Wet Wet Wet

Ides Of March was run and won. For anyone out of the state, or stuck in a bomb shelter, the day was as wet as a fallout boy mosh pit. I chucked a few hours in at work and then headed home to grab something waterproof and a mudguard, ’cause it was looking ominous over the mountain.  Three minutes after getting through the front door, all hell let loose and shit got wild. I could barely see the hill opposite our house and it sounded like a washing machine was having a feeding frenzy. Nothing to do but suck it up, I hit the road and filled by boots with water. As usual, my lack of organisation meant I was running around at the last minute, and soaking up a fair shitload of water. Either way, perfect weather for a race.

A good number of people decided not to be soft and useless and actually make a showing. The idea of these things is rain, hail or shine, and we got mostly rain. That’s half the fun though, right? Once you’re wet, you ain’t gonna dry fast anyway, so you may as well make the most of it. What’s better than a wet day, huddled over your bike, wiping grime out of your eyes, and busting massive skids through the middle of the city? Not much I reckon. A carton of beer helped keep things social, and everyone rode off into the weather while I kicked around scowling at strangers in the park. Not long afterwards Hunnibel turned up again, understandably taking out a swift win over all the other kids on mountain bikes. Would have been a bit embarassing if he’d come anything other than first, and I’ve got a feeling it may be an oft-repeated result until someone pulls their finger out and gives him some decent competition.  Ross rolled up second, putting in a good time but a stuffed up checkpoint answer meant he had to turn around and high-tail it back. It should be recorded that he did a damn fine effort and I was probably a cunt for sending him back out, but them’s the breaks!

Josh gave up after three checkpoints, when his manifest imploded and the leopard print panties wrapped around his head got a little moist. Funnily enough, he made it as far as the Brisbane before deciding to turn back. Seems that welding goggles weren’t the ideal eyewear after he ran bike-first into a chain strung between a couple of bollards. Safety, what?

Leroy took out DFL, anyone surprised? Ha!

As was completely appropriate, the night ended with heaps of beer before everyone else fucked off home and I was forced to destroy the Brisbane dance floor with a bunch of strangers, to the tune of Wating Room and Sabotage. Worse ways to do it.

Massive thanks to all the crew who grew some balls and got amongst it. This one was nasty, the next promises to be a hell of a lot better, and a hell of a lot worse. Start training now, ’cause we’re gonna make you hurt (in good ways). Cheers also to Knog who kept it real with sweet prizes, and Healthy Transport Hobart for throwing some good stuff in as well.

If anyone has any photos, send ’em through.

See you out there.