Huge-Action Monsteur - Wolveurine 650B Toureur (Wolverine)

Hadn't heard of this guy, but I think I've found a new favourite read.

As ever some very kind words from you legends. Let's be honest, @AlexD if it weren't for the sycophants I would lose interest in writing it ;)

It's not Wolverine, or even cycling related, but I've always been meaning to write my farmer memoirs and this could be the place to do it.

It's been a while, as I've been moving house and dealing with all the associated bullshit.

Tour of the Otways:

As a hursuit-legged soloist you'll mostly find me scoffing at the thought of sharing a ride with others, ever conscious of their scorn for my unshaven bread-like pistons. There is an exception when there's an almost 300% promise of loose surface adventure in a national park on a finely choreographed route however. Sunday morning promised a veritable choad load of the gritty stuff, and even waking up at 5AM (ordinarily impossible on religious grounds),wasn't going to stop me - though my hangover tried.

So, to the Great Otway National Park, which sits on and around the famous Great Ocean Road, both of which it should be said are indeed GREAT places to be. We set out from Melbourne a few hours before daylight and drove South to the coast through Geelong and onto the greatest of ocean roads. Stopping for a piss before arriving at Airey's Inlet was a must as there promised to be several hundred well hydrated cyclists hoping to alleviate the strain on their inner urine-pouches.

As we neared Aireys we spotted some hardcore 'commute to the ride' types, presumably busy thinking how they were going to work the fact that they'd done extra PRE-RIDE distance into conversation when they got there. Tuff nuts.

If you zoom in far enough on this otherwise innocuous photo of a car park you'll note the lighthouse from Round The Twist lurking in the background.

The pub promised a tantalising mix of average craft ale and mediocre edibles if we could just get this stupid fucking bike ride out of the way.

Of course, people don't just turn up to a pub car park in the early morning wearing helmets of of their own accord, and it was clear that some form of organisation had taken place. Everyone else seemed to have had the good sense to come on mountain bikes or knobbled CyCloCrossX bicycles with tyres to match. Not I however, and the Horizons were to do the job come hell or torn sidewalls. The famous Smoothboys of varying Melbourne cycling cadres were in attendance, all resting their gooches on the top tubes of their gnarmac bicycles, playfully draping their forearms atop the handlebars. Gearing was discussed.

A short descent and a segway into the the national park off the coastline was the only bitch-you-min we would encounter for nearly all of the 100km ride.

The climbing began immediately, and I was reminded at once how heavy Wolverine can be when breakfast is skipped. We pushed up through to the treeline as the group thinned and the dust of fastboys lingered in the nostril as it became clear the views would be as ever changing as they were special. Down a fast mud track into the forest, and straight up the other side of the gully we'd belted into there was a pungent odour of overworked brakes amidst the Sherwood Forest-esque pines. I believe I'm qualified to make such observations, raised as a young green-legginged child in the woodlands frequented by the mythical man, Robin.

A logged landscape can be bleaker-than-all-fuck or command or awe inspiring and erection-inducing, and happily the ridge line fell into the latter category as uncomfortable as it was in terms of groin articulation. As we rounded the corner to a huge horseshoe that traversed up the misty valley we saw the smooth warriors lurching skyward from across the chasm, keen to illustrate worth through the rapid movement of their Veet glazed legges. One day I will accompany them, I mused.

Happily, my partners in travel had grown equally tired of other riders throwing themselves around on sketchy descents, and as the main group truncated to do a short loop with a mystifyingly placed coffee van slap bang in the middle (Australians are still gravely neurotic about caffeine), we carried on at our own pace to take in the delights of nature.

So with our new recruit (Glenn, or Greg or some bullshit like that), we were a four. A jovial, out for a nice adventure four-piece all freezing our tits off in nature and it was glorious. Boiling hot in the sun, yet brutally frosty as we descended through into valleys and into trees on golden gravel.

So far so good on slick tyres. A number of sketchy, loose punch climbs were there to serve a right hook to the testes at times, but the jubilation associated with the smoothness of rubber was mostly a win for Le Jambes de Pain. It almost made the Niner fat bike that Glegg was riding seem like overkill, but I remained quiet in the knowledge that shit could get real, and that I'd be sitting down to a four course dinner of my own characteristically funny words.

A rare glimmer of bitch-human:

After blasting around the lowlands and dairy farming ridges for an hour or so it was back into the bush for some more stinging up-chops and narrowing roads.

