I’ve said a lot of things I shouldn’t in the pub. Nothing bad; usually just dribble brought on by the consumption of alcohol.

The pub tends to be a safe place for these types of conversations - I seldom experience the consequences of a misguided gloat or an outrageous plan. However, when discussing TDU back in October, I may have let slip that I would ride from Melbourne to Adelaide. I’d done it before - why not do it again? For many, it’s a rite of passage that they commute to Australia’s most famous bike race.

Last time it took my friends and I three solid days of riding which is why I foolishly promised I’d do it in two. In my hazy stupor the next morning, I was reminded of my silly little outburst. Perhaps it was bravado brought on by the afterglow, or perhaps I was still drunk - I decided I’d commit.

There’s a nice story here for me personally; it had been 10 years since my boss, Jesse Carlson, decided to take on the route with his friends. This gave my training a sense of purpose - a cathartic, underlying enthusiasm for doing something utterly daft. The hardest part was waiting for the day to arrive; eventually, once the legs are tuned up, the route is mapped, and the bike is ready - “waiting” becomes a bigger test than the task at hand.

Two days, 800 kilometres.

That was the goal - Day One started in Melbourne at 4.07AM and ended in Naracoorte roughly eleven hours later. The riding was relatively easy; my biggest concern became what if Day Two didn’t feel this good. I’d strategically broken the ride up to do 350km’s on the second day. I figured I’d be grateful for not having quite so many clicks in the legs by that point. What I didn’t anticipate, and thankfully I had a great set of Knog Blinder Lights, was just how hair-raisingly terrifying it is to feel the rush of a 30 ton road-train pass by you in (almost) pitch black conditions.

The days were long, they were hot, and they were filled with a lot of sour patch kids. Frankly, I held it together pretty well until I started to approach the Adelaide Hills. Whoever decided to put those right before my destination is honestly a real prick. While my cameraman and support driver cheers’d a German Beer in Hahndorf, I rolled through town cursing their entire bloodline. I was buggered.

One last climb up and over Mt Lofty brought me into Adelaide, and on to the Franklin Hotel where friends and strangers alike had gathered to say hello. All of whom, at that point, could have quite honestly faded into oblivion and I wouldn’t have batted an eye. What’s ironic about all of this is I ended up right back where I started; a pub. This time, I knew better than to open my mouth.