Watching Bicycles.

A big white 4wd ute rolled to a stop bede me as I stood on the median strip outside the West Beach Surf Club.  A young man stuck his head out the window. "What's going on? What's everyone waiting for?"

"Theres a bike ride going past," said Roger. "In about 15 minutes."

"Cool!" The young man smiled as wide as a watermelon, displaying an admirable enthusiasm for something about which he clearly had no clue. "Guess I'll park up and watch, then!" 

West Beach

I was standing on a median strip on a sunny weekday morning because the Tour Down Under had came to town, and the streets wrre cloggedwith wannabe racers, all wrapped up in branded lycra and propelling their slightly-chubby selves on expensive pedal machines. They flooded the streets in strung-out peletons, shouting cryptic warnings and waving their arms around to point at potholes and other hazards that they couldn't see themselves because they were so close to the rider in front.

We went in to town to watch the individual time trials . Not wanting to put anyone to shame with my awesome cycling skills, I trundled in to town along the river, keeping company with commuters and blasting past parents with prams. I even overtook elderly people walking small dogs. I was on fire (metaphorically speaking, of course).

Home stretch.  You can't see the crowds.  I was going so fast that they're just a blur.

The thing about watching bicycle races in the flesh is that everyone zips past really fast and then it's all over and you have to go home and watch all the exciting bits on TV. The time trials gave a bit better value for time spent because the cyclists went out one at a time for a quick 3.5km spin around the block while a helicopter clattered overhead taking pictures for TV. Occasional big gusts of wind roared down the street, giving lucky cyclists an extra burst of speed and filling spectators' eyes with dust so we couldn't see at all.

Spectators lines the streets, especially outside the pubs.  Happy revellers roared encouragement at the cyclists and offered high-fives and beers to the returning contenstants. Most of the returning cyclists, stoic europeans that they were, ignored them.

Some returned high-fives.  No-one took a beer.

Two days later the race was due to start at Henley Beach, just up the road. Off we went to spectate, but first we had to fortify ourselves with breakfast at the West Beach surf club.

While we were busy fortifying we realised that the race was due to come right past the West Beach surf club so we didn't have to make our way up to Henley Beach at all. Instead we had an extra coffee to justify hogging a table for a little bit longer, and then wandered outside to stand in the median strip and provide enlightenment to enthusiastic young men in big 4wds.

Along came the entourage: police escorts, media motorbikes, team cars, various VIPs of whom I was entirely ignorant...

and then the bikes came...

and went.

And then they were gone, and we went home to watch the highlights on TV and continue digesting our West Beach Surf Club breakfast.

And that was that.