Back to the subject of Glegg's fat bike. He'd actually partaken in the Race to the Rock last year, and in a bid to reach his lofty hydration target of 10 litres on-board water he'd drilled the fork in three places, and the down tube of the frame twice, as well as drilling holes into his Jones bars so that he could quite literally bolt-through TT bar mounts for the long trip. Glegg had only made it less than half way into the race when shit went tits up and it rained for a week straight, so it turned into him getting leathered for five days straight in a backwater town. I'm happy to report that his ride-on-sieve did not fall apart on the ride, and the benefit of two inch tyres would soon become brutally apparent.

The road slimmed through some beautiful farmland lined with mud, potholes and muddy potholes which made for some sensual back end sliding action for the Wolverine, which maintained it's composure for 80% of the chocolate bath assault. The track then popped out on another freshly groomed road and we heard the caterwauling of smoothboys and their expensive hubs at our heels. As we came to a stop at a big main road they sallied up behind us, one neglecting to brake, doubtless deep in conversation about tyre width, and very nearly fired himself in front of a Land Cruiser trucking at 90. Instead he swerved onto to the shoulder at the wrong side of the road, and a member of the group gasped "Sorry, he's a bit of a dick!", met with a "Clearly", from a quick-thinking and nonplussed yours truly. Smooth Legges do not equal common sense.

On the road for a hundred metres or so then straight into sand town. A four wheel drive track straight into the heart of the bush over some very rutted/water damaged ground, with some fucking savage quick-sand esque drags.

Punctuated by some seriously fun mini-rollers from which to huck happily into the air, slip-slide sand embankments around narrowly avoidable puddles of unknown depths, the riding got a lot more involved, and my rear wheel less committed to its sole task. Here I discovered the one disadvantage of the 650b clearance, as I splooshed through a deep puddle and coated my derailleur in rich mix of filthy water and the sand that was swilling among it. The gang laughed astride their mountain bikes as I explained my "gears had become crispy", but there were no other words for it.

From there on, things got real real with some fucking brutal terrain your average 4X4 would melt into, and it did the same to me. The higher grounds were sandy bushland exposed to a now blazing sun, and my trusty jacket started to feel like a perspiration prison as loose pinch climbs continued to punch us in the face. Below is a picture of a couple of bicycle-walkers appropriated from Facebook which shows the plight of many that day.

Mercifully we popped out onto a slightly-more-sealed road with a beautiful view of the ocean, and began our descent to the entrance to the national park. There was one last little surprise though, in the form of some surprisingly shreddy single track (actually a walking track with only a few people mooching it), so Grell and I put the hammer down and locked the rears for a last gasp. I came in a bit hot on more than one occasion and found myself spitting leaves, but it was a highly enjoyable end to a varied day.

Back to the pub for two schooners of blood orange pale ale and a beefy burger.

Fantastic reporting there, a really enjoyable read.

Waking up to find a notification from this thread.
Priceless.

I wish I could unread this whole thread so I could enjoy it fresh again. Needs writing in a photo book of sorts.

@sensom I'm looking to do something similar to one of my bikes and I am trying to find online retailers for Sram Force1 / CX1 that will ship to Aus/New Zealand. Everywhere I have tried so far will not ship Sram products here. Race View Cycles seem to be the only one, but there are lots of horror stories of lost orders, poor service etc. Do you know of any others? The prices here are fucking astronomical, especially as I don't want a full group, just levers, rear mech and cassette.

@Egghead funny you should mention Race View, as that's who most of the SRAM parts of mine came from. Truth be told they were a bit shit, and an order arrived with a note in it saying that the right shifter was out of stock (no email accompanied this). There was some other bullshit associated with ordering from them which escapes me. If I were ordering now I'd get on to R2 Bike (link below). Super fast delivery, 15 or so percent off the euro price you see as the tax is taken off, and good prices anyway thanks to the exchange rate. That's probably where I'll get my Dura Ace di2 or Ultegra from.

https://r2-bike.com/

Great report. I love the Otways. Next time just fit some knobbly 2.1s and you'll be good ;)
(hey, do you guys get wind noise with that roof rack btw? Mine is f***ing driving me nuts)

https://goo.gl/photos/aWpDwCydABxtNW3q8

P.S.: Should you come to Adelaide, let me know, we can do a double black Wolverine ride.

Yeah, as another Australian I'm enjoying this.

