2018 Race Report

The Poem of 2018 written by Grant Palmer

You can also check out the Audio Version here:: http://bit.ly/sdbc2018-poemAnd download the PDF version here:  http://bit.ly/sdbc2018-lyric

Some time in late September,
When winter’s run its course.
Cyclists are getting restless.
There’s a “stirring” in the force.

Training’s almost over.
Packing’s in full swing.
Time to move along now,
From that lazy feel of Spring.

For there’s movement cross the nation,
In a dedicated band,
Of feisty fat bike riders,
Who can smell the desert sand.

They’ve abandoned friends and family,
To train without a pause.
For to cross the Simpson Desert,
Is their focus and their cause.

They’re heading for the Simpson,
To spend “Five Days in Hell”.
There’s dunes and sand and stinking heat.
There’s stinking flies as well.

Some are simply quite naive.
Not knowing what’s in store.
For some there’s no excuse at all.
They’ve done this thing before.

They come from right across the land,
To ride with grit and gumption.
And so to know just who they are,
A tiny introduction.

Quite a bunch from Adelaide,
With little else to do.
But ride about on fat bikes.
Their focus clear and true.

There’s Derek, who’s been training hard.
Tall, and lean, and thin.
He wasn’t out there just to ride.
He was there to win.

Graham, who sets a fearsome pace.
An athlete through and through.
Last year not just to ride the race.
But ride to get there too.

There’s Gillian and Simon.
And the reason they were there.
To demonstrate togetherness.
And ride it as a pair.

Aurelia, now here’s a thing.
She rides with flair and style.
She thrashed the desert sand and heat.
And did it with a smile.

Tim, who came from Melbourne,
Was rider twenty one.
He slogged across the desert.
So glad when it was done.

‘Twas well Tim joined the SA mob,
To elevate their mood.
He even bought a chef along.
To lavish them with food.

A new face at the starting line.
The youngest by a mile.
Had saved, and bought a fat bike,
And rode the thing with style.

At the tender age of seventeen,
A pat on Dillon’s back.
He sure deserves a medal,
For just giving it a crack.

Andrew came from Melbourne.
And we’re lucky he was there.
As he brought along, as his support,
His cheerful daughter Claire.

She learnt so much of desert driving,
Dunes and sand and more.
But alas, oh dear,what have we here.
A dint in poor Dad’s door.

She had a special grasp of maths.
A new and clever brand.
Though clearly she explained to us.
We still don’t understand.

Next from out of Queensland,
The army came at large.
Very hard for us to see.
They’re all in camouflage.

They had some very fancy gear.
The mighty six wheel truck.
But just like all the rest of us.
So easy to get stuck.

They had a few home comforts,
To keep them nice and clean.
They even had a shower,
And shiny wash machine.

Eleven of them were Aussies,
And one of them a Scot.
Five of them were girls,
And seven of them were not.

Five of them were riders,
Who came to test their mettle.
To push their bikes right up the dunes.
Then jump back on and pedal.

A treat to have the army there.
Their women and their men.
We’ll all be disapointed,
If they don’t come back again.

Now quite a mob from Gippsland.
With Brad, and Frank, and John.
With Stuart and a hefty team,
Who came to help them on.

Their riders and their drivers,
And their wives formed quite a club.
As they ground across the desert.
Towards the Birdsville Pub.

John and Troy from Canberra.
That cold and windy place.
Decided they had what it takes,
To come and join the race.

They trained all year on icy hills.
Till they felt they had it beat.
But there’s nothing to prepare them,
For the scorching desert heat.

Eckart comes from Sydney.
And so does Derek Chan.
Both packed up their fat bikes.
To join the desert clan.

Eckart’s done this race before.
In fact last year he won.
Back to the desert once again.
To strain beneath the sun.

Then the other rider.
Part of the Sydney clan.
Persistent, always in there.
We’re talking Derek Chan.

We watched him cross the line.
We watched him punch the air.
But alas it’s not quit over.
And Derek’s not quite there.

He’s now discovered “nuts and bolts”.
Oh Derek what a shame.
As now that you’re addicted,
Your life won’t be the same.

So pub night at the auction.
Above the bidding racket.
Derek put his hand up,
And bought a giant packet.

So here’s his final challenge.
No mind the gastric pain.
He has to down the packet.
Before he boards the plane.

They come to meet the challenge.
Every woman,every bloke.
But for this whole thing to work,
It takes lots of other folk.

There are people from all over.
Come to see what they can do.
To keep the riders moving.
To see they make it through.

So for this race to happen.
It takes a helping crew.
For some idea of who they are,
We’ll mention just a few.

Martin is the boss man.
He has the toughest roll.
If he’s not right on top of it,
The strain will take its toll.

He’s ridden this awful fat bike race.
He’s been out here before.
He’s witnessed all that could go wrong.
He knows what’s in store.

The days are hot, the sand is soft.
There’s cars stuck in the middle.
Martin takes the show in hand,
And plays it like a fiddle.

