Le Pista Resistance

The action begins at Mrs Macquarie’s Chair,

We freeze, as our Bowie-esque bare flesh hits the cool air.

Contenders fumble for pens as they try to prepare,

While others admit they really don’t care;

“I’m going straight to the pub” I hear someone declare.

First stop, a whiskey shot,

Which, funnily enough, hits the spot,

And sends me up Bourke Street like a spit ball from a slingshot.

I’m like Inspector Gadget on a mission:

Half strategy, half intuition.

I may not have much on the fierce competition,

But what I lack in speed, I make up for in ambition -

Just like Rosie, who believes we have a shot at first position.

I like your optimism girl,

I wouldn’t trade partners for the world.

The race is now on,

Most of the others gone,

But for a few of us, things have gone drastically gone wrong.

A puncture here, a puncture there -

The disasters prolong.

But not for us, we manage to keep our bikes intact,

And more than a thumbnail’s distance from the back of the pack,

Completing every checkpoint, no matter how wack,

“Twenty push-ups?” What clown thought of that?

We scoot uptown to the Gardens, the last stop on the list.

Bikes down, task done – we’re becoming experts at this.

We hurl ourselves on our bikes, construct our route on the run

“Not Foveaux, that’s a killer, trust me on this one!”

Although, even Albion almost brings us undone;

I have to convince Rosie the pain will pay off in the long run.

The final descent to the Cricketers is by far the best part.

A sprint finish pumps a few extra beats to the heart,

And then we discover we have not finished last.

Mission accomplished, expectations surpassed.

But the end of the race is only the start….

We continue to revel in the night’s fesitivities.

I employ the waitress, “a double vodka please”,

And transition from rider to party-goer with ease.

The rest of crew display equal expertise.

First Guns and Roses then Ol’ Dirty Bastard blares out,

As the gorgeous girl with the ipod carves a musical route

That spans the Gunners to Bowie, no doubt.

I’m surprised our dance floor antics don’t get us kicked out.

The night reaches a crescendo with a tribute to Bowie

Our legs may be tired, but it sure as hell ain’t showing

Our limbs are still dancing, the beer is still flowing

The thrill of the race, the fuel that keeps us all going.

Finally, we decide to call it a night

The clock now has Sunday set in its sights

And at least three schooners of coopers have soaked through my tights.

But beer stains aren’t all I managed to score,

I collected some friendships on my way out the door.

I must admit Plunkett, I stand back in awe,

You captured everything Le Pista stands for:

Riding, adventure and chaos galore.

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