Last night, I was playing golf and my par three tee shot left my club, straight as an arrow, towards the hole. As the ball flew towards the green I began to realise it was dropping towards the flag. It clipped the flag, then circled the rim, before finally settling in the hole. I was ecstatic, and quickly sought praise from all those around. The noise and commotion rudely awoke me from my slumber and I was thrust back into reality. I trudged to the lavatory without fanfare or celebration, no longer the hero of my night-time vision.

The weather forecast for Wiseman's Ferry was for a sudden drop in temperature, as an icy winter blast was due to blow in from the north west, removing any last trace of summer. Evading a freezing night in a tent, I decided to drive up in the early morning and, therefore,set my alarm for 3 am. I awoke at 2.30 and within 45 minutes, I was on the road to the Convict 100, Marilyn Manson pounding from the stereo. I passed a stationary police car on the side of the road and, sure enough, blue, flashing lights brought me to an unscheduled stop. Driving at three in the morning with the car stereo cranked up with heavy rock music, surely meant I was drunk and on my way home, without a Plan B. But, to the surprise of the police officer, I was sober and merely driving to a race. Nothing was as it seemed.

It wasn't long before I was able to make a move on a early climb and muscle past World Champion Jason English, who was locking horns with eventual race winner Cory Wallace, from Canada. Minutes later, the warm-up complete, we were all on the start line, ready to begin. This was to be my 5th Convict race and, for the first time I can remember, I was not shivering in a thick early morning fog. The morning was actually quite mild, and the weather doom-mongers had been wrong once again. Nothing is ever what it seems.

This was the centenary edition of the Convict 100 Marathon Race and the historical convict trails, which nestled in the Hawkesbury Valley, lay ahead. I exchanged pre-race banter with Dave Langley and Michael Schmitt before suddenly panicking that I was about to miss starting in the wave following the elites. Luckily, the three of us made our way through the starting gate, but there were a lot of riders ahead of us, not all of whom looked like they really should have been in this starting wave. Self-seeding rearing it's ugly, ignorant head once again. All three of us scrambled to move quickly through the mass of riders, which succeeded until the pace slowed and it was impossible to pick a way through. The steep technical hill climb arrived 12 km in and, as expected, riders ahead simultaneously unclipped, and it was necessary to run past walking riders. I remounted the bike and rode the remainder of the hill untroubled. 

Steadily, I began to pick my way through the field of riders ahead. The course was surprisingly fast, and certainly not the mud-fest that had been predicted. The Convict 100 is probably one of the roughest courses of all the marathons I have completed in Australia and the rock gardens seem to go on forever. The convicts who built this road would certainly not have been signed up to build another. Non-mountain bikers would have some difficulty negotiating some of the more technical sections, and the rocky descents are not for the faint-hearted. I heard, after the race, that this was the first time the helicopters had not been utilised to airlift stricken riders to the nearest hospital. That's not to say the race went without incident. Most notably, Pete Selkrig, had a stick wedge in his front wheel at the 40 km mark, catapulting him over the handlebars and tearing the cartilage between his clavicle, sternum and ribs. Incredibly, he valiantly carried on and posted an amazing time, despite ever-increasing pain and discomfort as he smashed into rock steps, as the only feasible way of getting over them. 

The middle section of the course is quite spectacular. The rugged and remote trails offer up some breathtaking ridge line views that even the most focused riders would find almost impossible to ignore.

One of the unique and most exciting features of this race is the kayak bridge. Sixty eight kilometres into the race, riders are faced with the decision to either ride (left) or walk (right) across the bridge. I always approach this particular section with much trepidation but I feel the best way to negotiate it is firstly, not to stop and overthink it and secondly, to hit it with some speed and a slightly higher gear. The bridge will sway, but more so at each end, and it is important to focus straight ahead. I have made it across this bridge five times without an ignominious fall into the cold water below. Many other riders are not quite so fortunate.

After crossing the kayak bridge, I caught a number of riders, including Lyndon Kinsela, on the bitumen road and hoped we could all work together to gain some momentum. Unfortunately, this didn't really happen, and on starting the last, long climb, this group slowed, almost in nervous anticipation of what lay ahead and I was left alone. Unseen by me, Dave Langley had spotted me from the switchbacks above and this provided enough motivation for him to kick again, in order to maintain his lead over me. He was to beat me by 95 seconds. My finishing time of 4.37.39 was nearly four minutes slower than last year and placed me 18th in Masters and 35th of 500 riders overall. Other notables who finished ahead of me were Garry James, Pete Selkrig, Jamie Vogele, teammate Andrew Fell, Andrew Wells, and young Michael Schmitt. Cory Wallace won the elite, ahead of Adrian Jackson and Andy Blair, with Shawn Lewis and the unfortunate Jason English, who punctured at a critical time, rounding out the Top 5. Jenny Fay once again convincingly won the female elite category.

