, Stuey leading them up the climb, still going pretty quickly.  Then three riders back Fabian.  The man looks like a bear in the view finder of a camera, all flowing black hair and massive quads.  They swept past, so close I would have reached out to pat their backs only I’d have dropped the camera right in their spokes.  Not sure how they felt about all of us yelling directly into their ear, but it was fantastic to be able to voice some appreciation at close range.  The camera video footage is disappointing, jerky and dark, with the sun behind the rider’s faces, but also atmospheric and treasured.  Fabian looked into our faces as he came past – some acknowledgement for the calls of encouragement – probably wondering why we were cheering so loudly for something like 80th place.

That moment capped a fantastic weekend of up-close contact with the world’s best.  On the Saturday, strolling across the water front toward the expo, we came across the entire Spanish team assembled for promotional ‘photo’s before continuing on their morning course recon.  They seemed so affable and relaxed, happy to smile and goof for the cameras, then pose and sign autographs for the small group of people who actually noticed they were there. 

This was followed up with the perfect vantage point just 50m from the finish line for the women’s race.  The whole field was marshalled right in front of us, team by team, and the Americans and Aussies smiled and waved very politely at calls from the crowd.  Hard to imagine being able to wander up to the barriers ten minutes before the start and see the world’s best so close.  At one point I watched with mild internal conflict as one American girl twiddled the rear derailleur cable adjuster of her compatriot’s bike in an attempt to get the gears working properly just minutes before the gun, not knowing whether to offer to help or not.  As I wondered whether I wanted to be responsible for stuffing up a contenders gear change or not, they got it sorted before I could find my voice, and off they went.

Not too much sun burn, plenty of fantastic racing and, pleasant up-close experiences reminded me so strongly of early live TdF experiences and of how glamorous seeming and exciting the sport is to see up close.  There is much more to tell another time.