This may come as a surprise, but I am not an elite athlete. 

I know a little bit about several sports, yet I am the master of none. 

This is not through want of trying, rather a lack of elite skills and perhaps perseverance.

I love cycling. 

Mountain biking and road racing tickle my fancy, although I am much more adept at watching from the settee as a member of the so-called couch peloton instead of putting in the hard yards on the trails or bitumen.

I have a crack, but success is limited, and effort often maximised with a single push.

Nonetheless, in chasing any form of elite athlete status I think I have found my calling as a domestique, French for servant, for my children when riding or kicking or swimming or even eating – basically doing anything that requires support or not …

The Domestique collects food and bidons and whatever else is required for elite athletes protecting the team leader. 

When mechanical failure eventuates they even give up their bike and wait for the support car before beginning the long push back to the peloton.

They can also be employed to set the pace on climbs, or to split the bunch, or to navigate technical sections of the course as a forward scout.

Our family’s place at Easter is on the East Coast. The beautiful white sand on endless beaches, and the sticks and stones and natural debris that accumulates leaving you wondering when and why and curious about the uniqueness of its magnificence.

The East Coast also facilitates the opportunity to ride the St Helens MTB Trails. 

Send Helen’s and Seeya Later remain favourites, but it is Old Salty Dog that captures our imagination with its flow and climb and final roll, which brings back memories of learning bike handling through trial and crash and trial again on my 1986 Prosight BMX, imported from Japan, which still dominates the Bridport skatepark, or so I am told.

Old Salty Dog as the name suggests probably suits me. 

I like to think of myself as one with the ocean with thinning white hair and a long board until I notice people who are far more proficient.

On a recent adventure, and as a Wightman family Domestique without a support vehicle in tow, it was my job to give up my bike after just one kilometre of the ride. 

A puncture followed by two patches, two CO2 inflators, another pinch puncture due to inadequate mechanical expertise, and my ride became a five-kilometre walk not wishing to call back our shuttle captain who had gone for a stroll herself.

With misty rain, far more mizzle than downpour, I made my way down and up and down again. 

I cursed and I thought, I listened to music and thought, picked trail lines, and thought, noticed plantation and native forests, and thought, and then I thought again. 

Finally after more than an hour I saw the end of Old Salty Dog and the world was good.

Coincidentally, it’s the Paris-Roubaix season; my favourite of all the classics. 

A bicycle race steeped in history and pain and dust and dirt and exhilaration and exhaustion and for only a few, triumph.

The pave sets this race apart with 30 sectors of uncompromising cobblestones resulting in bruising racing with crashes and falls and inquiries and brutality.

This race is not for everyone; it’s for the slightly heavier racers – 70-kilogram men … and even lighter women because of the battering that the bodies of elite athletes receive.

The cobblestones are ranked in order of difficulty from one to five with the 19th cobbled sector: Trouée d’Arenberg (Trench of Arenberg) over 2.3 kilometres at the 164.4-kilometre mark, arguably the most famous although that may be a biased view based upon our love of McLaren Vale shiraz.

I love Paris-Roubaix. Perhaps it is the most epic of gruelling challenges where only the toughest survive to the final laps on the velodrome. 

The pain athletes endure is alluring and inspiring and at the time, deeply motivating.

My admiration for professional bike racers is unwavering. 

Not when they are juiced up on oxygen-enhancing agents masked by equally sophisticated drug patterns, rather, when they are clean and determined and racing technologically advanced two-wheeled chariots which ensure the sport is underpinned by recreational consumerism.

I deeply admire Richie Porte who finished third at the Tour de France, a bloke who still gives you a wave on his favourite training ride from Launceston return via Scottsdale and the Sidling during his Christmas break.

And even more intriguing are the athletes who compete in the classics but never win. In fact, it’s not their job to win, it’s their job to serve.

A professional cycling team’s Domestique has a weird appeal to the coach peloton. 

Perhaps because the pressure is ever so slightly reduced as winning is never on the agenda, but all the same their job remains crucial to the overall team’s success.

I love my family and my role as Domestique, acquired rather than appointed because Mrs. W. is far more elite and practical. 

And perhaps if I expand my role … another adventure may be on the cards.