Legend

So the Mechanic’s pedalling up a steep hill on a gravel trail when a guy on a motorbike pulls up beside him.

‘You OK?’ He’s wearing one of those official orange T-shirts.

‘Yep,’ the Mechanic pants. ‘Doing fine.’

‘Alright, mate,’ says Motorbike Guy. ‘I’ll keep checking in.’

And he does. Half an hour later he’s back. ‘Still wanna keep going?’

‘Course I do. But you know there’s three guys behind me, don’t you?’ He’d overtaken them some time ago. He keeps pedalling.

‘No mate. They threw in the towel. We picked them all up in the ute and took them and their bikes to the finish line.’

‘So I’m it?’

‘Yep, you’re it.’

Did I ever mention that the Mechanic’s a mad-keen cyclist? He does endurance events. They range from 50km to 400km (the latter across a few days). This one’s the Sea Otter Australia Effervelo Gravel Fondo on the Mogo Trails behind Batemans Bay, in late October.

On this day I’m in Bega Hospital (you can read a bit about it here if you’re inclined). I’d been admitted in a hurry a week before, which meant that he’d had to cancel a ride in Bowral, a ride he was really looking forward to, and he was going to catch up with some old friends while he was there. But this Sea Otters event is just the one day; he could leave home at 5.30am, start the ride at 7.30, finish by about 11.30 and drive home in time to have a shower and a rest and continue on down to Bega to visit me. Or so he thought.

There were three courses: 30km, 50km and 80km. If you know him, I’ll leave you to guess which one he chose. He thought it would take him about four hours, but there was a lot more uphill than he expected, and here he is at the five-hour mark and still going. And he’s the last rider on the trail. Fine. Not the first time.

Half an hour later Motorbike Guy’s back again. ‘Okay?’

‘Yep.’ No inclination for a chat right now. He keeps pedalling.

 

Recuperating in hospital, I’m just pleased he’s on his bike, doing this event. I was sad that he’d had to cancel the Bowral ride. Sad that he didn’t get to catch up with his friends. But it’s more than that. Anyone with a debilitating condition like MS (let alone a sudden bowel obstruction requiring emergency surgery) knows that your partner-carer gives up more and more of their own life the worse your condition gets. And the good ones, like the Mechanic, will tell you that they don’t mind. But I mind. No one wants to be a burden. Your carer needs their own life too. It’s better for everyone, and better for the relationship as well.

 

Motorbike Guy: ‘Five K’s to go. Just a heads-up – the organisers have put out the word that you’re on your way.’

Put out the word? What, the Mechanic thinks, so they have the paramedics ready?

 

Two days later I’ll be discharged from hospital and we’ll both start getting used to the new me and my new (in)capabilities. Over the years, the Mechanic had taken on the lion’s share of household tasks. Now I’ll be even more incapacitated – I’ll have lost eight kilos and almost all my leg strength during my 12-day hospital lie-in. I’ll need help with almost everything.

Timing! The Mechanic has another ride on the calendar (booked in before my hospital drama). That one, the five-day Great Victorian Bike Ride, is still a month away. He’ll need two days to drive to the event, and two days to get back, making a grand total of nine days away. Even before my surgery I’d been putting on a brave face at the thought of him being away so long.

With me just out of hospital, he will of course want to cancel this Victorian ride. But I won’t have it. I know how much he’s looking forward to it. That means I’ll have four weeks to prepare and by the three-week mark I’ll have convinced both of us that it’s safe for him to go. (And he did go, and he had a wonderful time, and I was fine. Phew!)

 

But back to Mogo, late October. At the event hub there are kids’ activities and food vans and market stalls selling all manner of cycling merch. Over the loudspeakers they’ve told the crowd that the last rider’s nearly there, that he’s almost eighty years old and he’s just done eighty kilometres. And as the Mechanic approaches the finish line, after six gruelling hours, crowds are lining the track, waving him along and shouting his name, just like on Le Tour de France. On the home straight he can hardly pedal because he’s all choked up. And when he hits the finish line he’d love to throw his arms out, like Cadel Evans on the Champs-Élysées, but all he can manage without hitting the floor is a quick salute.

Later, as he’s packing up his gear in the carpark, a big black 4WD with tinted windows slows and stops, and the back passenger window slides down. A small girl in a pink T-shirt sticks her head out, grinning. ‘Onya, mate!’ she gushes. ‘You’re a legend!’ And he is.