Welcome to the Tour de Bannockburn. Well, actually it's the Bannockburn Mountain Bike Classic, but with over five hundred riders taking part in the event this year, it's deserving of pseudo Tour status. The ride is 35km of mountain terrain, including sealed road and 4WD tracks, with a climb of about 600m through thyme-covered mountain side.
For those of you who have a magnifying glass, Bern is somewhere in that mass of bodies. Look for a white helmet, yellow shirt, and a bike that one impressed fellow participant referred to as an 'antique'.
Faye and I took the kids up to the top of the hill to cheer on their father as he rode past. We heard the starter gun go off and watched in anticipation as the riders set out. Grace was all ready with her cheer, I had the camera poised, the riders drew closer and closer....and then they all turned off onto the road below us. Bern had misread the map of the route and led us up the garden path. Or in our case, up Bannockburn Road. I must admit, I did have that tiny nagging voice in my head questioning why we were the only spectators at the top of the hill, but given that my husband is a geographer who reads topographic maps, I had almost-absolute faith in his judgment. Obviously I need to buy him one of these for his birthday to reduce his error rate.
Thankfully, there was a park nearby to distract Grace from her disappointment, and Charlie from repeatedly trying to run into the path of oncoming traffic.
Thankfully, there was a park nearby to distract Grace from her disappointment, and Charlie from repeatedly trying to run into the path of oncoming traffic.
Then later that evening, with the kids in bed and Grandma babysitting, I wandered down the road to the Bannockburn Pub to welcome home my intrepid husband. As he came along I cheered and waved, calling his name, so proud. And he rode straight by me. Telling myself that I'd catch him on the return, once again I waited, camera poised, for the hero returns shot. And once again, he rode on by, oblivious to the crazy lady jumping up and down waving her arms in the air. Obviously the massive crowd of four people standing around me obscured his view. So I wandered back down the road to Faye's, where I was greeted by Bern.
Who said in a tone that sounded dangerously accusatory, 'Where were you?'
Who said in a tone that sounded dangerously accusatory, 'Where were you?'
So no victorious money shot. But Bern and I did get to celebrate his efforts at the pub that night. Where were were served beer in a plastic cup by a woman with little job satisfaction, then missed out on a sausage sandwich when the barbecue caught on fire. Now I'm no expert, but I'd say the fire probably had something to do with the diesel they put on it. Still, we stayed for the spot prizes then returned home smelling of diesel fumes, to our daughter's crushing disappointment that her Daddy didn't come first.
Therefore, despite listening to Bern wax lyrical about the race, I'm sure I don't need to tell you what my answer was when he rather optimistically asked me if I wanted to do the ride with him next year.
Therefore, despite listening to Bern wax lyrical about the race, I'm sure I don't need to tell you what my answer was when he rather optimistically asked me if I wanted to do the ride with him next year.