The bikes, the cars, the people.
The whole entire club.
Martin takes the motley crew,
From Purni to the Pub.

Now Martin, he will steer the ship,
Across the desert sand.
But he gets some help along the way.
From quite a little band.

Alan and Neil leave early.
Way before the sun.
They set their little flags to show,
Just where the race is run.

In the early morning darkness,
Their chatter can be heard.
As they spy just there an Albatross.
Or some lesser spotted bird.

Jack and Jim the next to leave.
Their timing must be fine.
They must be at the end before,
The riders cross the line.

Then Hippo heads off in the dark.
To waddle up the dune.
Watching closely in the mirror.
For Howard coming soon.

Howard runs a water stop.
He’s always number three.
Relaxing Neath the awning.
No place he’d rather be.

Now Howard’s worth a mention.
A very handy man.
If you ever need an axle,
Or a crankshaft, or a fan.

If you have something that’s broken.
Like a piston, or a shoe.
He’ll have the parts to fix it.
He’ll know just what to do.

If you’d like to hear a story,
‘Bout something he has done.
Best pull up a chair, relax.
Beyond the setting sun.

Ben’s the boss of medic stuff.
And when the race is run,
You’ll be thankful for his paddle stick.
And how he fixed your bum.

He’ll weigh you in the morning.
And when the day is done.
He’ll check you out with just a glance.
To see you’re having fun.

Now Bronwyn is amazing.
She creates a happy place.
She keeps the whole thing working.
Without her there’s no race.

Now though she may seem cheerful.
If you ever cross that line.
Be sure that Bron’ will soon find out.
And there will be a fine.

Bron’ is also President.
She works throughout the year.
To dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s.
Without her you’re not here.

Dave and Sue are medic two.
So lucky that’s a rhyme.
Dave and Sue, did water stop two.
And there’s another rhyme.

David’s a committee man,
He’s also a mechanic.
No matter what your breakdown.
With David, there’s no panic.

He’ll pull your engine all apart.
And spread it on the clay.
He’ll put it back together.
And there, you’re on your way.

Nick and Nicky are medic three.
They’ve never been before.
Such a treat they came along.
Let’s hope they’re back for more.

When they came to the pub that night,
We thought she wasn’t there.
But yes it’s Nicky after all.
With longer straighter hair.

The sun still not ascended.
But the day’s not far away.
Martin has the show in hand.
They’ll soon be on their way.

Five thirty in the morning,
And the convoy pulls away.
Along the sandy bumpy course.
Prepared to meet the day.

Past the waiting water stops.
Where the track will twist and bend.
To set up just across the line.
Where the morning stage will end.

Six AM, the sun just up.
The riders have been weighed.
They climb aboard their bikes on which,
A fortune has been paid.

They race across the desert now.
From dune to endless dune.
They curse the heat, the sand, the flies.
It just can’t end too soon.

Now the riders have to keep in mind,
There’s a pace they have to keep.
For lurking close behind them.
Is the ever present sweep.

Does he have compassion?
Not even just an ounce.
Sag behind the bunch a bit.
The sweep will surely pounce.

He leads the final convoy.
He keeps them to his rear.
The riders quickly glance behind.
The sweep’s the one to fear.

And no, it’s not just riders.
As once there in the sun,
He crept up close behind them.
And swept up medic one.

Charlie is the last to leave.
The last one in the line.
For where we’ve been and had our fun.
He’ll make sure there’s no sign.

Afternoon, the scorching sun.
We do it all again.
Bums are sore, it’s not much fun.
They start to show the strain.

They grind along the sandy track.
They strain round every bend.
Across the scorching clay pans.
Whenever will this end.

This goes on for days and days.
There’s sand,and dunes,and dust.
But riders keep their focus.
To Birdsville Pub or bust.

Saturday is different.
No Sandy tracks, instead,
They ride their bikes atop the dune,
Along the mighty Red.

From Little Red to Big Red,
They skim along the crest.
Not so much to win this time,
But just to do their best.

The view up here is awesome.
There’s occasionally a spill.
But to ride this giant dune’s,
A privilege and a thrill.

The final race to Birdsville,
Passing Howard by the side.
They cross the line beside the pub,
To end this epic ride.

There’s backslapping and accolades,
They’re so glad to be here,
It’s surely time to celebrate,
With Camel pies and beer.

The hard work is all over.
We all go to the pub.
Tell yarns about the highlights,
And line up for some grub.

It’s credit to the riders.
Not only those who won.
But to those who helped the show along,
Now this year’s race is done.

For those of us who’ve been before,
We sometimes wonder when,
With dust and dunes and flies and sand,
We’ll ever come again.

Early mornings, Sleepless nights,
We’ve surely had our fill.
So will we be here next year?
You can bet your life we will.

And what about these athletes.
Will they ever dig so deep.
As to ride once more these shifting sands.
And scorn the dreaded sweep.