No one enjoys the 4km climb up Rockley Hill. You get over it any way you can. Plenty walk. Loads cramp up. Some don’t even try, opting for a shorter route back to Bathurst. But for those who do manage to summit on their bikes, there’s an unmistakable feeling of relief, and suffering-induced satisfaction. This bastard of a hill nearly broke me yesterday. But it didn’t. Like all mongrel climbs it gets steeper at the top, right when you’re at your weakest point. The sweet sirens in my head were telling me to stop and walk that last desperate 500m (which turned out to be more like 1km due to a wrongly placed distance marker – intentional, perhaps?). But how could I look my kids in the face if I walked? “Never give up” is something I’m always telling them. So there was no way I was stopping. And I didn’t. I can’t say it felt good to crest that hill. It felt farking horrible. That said, plunging down the other side was a hoot. 76km/h+.