Three Peaks Cycling Challenge

I recently took on an endurance challenge that - during its lows - was utterly soul destroying, and definitely among the hardest challenges I’ve ever taken on. Although, the feeling of coming across the line to give my partner a squeeze and share a cold (non-alcoholic)beverage among friends with whom I suffered is a feeling that can’t be rivalled! This is my Peaks experience.

I’ve heard a lot of first hand experiences about this challenge from close friends and the cycling community at large and its reputation precedes itself. 235 kilometres, 4500 metres of climbing, 3 incredibly tough climbs, and a segment called ‘What the f*ck hill’ with a man dressed as a grim reaper stood at the bottom of it. But in spite of seeing all of this online and hearing the stories, my key reflection was that there was truly no preparing for it.

Seven hours of driving across 2 days consisted of a stay in an old (possibly haunted) Inn in Yass, a flat tyre in Wodonga and a some unbelievable scenery and weather to welcome us to Falls Creek in Victoria. To get my bike checked (and myself checked in), we drove up the 30km ascent to Falls Creek from Mount Beauty; the same hill I’d be flying down with 2,000 other riders at first light, the next morning.

A beautiful tiny home on a host’s plot in Mount Beauty was my bargaining chip to convince Sarah to come, whose support was defining as always. As I waved her goodbye at the start-line, I distinctly remember making sure that if this was the last time she saw me alive then she’d have a nice memory of me… it feels slightly odd to write that, but it’s certainly validated when you descend 30km in the cold and dark, with some riders absolutely pushing the absolute limits of what amateur cyclists should be doing on such roads!

Once I was at the bottom, knowing my risk averseness thanks to a couple of stacks, it was all about sourcing some team mates to catch up to the capable descenders who stayed in touch with the 9 hour group. I worked hard with a couple of brave souls, pulling some willing riders up out of a massive bunch to get us back with the 9 hour bunch in time for Hotham. Mount Hotham - on reflection - was the most difficult single climb I have done. Astoundingly beautiful and incredibly unforgiving, the climb is more than 30km long. While I climbed ahead of the 9 hour bunch for most of it, they’d distance me on some of the helter-skelter descents right at the top of Hotham. Working to get them back, I felt the altitude for the first time and I couldn’t believe how difficult the ride had become only less than half way.

The event organisation of Three peaks is second to none. At the Top of Hotham, there were sandwiches, toilets, rows of taps for riders, even volunteers holding open bags of electrolyte powder! The 9 hour bunch were there, and we were given a call that they’d be gone in 5 minutes. That was the best 5 minute, mid-ride-break I will ever have.

The riding remained incredibly challenging. In a bunch of up to 100 very capable riders, we’d descend at speeds of up to 80kmph but then bunch up and suddenly surge up hills over undulating terrain. This 80km stretch was where I started to see souls perish; mid-climb it became a commonality and routine to have a rider stop dead in their tracks with a lack of functionality in their legs, or simply lie in the grass on the side of the road. You’d wonder, am I next? The bunch passed a man in full lycra who was in the most a peaceful sleep in the shade of a tree, amid the grass with his glistening performance road bike laid to rest beside him.

The group was thinning out, we were dropping individuals over every hill and on every descent. I was climbing well but it became harder and harder to reel the group back in following the blistering descents and technical corners. I was getting fed up, and soon I’d find that it was me at the back of the group as the last rider fighting to stay in touch. I had no fluid in my bottles and I was starting to accept the fact that I’d have to ride on my own, losing a great amount of time.

At 188km I knew I needed to stop, hanging on just one corner behind the bunch. Following that final corner I was met with a beautiful sight; the entire peloton had halted for a frantic 5 minute stop where men wrestled to get their heads under cold taps. There were more volunteers with bags of electrolytes and as I guzzled fluids and squashed down the remnants of a flattened and warm chicken wrap, my reality started to change again. I started to get better and relish the prospect of the final climb.

But this was the climb they call ‘Back of Falls’, and nothing could have prepared me. I’d heard murmurings that once you reached the back of Falls, you were on your own. It did indeed become a solo mission. In the marathon of an Ironman, you see zombie-like people, wondering aimlessly, throwing up or dry wretching, all hope lost. The Back of Falls was a different level of hopelessness. During the 10-15% gradients in the heat aback the 35km climb, I witnessed grown men whimpering, wailing and sobbing. I must say, I didn’t witness a single Queen displaying their discontent on the whole course. But once we’d passed the grim reaper and the climb reared its head, I observed one man - at least 40 years of age - crying uncontrollably. As I was 50 metres past him I heard him wail as a film character would, who’d suffered a sudden family death. 500 metres up the road I could still hear his cries.

One rider who’d observed another rider desperately studying his Garmin bike computer to make sense of the climb, decided to bark the following sentence at said rider in relation to his Garmin; “turn that f****** s**** off mate, don’t look at that f****** s****”. They definitely didn’t know one another. This experience soon became mental torture and many had started to walk their bikes without shoes on, lie on the road or in the ditch, or just stand looking upwards at the insurmountable. I knew all I had to do was stay on my bike.

I’d become weak, shrivelled and unfriendly like a little goblin on that climb, although I was mistaken for the handsome Max Mann by a young man who was suspiciously energetic. I can’t remember if I corrected him. I’d been on track for a Sub-9 all day long, but I knew I was letting it slip and feared putting in a sustained effort would result in something coming out of either end, or my legs becoming locked straight like planks. So I admitted defeat on that mountain and locked in to the sole pursuit of survival. And that’s it - I was humbled!

As I got over the top, it was hard to believe the experience was actually coming to an end, but with a tailwind on smooth roads way up high above Falls Creek and the rest of Victoria, I could already picture Sarah at the finish line. Rolling through, I felt immense pride and relief, where I was greeted by Sarah and my great mate Byron who was plain clothed, showered, holding a beer. He’d finished an hour before me in 8 hours flat. You are a freak my friend. I swore to myself during this ride I would never sign up to it again. As I write this, I think there’s actually a chance I may. Welcome to endurance sport friends.