For sure, I've still got to get down to Adelaide for some riding. I hear really good things. The roof rack belongs to the friends I went down with, but I did notice a bit of whistling when we were on the freeway - perhaps one of those deflectors Thule make would eradicate this?

Things got happily Xtreem on the weekend. Long story short we rode up a mountain to camp in a rescue hut and I'll write something about it when I get internet working again at home.

Hope you had enough layers!!!

I saw some photos on IG of that. Looked crazy.

@Verbs_&_Nouns oh aye! I was out with some heavyweights of social media ;) - whose account was it?

Would you be so kind to provide a link?

I saw it here: http://instagram.com/xshippx

Kamp Keppel (AKA Keppel Hutt Kold Bois (AKA Kold Boys of Bikepacking)).

During a comfortable day out on my softboy Cannondale suspension machine, the idea of Kamp Keppel (then known by no catchy name) was suggested thusly:

"Keppel Hut is on top of a mountain and we're going to ride up to it and sleep in it if you fancy it?"

And as you've probably guessed, I'm a bit of a fancier of largely under-planned adventure, but I kept my cool and responded with a:

"Yes that sounds most delightful"

Mountains - specifically the top of mountains - have time and time again proven themselves to be colder than the bottom of mountains, so the idea of a sleepover in a shack atop one sent the bollock-tinglers aflutter. How would we keep warm? What if it's a trap? Am I hardcore enuff for this? I bought a thermal liner for my sleeping bag in anticipation.

Day 1 - Lilydale to Keppel Hut

Our pre-ordained place of departure would be Richmond train station, and we convened at 7am in the Melbourne chill. Our group was Todd (AKA Toddles, AKA Todd Cycles AKA Instagram Hero), Guy (later renamed Guytanium), Lewis, and Ben (a pair of distance cycling mentalists). All bar one whom I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting, and the air tingled with potential hardstyle bro action galvanised by raw adventure. Lewis introduced himself by politely questioning my choice of tyre (still slicks), and it highlighted my own reservations perfectly.

Off the train after 45 minutes we were in the breaking down of Lilydale where my rides often end.

Straight onto the Warburton trail, we were destined for far more salubrious surrounds, and warmed our respective body componentry with vigorous pedalling. The rain came early, and converted the orange powder-like trail through the flat-lands into a tomato soupmire. Not a problem for the rest of the gang, but without a saddle back and on slick tyres, I painted my back, arse, luscious hair, helmet and feet within minutes.

Suitably chilled and coated in shite we left the river of Nesquik for the brief climb up to the Aquaduct Trail (covered previously, and ridden here in reverse), for 20km of gentle uphill clattering through the beautiful, yet sodden, rain forest.

Out we popped at the road half way up the Mt. Donna Buang road climb, and I've seldom been more excited to be generating heat through climbing. All told there was nothing I could do the for the whole trip that meant I could feel my sweet darling feet, but having a warm upper body was small consolation.

Atop the climb we regrouped at the turn off to Acheron Way, a beautiful descent down the arse crack of Donna on more of the gunky stuff. Lewis had been there a few minutes and had used his time wisely to spot a leech attached to his leg, flicking it off with aplomb. Some fucking Indiana Jones shit right there.

The descent was as glorious as ever, but the wind chill exercised its icy authority. You'll note that some of these pictures were taken by someone capable, with a nicer camera.

Nice as Acheron Way is, rolling down through the winding backroads under millennia (probably) old native trees, my appendages took turns in losing their feeling, to the point where around 10 clicks in I very well may have had no feet, hands or cheeks for all the feeling I had. Then, at the bottom like a bearded smug mermaid upon a rock, Lewis sat on a rock bathed in sunlight. We stopped briefly to allow the others to catch up and allow the feeling to return, but ultimately the allure of climbing up and over to Marysville to wait and snack on hot chips became too much.

A rural Victorian bakery has never looked so undeniably sexy, and ferocious hunger turned to unthinking knee-jerk ordering of a giant slice of lasagne, two huge milky lattes in quick succession, a donut and gobble-loads of chips as we discussed our plan of attack regarding the mountain, and how to best transport sufficient booze up it - my forte.

Snacks, fermented grape cylinder (decanted), and several cans of Guinness successfully aboard we rolled to the foot of the climb out of Marysville into the dirt. After a few kilometers the road narrowed within the valley at the burned out gums loomed above. Marysville had been burned out almost completely some years prior, and the trees around it still show the signs.