For me, I now have the following weekend free of racing, before the Chocolate Foot STM series starts in Taree on Sunday 18th May. My dilemma with this, is to find a TV in the early hours of Sunday morning, in order to watch the FA Cup Final between my beloved Arsenal, and Hull City, as the Gunners attempt to secure our first item of silverware for 9 years. We are massive favourites but, as I've outlined here, nothing is ever what it seems.

It appears the stars were not aligned from the outset. Leaving Manly at four in the afternoon, meant I hit the mad rush to get home. More like a listless crawl, as I edged forwards one car length at a time along the notoriously busy Military Road. I contented myself with the thought that several people do this every day of the week while I am lucky enough to be able to commute on my road bike and avoid this purgatory. After an hour and a half, I had travelled a whopping 20 km and 300 km of road still lay ahead. Once past Liverpool, I donned the shades, cranked up the ipod and with the rich, hearty tones of Marilyn Manson, my sanity was strangely restored as I hit the accelerator, finally reaching the speed limit and I began to enjoy the freedom of the motorway. 

Once registered, I left Canberra town centre but, as I tried unsuccessfully to tune into the Manly-Souths League game, I found myself driving down a 3-lane one-way street. Luckily, the fast-moving oncoming traffic was in the other two lanes and a catastrophe was averted. On reaching the house my Jetblack team had booked for the weekend, I found that the others had already taken to their temporary nests and, conscious not to disturb anyone, I took the only available spot on the floor under the snooker table. Mosquitoes were eating me alive and when I retreated under the cover of my sleeping bag I soon found myself in a lake of sweat. It was already 1 am, and fearing no sleep at all, I found solace in the laundry room. It was cool and mosquito free. I began to worry about redback spiders, who just love these damp rooms and the scratches on the door, which I had assumed were from a cat, now, in my mind, were from the resident rats. Richard Kuklinski, the Iceman, had fed his victims to rats while they were still alive...Resigned to a gruesome death by spider venon, while rats feasted on my eyeballs, I somehow drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

I awoke at five in the morning, and the events of the night now seemed a distant memory. I checked in a mirror, certain I would resemble a victim of the bubonic plague, but there was not one bite or welt. Perhaps, I was merely a victim of my own imagination.

With no time for a warm-up, I took my place in the first of seven waves, alongside the Big Guns of Endurance Mountain Biking. Elite riders, such as Dylan Cooper, Shawn Lewis, Jason English, Brett Bellchambers and Jenny Fay, but also regular foes Garry James, Mike Israel and Trent Moore. As I had expected, the pace was frenetic from the outset, and I struggled to keep in contact with the main group. A rider came alongside me complaining he had forgotten to take a bottle of water and he was in for a long day. I remember noticing him on the start line and had wondered what insane strategy he was employing. The rider was Jamie Ingram, and he was able to salvage a dropped bottle after just 10 km, thus saving him from the damaging effects of dehydration. Perhaps the rider ahead, who had dropped the bottle, was less fortunate. 

As the course wound its way through the wonderful singletrack of Kowen, Sparrow Hill and Majura Pines it became strikingly obvious that my descending was, once again, holding me back. I was playing tag with Eliza Kwan, who was eventually to finish 3rd in female elite. I was able to move past her comfortably on the flat and uphill sections, only for her to close (and even be held up) on the downhills. I sincerely apologise to her for that, and I know that any improvement in this area will dramatically improve my race times.

After 65 km, the race enters a 10 km untimed section, which allows riders to refuel and recover. To be brutally honest, this really works against me as it takes away some of the endurance element, which is my strength. I waited 53 minutes of the allocated 55, before setting off with Justin Dewhurst on the undulations of Black Mountain. Caution was necessary on this section, as the descents were fast and loose. For once, I was not the only one grabbing large handfuls of brake. Initially, I dropped back from the riders ahead, unable to find my rhythm and power. Like an old diesel, I found my legs, and started to cut through the riders in front. On catching Justin, I took my place at the front and he jumped in my slipstream. After a few minutes, he hadn't come round to do his time in the wind and I knew he was struggling. I kept up the speed and next time I looked around he had popped.                                                                                           

Justin had been three minutes ahead, having started in the second wave, and this provided the motivation to keep pushing hard to the finish at Mt. Stromlo. I climbed the switchbacks with renewed gusto and, as always, thrived on the white knuckle descending along skyline and the luge. I was to take five minutes on the final section to beat him by two. Finishing in 4.08.52, I trimmed 10 minutes off my time from the previous year and placed 96th.

