Stonewall Jackson’s last hurrah – not!

Write up of “Tour de Quatro Montagnes” 76 km – Sunday, 20 September 1998

Famous confederate General Stonewall Jackson is reputed to have remarked to his war cabinet before committing his troops into another battle, circa 1862, at historic Harper's Ferry, against a patently superiorly entrenched enemy.  “My left flank is crumbling.  My right flank is retreating.  No, just, “falling back”.  My centre is capitulating under heavy fire.  Situation ideal, if not approaching excellent.  We attack at dawn!” 

Helmet Hun goes under the knife for a hip replacement in less than a year.  Two suspect hips, each held together with a triad of ungodly, intimidatingly gross nails - a bequeath of separate cycling bingles in bygone track racing days - are wearing out.  Not the sharp, flesh encased steel pegs, but rather Sig’s boneless hips are deteriorating or to deploy the medico’s jargon, “de-generating”.  Fortunately, the bald Kraut ain’t no chick, ‘cause no self-respecting guy could ever go for his scrawny hips.  [Chrome Dome had struggled with the aid of a walking stick on the previous night when a few of the crew gathered at Frank’s villa at Oatlands to celebrate his 3rd, 39th birthday.  When is Frank going to come clean with Fiona and admit that he’s really  a sprightly 47 and owes it all to a can of Grecian 2000, the hide of a Rhinoceros and more front than Slick Willy?]  Guests at Frank’s Oatlands hacienda were the beneficiaries of a preview tasting of Phil’s initial batch of his Miners’ Mortar, dispelling rumours that it was nothing more than a trumped up copy of the noir concoction of the African cannibals’ “Goat’s head soup!”. 

Back to our Sunday "sum-up".  Notwithstanding, Sig’s efforts to epitomize an invalid the previous evening [perhaps attempting to vindicate his doctor issued "Disabled Driver Certificate"], he unerringly mounted bellicose raids on each of the four hills on Sunday’s Quarto Montagnes Ride – 20 September - and got better with each escalation.  An all male contingent of six [David S. Greg K., Richard C., Phil J., Ian M., and, of course, the Bald Kraut] gathered at Turra’ carpark under sullen skies, for an 8:40am departure with familiar Bobbin Head our first climb.  Don’t know who started it.  However, the escalation to Kalkari proved a four horse race.  Coleman and Knight weren’t challenged at the front, but golly, wasn’t there a lot of huffing and puffing to decide the minor placings - real bury the bastard if you can stuff.  There must have been a few PBs, as Sig, Simmonds, Johno and Maguire eventually fell over the line at Kalkari, totally knackered.  Haplessly, it set the scene for the three remaining hills.  Maybe if Sig hadn’t ribbed Ian so unmercifully for acquiescing to the ultimate indignity of allowing PJ to pip him to the Kalkari milestone, things might not have developed into the war of attrition which prevailed in scaling each of the three remaining hill tops. 

Renowned polka dot jersey holder, Richard C. lost his mantle on the Galston climb ostensibly due to not hearing last minute riding instructions from Sig that we would hook a left thereby wrapping around the 11th green and 12th tee and follow down the “out of bounds” along Asquith Golf Club’s 12th fairway, rather than cross on over the railway line, taking a familiar left down the Pac Highway.  There wasn’t a lot of change either way.  Problem was, when Richard failed to sight any crew members at the edge of the highway, he just pulled up and waited, and waited, thereby relinquishing his leader’s jersey and allowing Sig to burn-off Ian, Greg and David for KOM to Galston Gorge.  

We sat down for a 45 minute respite, make that repast, at Orchards a Bloom, a smidgen after ten bells.  Sig didn’t have his high tech camera.  However, it didn’t stop him checking out the scenery.  The friendly fella can read nature into almost anything.  Let’s be a trite more specific - anything under 45, female, especially a petite maidservant, if she’s ready to kick butt if you are not ready to give her your order - a waitress with a shapely curvature, dressed in a tight, black leotard, where nature/gravity has proven benevolent.  Subsequently one amongst us, with the smile of an assassin, admitted to a temptation to chomp into an unsuspecting cleavage - stationed about chin high when your six foot tall and unsuspectingly seated, head down perusing a lunch menu only to look up to find the waitress a little closer to our companion’s menu than he had expected.  Fortunately, Greg K. was positioned in-between the unawares wench and our comrade’s gob. 