Full of pastries, inauthentic italian pasta fare and other carbohydrates the bromance bristled, before each finding our desired pace for the 30-something kilometre climb, all the while accompanied by the raging alpine river and sweeping landscape to our left.

Lewis found his grinding pace and disappeared off up the pass, and Todd fell in with Guytanium (as yet not named thusly), while Benjamin and I hung in the middle talking business. There's always time for Instagram fare though.

As the climb drew on my lasagna fuel injectors fired up, and the V8 baguettes maintained a respectable rotation, leaving young Benjamin to consume snackables I pressed on up the climb as the light thoroughly dwindled. I'd been told to prepare for a few gates (closed to prevent 4x4's in the winter), but had no route map to guide me. The electricity in my balls crackled like a magician's orb.

Gate one presented an issue in that I had no idea which way Lewis had gone, so I stood around for a moment before getting cold and deciding to lick the ground as Bear Grylls would. The chemical reaction of saliva on the moist mountain road helped divine that a right turn up the mountain was necessary, so I ploughed on with my back wheel's grip diminishing. Another truncation in the road was helpfully signed.

"Fantastic, plain sailing!" I thought cheerfully, conscious that my nose and feet were returning to numbtown the further I ascended. Down a sloppy little dip in the road I saw a switchback with the road climbing steeply just across the way, and motored to the foot of it into the now complete darkness. As I reached the foot of the turn it became clear the experience the promised stretch of likely fucked 4x4 track prescribed by a veteran of this route. I once visited the Cadbury factory in England as an excited idiot child, and found myself transfixed by a one part of the tour which was little more than a giant vat of dodgy looking chocolate mixed like moving cement, and like some Orwellian nightmare the ground had morphed into the very same substance on a 15% ascent.

We must stop here, this is hike-a-bike country. From there, every rotation of the wheels clogged the tyres with the chocolatey bullshit, and it gathered in a sinister fashion around all parts. It was pitch-black now, and my dynamo couldn't generate power enough for a 90's calculator, let alone the Supernova. Upwards I trudged hoping that I was on the right track. Fleeting foot prints which melted down from where they were placed were my only guide and the tall grass at the side of the road/quagmire/bullshit provided intermittent respite. I stopped every thirty seconds to scoop bare handfuls of mud from the tyres, chainstays, rack bridge, fork and anywhere fucking else that it accumulated. At times I just stopped to ask myself what the fuck I was doing.

The whole thing must have been around 2 kilometres, and I was sufficiently drained by the time I spotted the hut's sign amidst the black. Time for a look inside our insalubrious abode for the evening.

Thankfully I wasn't overtired and emotional, or the beautiful sight of a bottle of Tabasco left by a spicy good Samaritan may have brought me to tears. Old mate set to work getting the fire going and I went outside to survey the bogmonster my bike had become.

Ahh yeah, that'll buff right out.

To my delight there was a stream by the hut, and I did some laps back and forth to it, filling my bidons with ice cold water to blast the mud off and dunking the Ortlieb panniers straight in the river to cleanse. After the fifth return I was over that bullshit, and dragged myself shivering indoors to stand by the growing blaze. Ben arrived shortly after and it became apparent how important real estate by the burning logs would be for duration of the evening.

An hour on and the whole squad had converged, taking turns to enter the hut to a chorus of cheers and "CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOOOOOOORRRRRR". Stoves were produced and the omnipresent titanium mugs followed suit ready to accept flaccid noodles and miso soup. Socks and shoes were perched close to the heat, as were we, and a thorough account of the says freezing nonsense was given by each. Keppel Hut is a rescue hut, perched on the mountain for lost and weary travellers to take shelter should the shit hit the fan, and it burned down during the the same fires that gutted the gum trees, only to be rebuilt and returned to its resplendent former glory (this time with a door, which you need to FUCKING SHUT RIGHT NOW).

As ten thirty rolled around and a sufficiently fun route for the next day was all but finalised, the Kamp Keppel Kold Boiz turned in. Three on the uncomfortable looking slatted bunks, and the remainder (which included my cold self), on the floor by the fire. We dozed off, excited to see what awaited out the door in the morning - quietly hoping it wasn't a murderous bogan with a chainsaw for a leg.

Amazing write-up, looks tough!

Made me lol again a few times, genius writing skills!

Really enjoying this thread. Thanks!

