I’m a 37-year-old weekend warrior, and I decided my first major race would be the Masters Road National Championships in Wagga Wagga in September.
I’ve been riding bikes for about 10 years and got my first taste of racing on Zwift during lockdown with ZSUN Cycling Club, whom I continue to race with.
In the ‘real’ world, I’ve tried a bit of everything: Alpine Cycling Club handicaps (which I’m a member of), the Hanging Rock Handicap, a criterium around Albert Park hosted by St Kilda Cycling Club, a CX national series race in Ballarat, a couple of Victorian Time Trial series events, as well as a couple of gran fondos.
Racing at the 2025 Hanging Rock Handicap.
In summer, I aim to average about 250km a week on the bike. This past winter, though, I struggled to consistently hit 150km. But, as a staff member for AusCycling who’s worked at many a national championships, from mountain bike to BMX to road, I had an itch I needed to scratch.
I wanted to get amongst the action, race with the best masters in the country, and see what it was all about. So, I signed up for the Women’s Masters 2 road race. Living just three hours away in Bright, it felt like the perfect opportunity.
In the six weeks leading up to the event, I started an online training program. It gave me some structure − something I’d never really had before (my usual ideal of interval training is to try to hold my partner’s wheel). I felt like I was making small gains, but honestly had no idea where my fitness stood coming out of winter hibernation.
As the event got closer, reality set in. I knew the calibre of some of the riders I’d be up against. And I started to feel like I might be completely out of my depth.
The self-doubt kicked in hard:
“What if I get dropped?”
“Am I fit enough?”
“Have I done enough training?”
“What if I crash?”
But, come race day, I resolved to push those fears aside and soak in the experience of my first national championship. I kitted up, went through my warm-up, had a hit of caffeine, and lined up with about 40 other Masters 1−4 women, many of whom surely had the same doubts, but still had the courage to show up.
My game plan was simple: don’t burn too many matches early, and try to save my legs for the punchy climbs.
Climbing is not my strength, so I hoped to stay near the front on the climbs to give myself room to drift back. Easier said than done.
From the start, you could feel the nervous tension. As we rolled out of the sleepy rural commune of Wantabadgery, you could hear a pin drop − if not for the hum of freewheeling.
At the beginning, the pace wasn’t as hot as I’d expected. Everyone seemed to be saving themselves for the first pinch at the 7km mark, where the first attacks would surely come.
In fact, it was so relaxed that the commissaires came up and told us to pick up the pace, lest we get caught by the Masters 5−7 race that started behind us.
That's me at the back in the white helmet and black kit. Image: Con Chronis
The tension was broken as we passed the now-infamous Wantabadgery magpie, who dive-bombed the front of the peloton, attacking a few unlucky riders.
But then we hit the first real climb − and right on cue, the first attack came (from a cyclist, not the magpie).
I saw it coming. A few riders moved into position to launch. I tucked in behind them and − naively − thought I could follow them.
My head said yes, but my legs said absolutely not.
I was humbled quickly as they surged ahead and I slipped to the back of the group, unable to match their acceleration.
That being said, I did set my best-ever 1-minute and 30-second power during that effort, so it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Over the next few kilometres, I did everything I could to hang on over the rolling terrain.
Then, around the 10km mark, disaster struck. A rider in front of me went down, bringing riders down like a row of dominoes.
“Oh f***!!,” I screamed, slamming on the brakes, trying to avoid the chaos − but it was too late.
I braced for impact as I went over the bars and hit the ground hard. It knocked the wind out of me. As I kneeled on the asphalt, trying to catch my breath, I saw four other riders down, some looking quite worse for wear. (Wishing them all a speedy recovery.)
Assessing the damage after the race. Thankfully I was in one piece.
I’d seen dramatic crashes like this in the Tour de France − the kind you hope never to be part of, but know could happen any time in road racing.
Aside from a bloody knee and sore wrist, my bike and I were in one piece. So, figuring that my race for the medals was all but over, I made the call to jump on the wheel of the Masters 5−7 women, who had been held up by our crash (sorry, commissaires − I’m sure you understand!).
From there, it became a mental battle. My race had long gone up the road − and realistically, I would’ve been dropped eventually anyway.
I sat in the bunch for as long as I could, but at the top of the main climb, with over one lap still to go, my legs and my head gave out. I watched them crest the hill ahead of me − and with them, any hope of finishing “in the race.”
I considered pulling the pin after one lap. But as I bombed down the descent, hitting speeds over 80 km/h, I passed the finish line and heard cheers for my name. That was enough to spur me on.
I kept going.
I rode solo into a headwind, on the brink of cramping, and copped my own personal attack from one of the local magpies.
Eventually, I was caught by three Masters 6 and 7 riders who’d also been dropped. Relief washed over me − not just to share the headwind, but to have some company in the final 20km. I was mentally fried.
We encouraged each other on the hills, chopped turns into the wind, and shared some camaraderie. It was the kind of connection I’d seen so many times from the sidelines. But this time, I was in it.
Crossing the finish line an eternity behind the winner, I nevertheless felt proud. Proud that I’d had a go. Proud that I pushed through. And proud that I finished.
I was relieved to cross the finish line and complete my first nationals. Image: Jean-Pierre Ronco/Australian Cycling Photography
Would I do it again? Absolutely. Maybe with a bit more training under my belt.
And as cliché as it sounds, on that day, just finishing the race felt like winning.
Kudos to all the riders who took part, congratulations to all the national champions and shoutout to Wagga Wagga Cycling Club, the local council and the AusCycling team for a well-organised event.
I can’t wait for my next one!