As the rest of our small, but focused contingent, headed out of Green Shades, towards the Berowra punt, PJ prevailed upon Sig to squirt some high tech lubricant on PJ’s rear cluster, ‘cause apart from exhibiting an unnerving, crunching sound, PJ’s rear group-set looked as dry as a dead Dingo’s donger.  In the ensuing few minutes, Sig convinced PJ that his front derailleur needed adjusting, a procedure which Sig proceeded [no repetition intended] to carry out, before PJ could bat an eye-lid.  Problem was that PJ, who hadn’t lost a chain when changing up to the big chain ring in God only knows how long, proceeded to then lose his chain on six occasions, to the veritable glee of all present, before returning with the rest of the crew to Turra’ around 2pm.  [Increasingly as PJ again dismounted to re-align his greasy chain onto his larger chain ring, his mind cogitated, “No! Sig couldn’t stoop that low.”  His intentions in aiding good buddy Phil were, no doubt, honourable.  Those six subsequent chain failures which befell Phil over the remaining two climbs must just have just been Phil’s bad luck!]  

Recapping on other memorable moments during our four hour hit-out.  The good news is that whilst Greg K. and David S. each started like a house on fire, fortunately they both fell away towards the end, neither being contenders in the final two climbs. [Eric copped a serve last week.  It’s time to make new enemies.]  The final climb out of BH was a real ding dong affair with Phil J. unable to make up the leeway, but within shouting distance, geeing Ian on to bury the bald Kraut.  At one point bellowing out to Ian as he hovered on Sig’s heels, “Ian, a Spitfire will always beat a Messerschmitt!”  Hoffmann gleefully gloated as he was first to reach the final crest.  Ian M. exhibited surprising determination in hammering out all four climbs – not bad for a guy who ended up on the wrong side of a hospital bed from getting his jollies sparring with a Phalanx of “A” Graders from Northern Subs only a few months back.  PJ also displayed more tenacity than usual, probably the result of seething at the benevolent mechanic having put one over him. Tour de Quatro Montagnes was no Sunday school picnic with all the all male crew of six running into real form. 

Another recollection from a most satisfying four hills hit-out were two one-liners from Greg K. and another from David S., all intended to clip PJ’s wings.  The first occurred at Green Shades.  PJ had just thanked a very endearing nymphet waitress for the chef serving him a tasty bowl of baked beans on toast.  Good buddy Phil had commented to the innocent lass that whilst his cycling companions might not have appreciated his choice of brunch, “those beans had really hit the spot”.  To which Greg K. retorted, “Phil, don’t worry about us.  Where you usually find yourself placed in the field, it won’t worry us what is going on behind you.”  Simmonds chimed-in as we were about to start up BH for the second time.  PJ was whining, quite justifiably to Sig after his 4th chain failure, “I just want a user friendly, forgiving bike that accommodates its owner’s frequent failings!”  To which David S. retorted, “Phil, if it’s getting too hard, we can easily stick an extra roller either side of your rear wheel, a set of trainers might make you more confident.”

There was a myriad of other humorous happenings back at Maguire’s pad, as initially Sig did his remedial stuff on PJ’s broked front derailleur - a ten minute quick-fix rolled past the hour mark before Sig was comfortable with the finished product only after Ian had to dig up mega heavy monkey wrenches and a gynormous timber mallet.  Then Elfi remonstrated over the merits of a new pair of white cycle shoes, amidst angst from accommodating hubby Ian, before settling on the pair of rugged black ones which had proven one size too small for David S's clodhoppers, even if Elfi thought black was neither sexy, nor cool.  Finally, Ian remained in the hunt for a fortuitous four grand bookies’ payout from the Berries, make that the Bulldogs, get-out-of-jail free card against Parra’, by pulling off a Houdini escape coming back from 18-2 down with only 12 minutes remaining, and into the grand final against those bastardly Broncos from north of the border next Sunday. 

History is testimony that Stonewall J. won more than his share of battles with his sanguine, if not naive, appraisal of requisite rudimentaries to defeat a better fortified enemy.  However, eventually he met his Waterloo as all Southern generals did.  The same approach, a blend of optimism and stoicism, got Mein Führer to the summit ahead of the rest, well most of ‘em, most of the time, during each of those four familiar hills, on an overcast, but fortuitously, rain-free 75 kms ride.  To date, fortune has favoured the brave amidst Helmet Hun’s assaults against the odd, ‘cause Sig's decrepit torso defies logic by enduring, contrary to the laws of both physics n’ physiology.

Phil Johnston     22 nd September 1998