The Faultline 100km is the younger sibling to the 100-miler run alongside it. Funny how a 100km race can play second fiddle when something bigger exists. That doesn’t make the 100km version, aptly named Pandemonium, any less intimidating.

After a brutal week of Wellington weather, race day delivered blue skies, no wind, and warmer temperatures. Lucky? Absolutely. A 6am start is never easy after a long work week, and realistically it means waking at 3am anyway, with anticipation doing its best to sabotage any chance of sleep. Rolling up to the start line never fails to energise: familiar faces materialising out of the darkness, each wearing that unmistakable blend of nerves and excitement.

Right on 6am, we were off. My old mate Gav and I pushed to the front, his cadence and speed a touch higher than mine, but my legs felt good. We settled into a strong pace, with third place nowhere to be seen. The Belmont Hills welcomed us, and promptly my bike didn’t. Shifting went haywire, and before long third place cruised past. After a year of flawless electronic shifting, it seemed payback time had arrived. 

As we wound through the back trails of Cannons Creek toward Porirua, places one and two took a wrong turn. Briefly, and unknowingly, I found myself in first place. Very briefly. Mrs Silversky was waiting at the first aid station, a welcome sight after grinding uphill with no gears. With the sun up, the jacket and light came off, swapped a bottle for an hydration pack, adding food and gels. Somehow I was sitting in second. Off again.

By this point the gears were a disaster. I tried re‑indexing them through the phone app, no improvement. The effort had completely flattened the derailleur battery. A quick call to daughter number one while grinding up Te Ara Utiwai, and a replacement was dispatched to the next aid station. With a fresh battery fitted, I pushed on into the back blocks of Johnsonville. But the mechanical troubles were starting to mess with my head. I stopped several times to wrestle the derailleur back into place, each fix only briefly effective. Riding so close to home, the temptation to detour and swap bikes was strong, but I kept going. In hindsight, I should have worked out what was happening by then, though in the heat of a race clarity isn’t always easy.

Makara brought a surge of support, which was hugely motivating. Two old friends shouted encouragement as I passed, before I stopped yet again to coax the bike back into some semblance of working order. Two Makara laps ticked by, followed by one spectacular crash as I tried to reel in Gav, who was out in front. Around 65 km in, it finally dawned on me: the derailleur bolt had to be loose. Heading up Salvation I caught Gav and we exchanged a few words. At the top I stopped once more and finally found the culprit, thanks Ed! A loose rear skewer was interfering with the derailleur. I tightened it. Call the village, their idiot is on the loose. Instantly, all 12 gears sprang back to life. What a difference. Game on Faultline.

I caught glimpses of Gav on and off, and at the bottom of Aro Valley I finally (slowly) reeled him in. Taking pole position felt unfamilar. But I was paying for the early effort, the tank was running on fumes. Still, the final 25 km was familiar ground; I knew every climb and corner that lay ahead. Hammer down, no mistakes. Pushing hard into Mt Vic felt incredible, even though I had absolutely nothing left to give. By then my dropper post had also given up, and the only thing I could truly rely on was my aged body.