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Save for some overnight clip-clopping and twig snapping courtesy of Mr. Tumnus, the serenity was remarkable. I woke up at sunrise without prompting which only seems to happen on cycling trips, though I suspect my brain was subconsciously aware of the wall CONTENT awaiting beyond those technical zippers. I donned my britches, naked arse flailing in the air of the tent-chamber and burst asunder into the salt lick air beyond. Nature delivered like the sultry bitch she is.
It was one of those views that just delivered. Something amazing happened each minute the golden sun crept further aloft, illuminating the raging surf (and boners) below. They say that Yorkshire is God's Own County, but this is surely God's Really Nice Holiday Retreat By The Sea.
One does not simply enter into the friend market and acquire acquaintances such as these, evidenced by Todd here as he devoured porridge with a tyre lever.
And with that we packed and took our leave of the sleepy haven we'd found on that grand shoreline. Bags somewhat lighter, free as they were of tuna bullion, tubular French meat and dried nuttes. We lined up the vehicles for a gentlemen-only picture opportunity.
That single track we'd yomped the day prior now sprawled out ahead of our voracious eyes,
we secured our tits for the brief loamy and pine strewn spiral into singletrack dangleurgasm.
A quick stop by the beach to further inhale the vapours of briny victory was all we'd have time for today.
Hang around for too long and you'll end up earning a nickname like 'The Beach Boys'. Something we all wanted to avoid. We scrambled back up to the parking area and took to the saddle for a breeze through the lowlands too brief to warm the legge mussuls ahead of a solid little climb back up.
Atop the green beast we were faced with a familiar view - the ocean from whence we'd laboured, and a sprawling horn shaped bitumen road that dipped and surged sharply. It was The Great Ocean Road, but not the great road we wanted. We drooped at speed to it's lowest point, then veered off perpendicular toward what would prove to be the most spectacular surprise. We're talking ten or so kilometres of perfectly smooth yellow gravel, flip flopping back and forth through the valley, with grand sweeping turns that present whichever bat-shit view that part of the dream road had to offer. A who's who of "fuck me look at that" and "fuck my fucking arse this is incredible".
I mean, just look at the laughing gap on this leggend. If you could capture the feeling from that very moment, bottle it in a Nalgene and successfully market it, you'd have Dangleurs the world over farting hard cash money at yer Bigcartel store.
Time after time we rounded corners to views anew, like riding a roller coaster at ma nature's equivalent of Alton Towers.
And with that, we were spat out back onto the the tarmac - tits well and truly blown off. We'd evaded the GOR for long enough, and it was time to put some time in at the grindstone of tarmac and the odd bit of traffic. Just three sweaty fellas clocking in for a shift at the Threshold Factory.
I'd ridden this stretch of road before on a road bike during an Underpacking (where you take almost none of the things you actually need for an overnighter save for your pants) trip. It was raining that day, but we saw a koala going buck wild in a tree (AKA masticating eucalyptus leaves with that tour of Afghanistan stare). Here's the nutter:
I zeroed in on leg rotations as the road pitched into the treeline and hoped to spot one of the furry bastards again. It's not that this stretch is ordinary - you're still surrounded by some of the most beautiful countryside you'll ever see, but our hearts still beat rapidly for the Old Ocean Road. And also from the cycling we were still doing.
We snaked through the national park, past the turn off to the Cape Otway Lightstation and deeper into the chill forest where we cut a right back onto the welcome gravel. There was a Gran Fondo, and a Graveleurr Fondue going on that day, but happily we'd yet to come into contact with any road restrictions related to the ride. Our next goal was the dubious puzzlingly placed Californian Redwoods (Sequoias to you specialised tree nuts) deep in the hills. For there we would luncheon. More winding through wide roads surrounded by billion year old trees, and but you would not be forgiven to have tired of such an amazing place to exist and ride your bike.
And here I am shredding a fucking crucial skid in spite of clearly signed danger.
After a brief dalliance with another ridgeline potholed to all hell we plunged again, passed by a few Gravel Fondue enthusiasts that were hitching a ride and eventually crossing five meters of the route. You could almost smell the Fastboi's Em-bro as we levelled out at the bridge at the descent's end.
A quick shoot with Sam by some nice trees and it was time for some much needed foodstuffs. One giant fireball later and we were slurping the remainder of our noodles, and I set to work making wraps from Lebanese bread, tomatoes, tuna bullion, and the full wheel of Brie we'd been trucking around for the last day and a half.