Dylan Cooper and Jenny Fay took line honors in the elite category with Shaun Lewis, Jason English, Naomi Hansen and Eliza Kwan filling the podium. Mike Israel was an excellent 44th, Trent Moore 52nd, Jetblack teammates Andrew Finlayson 32nd and Andrew Fell 69th. Congratulations to Guy Cowan (87th) and Elvio Fernandes (95th), Elvio finally beating me by just nine seconds!

I clambered from my polyester cocoon and into the icy morning air of Canberra's East Kowen Forest. The sun gradually managed to wrestle the ice from the open fields and was beginning to prise the crisp, white veil from my nocturnal sanctuary. The previous day had brought frustration, as I struggled to finalize my preparations for the rapidly approaching World 24 hour Solo and Crocodile Trophy; but I approached this race with renewed vigour and optimism. I had eased back my training during the week and surely this would have left me fresher and less fatigued than in some of my previous forays.

The start of the race was greatly helped by the fact that riders seeded themselves prior to the event and were assigned a starting wave appropriate to their abilities - so simple but, by gosh, it's effective. This was further helped by the tough climb dished out at the beginning, which helped sort riders out according to ability. Unfortunately for me, I saw my major Masters rivals disappear from sight, not long after we crested the hill and hit the singletrack. Mike Israel, Jason McAvoy, Dave Langley and Trent Moore all powered away never to be seen again. I desperately fought my machine throughout the 85 km and managed to hold the wheel of Robin Mules in the last 30 km which helped me maintain a reasonable time and move up through the lower places. Little did I know, Robin had started 5 minutes behind me, and so he was to finish in 10th, and I finished a disappointing 13th and 51st overall. Mark Fenner comfortably won the Masters with Mike Israel finishing on the podium in a commendable 3rd, while Dave pipped Trent to fifth. Jason was seventh, but he had ridden 200 km the previous day.

Every race provides a lesson which necessitates reflection and self-evaluation. It's easy to look back at a race which was successful and to draw conclusions on what went well whilst providing positive feelings, contentment and vindication for the previous week's routine. It is far more difficult to analyse a poor performance. Indeed, it has taken me until Wednesday night to write this post - usually I avidly complete it on a Sunday. Perhaps I had tried to bury my head deep in the surrounding sand of Manly Beach. With my WEMBO rivals looking stronger than ever, I need to look at my profile only, and how I can improve, and not worry about them. There is no doubt that I need to back right off my training. Unlike some of my rivals, who have been riding for years, I am still only in my third year of racing and putting my body through stresses it has never, ever experienced. My bike fitness level is at an all-time high but so is my fatigue level, resulting in a drop in form, hence the poor result. The warning signs were there, I simply chose to ignore them. The last race before the World 24 hour is this Sunday. I intend to reduce the fatigue and hope for a better result and a return to form in the Chocolate Foot STM Series 7 hour at Awaba.

One of the main reasons why I re-located to Australia from England was the climate. Initially, I moved to Sydney with the intention of sampling the delights of 'A' Grade Rugby League. After 2 seasons, and the first of two ACL knee reconstructions, I quit League and turned to boxing and Brazilian Jui-Jitsu. Later, I started competing at climbing and then, in November 2009, I experienced my first mountain bike race. The latter two sports are weather dependent and, as such, are well suited to Sydney's temperate climate. And how wonderful has this year been in that regard, with Australia experiencing its second-hottest start to the year on record.

Unlike the previous year, I managed to place myself in the first group behind the Jason English's and Shawn Lewis's. I would be setting off with my main rivals instead of leaving with the less competitive riders and having to constantly pass the masses ahead. Like last year, my warm-up had been for nothing, and as I listened to the strangely witty compere, I started to shiver with the sun still not yet radiating any significant heat. The start was not quite as manic as I had endured in previous editions of the race and when I looked at my trusty Garmin 510 my heart rate was still only 130.  As we hit the big hill, a few riders were ejected to the sides of the trail but most continued to plough onwards and upwards. A number of waterbars presented a few moments of anxiety but the climb was smoother and less rocky than in previous years and it wasn't long before I crested the summit. My first race goal had been achieved and I was feeling quite smug and content.

