The Disciples ride strong!

Massive shout out and thanks to all the crew who came out on Saturday for the amazing inaugural BnC event, Disciples Of The Iron Horse!

The sun was out with a genuine brutality that made for a stunning day, and damn harsh weather for riding the blacktop. BnC crew showed early to get things rolling and the Storer Brigade held no punches. The BBQ was fired up, the eskies were chilled and the stereo was turned up to 11. Slowly the wheels started to roll in and registration filled out.

We were graced with the presence of (solo) Team Pevis (McEllendale) who regaled us with tales from the early days of Tasmanian cycling, when men were men and bikes were solid cast iron. Safe to say those chronicles will be making their way to the BnC website in the near future so that they may be recorded for future generations to read, research, study and worship. Viewer discretion may be advised due to mature content, but that’s not the kind of thing to stop us.

Once we got under way the true heat of the day seemed to kick in. A Le Mans start saw our brave competitors sprint the Bocce field in true marathon style and leap upon their iron steeds. Pedals and wheels flew in all directions, but most managed to get pointed the right way and set off at a pace. The roadies and fixed gear kids took off at the head of the pack, skinny tyres and light tubing lending the advantage on the undulating stretch we fondly call the Channel Highway. The solid weather made the Hinsby Beach turn off quite a tempting direction, but the competitive spirit reigned supreme and the disciples forged forward into a world of blood (not really), sweat (definitely) and dreams of beers.

The first ascent was conquered magnificently under the beating sun, the tarmac offering no shade nor sanction for those upon two wheels. The mountain (hill) destroyed behind us, we crested the rise to be greeted by the sweeping vista of Kingston Beach and the realms beyond. Legs burning and chests heaving with bike-fuelled passion, the field dove forward like a raging swell. As the single speeders, roadies and mountain bikers pumped forward and engaged their freewheels, the majority of the brakeless fixed riders stood up, mashed backwards and held on for dear life.

The early descent was a gentle stroll through a victorian-era herb garden compared to the gravel carnage of Tyndal Road. The sharp hook to the left threw us into the deep end as the black river beneath our wheels gave way to the tumultuous bends of unsealed hell. By the time our intrepid racers reached their checkpoint the road behind them was carved with skid marks like an angst-ridden teenager’s wrists and tyres were violently melting like shattered hearts.

The checkpoint saw spoke cards torn from their high-tension nests and punctured with the primitive mark of proof. No sooner was this done than the riders were returned to the sisyphean task of reclaiming the ascent. The loose and steep descent that is Tyndal Road had been difficult but could not hold a flame to its reverse. Gravel skittered across hard-packed dirt and tyres spun fruitlessly. Roadies and dirt-monkeys dropped gear inches like parkinson-suffering jugglers while the fixed riders either smashed away at all the inches god had given them, or took the weak exit and put foot to path to trudge away their embarrassment.

When once again the crest of the Bonnet reared its sun-drenched head, the pedal was put to the proverbial metal (or thrash, depending on your listening preference) and things got serious. The winding route returning the field to Taroona invokes Le Tour more effectively than a wine-drunk frenchman on the slopes of the Pyrenees. The ascent had been brutalising but through suffering comes glory, and there’s no word that better describes the wind rushing through your helmet vents and caressing your sweat-drenched scalp as the kilometres disappear beneath you and your body sways into each corner with the confidence of Russel Crowe on a coke binge.

The channel highway spread its wings and alighted upon the breeze as it gave way to Sandy Bay road and the final sprint kicked in. With reckless abandon the riders swept forward, striving for that final moment of excellence as their tireless chargers carried them towards the finish line. Cranks and pedals became one with pistons of flesh, shoulders hunched and teeth tore at gums, crumbling the road beneath spinning discs of iron. Like a modern day Ben Hur, these human powered chariots took the final turn and whipped themselves into a frenzied sprint. Some forged on through mechanical destruction as tyres caved under the pressure and heat, but all made it to the line in the blaze of glory fitting the triumphant effort displayed.

When the day was won and the crusaders rested with wetted throats and meat-filled bellies, the final champion was placed upon his (vintage leather) throne. Making the trip simply for the chance to compete against the BnC elite, Canadian import American Dave found himself ahead of all that could be throw upon his rear wheel. His professionally toned, possum-scarred courier legs proved no match for his challengers as he took out a exultant first place. Racing on a brakeless fixed gear track bike, Dave had managed to beat roadies, mountain bikers, singlespeeders, and even the beer-trained BnC founders. Not only that, but his closest follower was over a minute behind his speed-maddened frame.

So congratulations to the winner of our inaugural event, and congratulations to everyone who came along for making it such a damn good day! Bikes, beers, BBQs and great company, this is what is best in life!

Results:
F = Brakeless Fixed, S = Singlespeed/Braked Fixed, R = Roadie, M = MTB/Misc

Finally, a massive thanks to Ben Storer for organising this thing, Michelle Storer for handling registration/admin, and Buckley for the timing duties!