I was lulled into a false sense of security as I drove along the Bass Highway towards Phillip Island: it really didn't look that hilly in these parts.
"Head inland at Grantville", said the organisers' direction, so I did—and immediately I wasn't zipping along the foreshore anymore. Oh no, not by any stretch of the imagination. "Is HILLY", said the organisers' ride description and they weren't joking. My heart sank as I hoped and against hope that this first hill was not an indication of what was ahead for us on the 'Cheryl's Choice' brevet. But they just went on and on, rolling hill after rolling hill—there would be no avoiding them on this ride.
It was drizzly and a bit nippy as I pulled into the village of Kernot. I duly registered myself for the 100km loop and set about disentangling my bike from the back of the car. The drizzle got heavier and looked like it was thinking of settling down here and raising a family, but right on cue it stopped just before the off and we were away under overcast skies.
Just outside Kernot is an old single lane wooden bridge. "Cyclists dismount", said the sign. And for once this was good advice, and provided the amusing sight of a bunch of cyclists in road shoes delicately picking their way across the damp, slippery boards. And then we were off again, into those hills that I'd been dreading.
Up hill and down dale, as the cliché goes, and before we knew it we were back at Kernot for the first checkpoint at the 18km mark. A few riders were approving of the idea of checkpoints about every 20km, but a wise PBP ancien suggested we keep moving because it was a bit early in the ride to be losing time. It turned out to be good advice because we'd barely gone a few more kilometres when I heard the unmistakable sound of air hissing out a the back tyre.
The whole peloton passed me and I was left to fix my flat in the company of 5000 flies and a charming view across to French Island. With much wrestling, the tyre was replaced and I was on my way again but I was well-and-truly on my own now. With no expectation of catching up to anyone, I could set my own pace.
The stretch between Glen Forbes and Archies Creek was great. Although much of it was uphill, it was a quiet road running up through a pretty gorge. The cloud cleared and the day turned bright and sunny.
Somewhere near Archies Creek I misread my clock and thought that the next checkpoint, 30km away into a headwind, was closing in about half an hour! How much time did I spend fixing that damn flat?!? Better get a move on, I thought. Of course it was a mistake, and I actually had about two hours to spare, but it was entertaining while the delusion lasted.
The traffic on the Bass Highway was constant but not really heavy and there was a generous shoulder, as there was on the road to Cape Paterson. The stretch from Cape Paterson to Inverloch was enjoyable, with plenty of ocean views and the wind starting to favour my direction of travel. Although it's still school holiday time, this foreshore road wasn't as busy as I would have expected it to be.
Inverloch provided a brief stop, a fizzy drink (which I later mildly regretted) and a donut (which I didn't regret in the slightest). Checkpoint, and mount up again.
Then it was probably the dullest part of the route: the C441 north out of Inverloch. After some small undulation, it flattened out and got really rather boring, but the wind was at my back and the regular stream of traffic was generally well-behaved.
Things got more interesting (and hilly) on the approach to Kongwak, a gorgeous little hamlet that wouldn't be out of place tucked away in the southern highlands of New South Wales. It would have been good to pause here, and if I'd realised it was market day I might have taken a quick stop. Next time, maybe.
Onward and upwards, ever upwards (or so it seemed). At one point, probably somewhere near Glen Alvie, the road became a bit more steep and my pace slowed to the point that my 5000 companions from earlier found it possible to land on my face and enjoy the sweat of my labours. I'm sure I made a highly amusing sight: a lone cyclist with my head buried in a cloud of annoying black insects. Being hassled by flies is an interesting way of being goaded into working harder on the hills—how fast do you need to be going before the little buggers can't land?
It was overcast again by the time I made it back to Kernot, fully expecting to receive the ironic cheers of everyone who had arrived before me and the title of Lanterne Rouge. But much to my surprise there were still a few riders out on the road—they must have been enjoying the delights of Inverloch when I passed through unseen.
A little post-ride hospitality then off home. And as I headed back to the highway I found myself thinking, "Did I really ride up this bloody hill? Twice? What the hell was I thinking?"