The rain, cold and flooded road ways all greeted the riders at the battle front of the West Head Condottieri. If riders thought this was going to be an easy day in the saddle, then they hadn’t previewed the course or weren’t aware of the reputation of the pain that West Head can dish out. It wasn’t just the elements that were going to test those who braved the elements to sign on. Continue reading
How can I live among this gentle obsolescent breed of heroes, and not weep? Unicorns, almost, for they are fading into two legends in which their stupidity and chivalry are celebrated. Each, fool and hero, will be an immortal. These plains were their cricket pitch and in the mountains the tremendous drop fences brought down some of the runners. Here then under the stones and earth they dispose themselves, I think with their famous unconcern. It is not gunfire I hear, but a hunting horn.
Aristocrats – “I Think I Am Becoming A God”