This was my first 100 kilometre race with just bottles - the camelbak is extra weight, meaning more chance of lower back pain and more sweating. I had long since stopped using a camelbak in lap races but had never quite calculated how to survive in events where it is not possible to pick up ready-made water bottles. I carried a 500 ml bottle in my back pocket and a 750 ml on the bike. If necessary, I would fill up at one of three feed stations. Although the sun had risen high in the morning sky, the temperature remained cool and the breeze refreshing and so hydration was to prove less of an issue.

Dave Langley, a rival in my age category, and who had successfully held me off in a race in Taree last week, now passed me and soon disappeared up the track and out of sight. Soon after the 50 kilometre feed station I was then caught by Ben Edols. I discarded my first bottle and began to step up the pace. Ben fell back and I focused on the riders ahead. Soon Dave was back in my line of sight and I was feeling strong. I made a move to pass and Dave was unable to respond except to wish me luck for later. My water was now running low as I approached the kayak bridge, but I was to pass up the opportunity to refill when I saw that no one was crossing the kayaks. I knew others would be ahead and we could work together on the bitumen road section that followed. 

The long hill loomed and the riders with whom I had ridden across to the climb seemed to blow up leaving just two of to ascend together. I had built the climb up in my mind to be long, hard and painful. But it seemed to all pass so quickly; perhaps this was a form of reverse psychology. 

Once I had crossed the sand and water section I was back on the road where Wendy Stevenson was tailing two male riders in the 50 kilometre version of the race. I caught and overtook the group only for them to jump on my wheel until the first hill shook them from my coat-tails and I was left to ride on my own to the finish. 

I had broken my previous best by over 25 minutes finishing in a time of 4.33.52. I had conquered the first hill, had ridden without a cumbersome camelbak, beaten a number of my more serious age group rivals, had negotiated the kayak bridge with ease and had thoroughly enjoyed a beautiful autumnal days riding. And I had a cold beer thrust at me, not once but twice. Without doubt, life in God's Country is good. When you ride a mountain bike in such a beautiful setting life is great!

One hundred and five days had elapsed since my last race at Awaba on 25th November. Rain postponements, three weeks residing in a fridge called London and a prolonged spell of man-flu had scuppered my attempts to compete. No matter how hard you think you train, little replaces the intensity of a race. 

And so it was I rolled up to the start line at Wingello in the Southern Highlands. This event is held in memory of James Williamson, World and Australian Champion Enduro mountain biker, who passed away too young while competing in the Cape Epic in South Africa on March 23rd 2010. I feel it is a fitting tribute to hold this annual race in memory of ‘Willo’ and the many participants and numerous volunteers ensure Willo’s spirit is kept alive.

I found myself on the front of the start grid and on the gun I sped up the long, start hill in the first four places. As the hill reached its peak so did I and suddenly I found myself being engulfed by several quicker riders. I tried to settle into a sensible rhythm but my heart was tapping out a beat that was three times as fast as my leg cadence. The last two weeks of base building endurance cycling had not prepared me for this incredible intensity.

Conditions were almost ideal. The track was dry and fast and the sun was radiating a comfortable heat somewhat lacking during Sydney’s summer. I started to enjoy myself as I took up battle with fellow Master’s competitor Guy Cowan and we were to swap places throughout the duration of the race. Hailing from the Helensborough Off-Road Cycling Club (HORCC), Guy was a man I felt I had to beat. HORCC is an extremely friendly and sociable club with which I have a number of great cycling friends. But I now had a mission not to be beaten by one of their number.

With the challenge thrown down I took up the gauntlet unbeknown to my rival who was now cutting up the trails with purpose. After conceding 11 seconds on the first 25 km lap I pulled 3 seconds back during the following loop. My newly found nemesis was in my sights and exactly where I wanted him. During the last 25 km loop I had closed the gap and was sitting menacingly on his back wheel. With 5 km to go I jumped round him taking advantage of a short, sharp pinch climb. My heart rate rocketed and I hoped he was not able to follow because there was very little left in me if I had to muster a retaliatory response.

I took a tentative look around and, to my relief, he had been broken. I kept up the faster pace until the finishing line content with my minor success in my personal duel with a new found friend and rival. Overall, I was pleased with my 11th place in the Master’s category and I’m looking forward to 100 km of Capital Punishment in Canberra next week.

This is my first experience of the James Williamson Enduro and one I will certainly like to race again. Proceeds from the race support a junior mountain bike development camp which will ensure mountain biking is supported at grass roots level and guarantees the continuation of the passion for mountain biking that was ‘Willo’s’ hallmark.