Day 2: Kamp Keppel Hutt 2 Train

Lewis had earned his MVP stripes through the night, piling additional logs onto the flame pit to prevent the Kamp Keppel Koldboiz succumbing to the deep freeze. I had wobbled out the door late at night to relieve myself and was overcome with the urge to chunder. After standing in the cold for a few minutes the nausea subsided so I put it down to smoke inhalation. Back indoors to huff more of it I went.

Like a gang of giddy groggy toddlers we woke and pranced out the door to a blanket of fresh snow as water for porridge boiled.

Turned out we'd need hot water for more than just the most important meal of the day though. Who knew that water and wet mud froze?

The Wolverine's chain and rear derailleur had frozen in place, while the remaining mud on the tyres had also solidified meaning that even if the drive train wasn't fucked, the wheels wouldn't move anyway. Not content with a mere snow show, the Gods of Adventure were orchestrating a maelstrom of mechanicals.

Now I enjoy giving a bike a good P.J. and Dunking as much as the next rider but at 0degs one can imagine themselves doing something a bit less shit. The mud cleared surprisingly well from my Horizons, and some boiling water mixed with colder stuff blasted all over the drive train was enough to get that moving. I tried not to think of the ill-effect it would have on the bike's general health. Time for a crew picture.

Then a Byker Grove version.

The thinking was that we'd get up at the ballcrack of day and peel out on the same hill we'd mudmarched the previous night in the hope that it'd frozen in the meantime. That did prove to be the case, though the added treachery of the white stuff made for interesting descending...

Whooping with joy we picked lines where possible and just rolled through the solidified mud bogs, remembering traction as a distant concept.

The snow line lasted a fair bit longer than expected, turning to a sleaty drizzle after the worst of the 4x4 track. From there we diverted from the original route for a short climb back into snow flurries, with my derailleur sounding thoroughly unhappy. Which was fair enough. Happily warmed up and partially de-jacketed we spilled out down the wide, slick descent into Buxton. A perfect storm of rough weather, braking like a nutjob and not having replaced my brake pads in some time meant I'd all but stripped the pads entirely, making for a quicker-than-recommended roll downward while I received another Nesquik coating along with Ben.

The siren call of civilisation and second breakfast rang in our ears and sped us into town, to the home of the (possibly) world famous Buxton Burger. Hungry as we were, nobody fancied a beefy stack at 8:30am, and I went for a bacon and egg sandwich, one litre latte, Powerade and some delicious snake sweets for the remainder of the ride.

A degree of faffing was undertaken after second breakfast as we all re-cleaned our chains and re-lubed the shit out of whatever poor components needed it. About 90kms of national forest roads stood between us and our return train. So bountiful in beauty were those roads, the thought of taking pictures diminished, and only the below was taken for some hours.

The way was all knobbly tracks with tasty loose rocks to ping off our muddy rims, and as we entered the ancient Toolangi State forest we were once again dwarfed by lush green native trees. Drive-side titanium mugs bobbled graciously over the rough ground.

Into Toolangi itself we'd hoped for more rural bakery action, but received a smackdown from the staff at the roadhouse there in the form of no pastries. Fuck you people, we'll always have the snakes. The further towards Yarra Valley we ventured, through dusty gravel descents and up pinchy farmland ramps, the better the weather got. By the time of our last hike-a-bike up an otherwise impassible storm beaten goat track Mr Sunshine had put his fucking hat on, and those with flannels dared to unbutton. Still couldn't feel my feet though.

The home stretch brought us along Butterman's Track. A now fully paved road which was once the envy of gravel stretches around the country. It's still a beauty though.

Our excitable and energetic guide took on a new daring mission to acquire train snacks prior to its departure, and the remaining three opted for a scenic romp through one last dirty track, followed by a last-gasp TT into town.

The snack in question was a bag of chips and potato cakes to feed a roman army, or what was now four adventure bros with an unquenchable thirst for carbs. At some point on the brief train journey I removed the shoe, sock, plastic bag and additional sock from my right foot to find that the toe nail had become completely black. Atrophy has continued some weeks later and it looks like I'll be relieved of the nail (or maybe the whole toe) in due course. 220km's, around 4300m of climbing with rain, sleet, snow, rain, snow, snow, wind and sun.

This almost makes the police battering down my elderly neighbour's door at 4am worth it. Well jell...

That last road looks like heaven, such amazing rolling hills. I need a cabin there.

Now you're talking @spotter time to start fund raising for a forum cabin?