ToddCycles is a consu-mate bike professional mechanicalist, and a perfectionist to boot. He'd become rightly agitated at the audible squeep squeep produced by an ailing drivetrain, and sought to freshly lubricate it with what was on hand. #ToddLubricates.
Then it was time to venture in to the redwoods on foot for some tranq (short for tranquil) time. I'm sure there was a plaque or something around that explained why there were a couple thousand absolutely fucking massive ancient trees from California shoehorned into an Australian forest but I didn't see one. I'll therefore speculate that some travel nut 120 years ago thought it'd be a fun thing to do, and thank fuck he/she did because it was one of the most serene and beautiful places you could ever be. A crystalline river runs along one side, and the now red foliage from the tree's lofty heads created a silent walking environment. Sound doesn't carry, and everything seems to stand still. I also stood still.
We passed out of the dreamland, and mounted up for a renewed assault on our battered gooches. Climbing out of the valley on a rutted, very much busier and testing road was as much as one might wish to handle post-lunch but we ground on, breaching higher ground to a blasting headwind and a gob full of dust carried within each gust.
Was I tired? Sure I was, big whoop, this is adventure mate. We'd be getting on with it thank you very much. Back on tarmac we truncated right onto a road that would morph into Turton's Track. A road that holds high esteem among those lucky enough to ride this area. Turton's is a strange beast. It quietens and narrows as it draws on into the forest, and with mirror equipped corners and the seemingly undisturbed debris littering each side it felt like one of those Japanese roads which ma nature had begun to reclaim. Tarmac like buttah, it ebbs and flowed as a grey serpentine for what felt like eons.
We popped out back onto a main road that would lead straight through to Forrest some 20km's away, and would have been beautiful enough itself but where there's a will for DIRT there is a way. We stopped to look at a recently abandoned Defender showing you just how to screw the pooch at four wheeling at a junction we had hoped to take.
And lo (I promise I'll stop doing that now), we noted that we too might suffer the same fate should we battle from whence this Land Rover had rambled. We continued on for another junction and added climbing.
As we chugged up the hill toward a blind bend a ute swung around the corner at speed, followed by a Volvo wagon at almost twice the velocity and sliding straight for us. A screech. A skid. The Swedish suspension barely righting the car it wobbled wildly and tore off, leaving two deeeply rattled adventureurs and thankful for the invention of stain remover.
Fatigue reared it's hideous, boil ridden head to steal away photography for some time as the trail mix ran low in those dirty back roads. Todd kept spirits up with talk of a triumphant 25km descent back to Forrest and we were in no position to question this. Tits firmly strapped on, we dove headlong to claim our pedalling-free motion, gravel switchbacks, lens flairs, hollering and hooting aplenty.
Legendary is a term that's banded around all too often these days, but I think it's clear to see that there is absolutely no other way to describe the friendship and adventure experienced over those two days. Days we'll remember all our otherwise pointless lives. The brewery was closed, which was for the first time in my life somewhat of a relief. We loaded up the Pug and propelled our asses back to Melbourne.
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<3 <3
Such nice places, very rad, much radavism, wow!
Do you have more detailed pics of your bike?
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past the turn off to the Cape Otway Lightstation
Don't think I've seen as many koala's and japanese tourists stopped in the road taking photos as koalas than this road.
Turton's Track
Got lost on here looking for Lake Elizabeth once. Fucking great, but snakey as fuck apparently (as in thar be snakes, not snaking.)
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pI think I forgot that this is supposed to be a ‘current project thread’ so here are some changes to the bike. Maxxis Re-Fuse, a Soma Demi Porteur, and a decaleur hack featuring an ortlieb QL2.1 rail with 20mm hooks latching to a MTB light holder. Oh and it’s all to run an Ozette.
Test riding and no doubt taking pictures/eventually writing about an overnighter in Gippsland this weekend. Pass
Me those Stoke biscuits. -
I’ve got those Re-Fuse’s on my Wolverine in the 700x40c flavour and they’re baller. Heavy but baller.
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I like it, though the lack of adjustment makes it a little higher than I'd like. Ideally I'd want the Ozette a tad below bar height but this pushes it up a fair bit. Other than that it feels very sturdy and looks great.
I'll take some pictures of the decaleur system later, but I can say it performed amazingly on the ride. The Ortlieb hooks are slighly smaller than the rail that they attach to but it only makes them more snug, and the whole thing just pops right off the bike immediately as you'd want.
In other news, my Igaro failed some time ago, and the legend sent me a new one which was hooked up for this weekend. Got a switch with it this time which I'll probably drill into the decaleur bar for neatness. It charges amazingly well though, even with two devices.
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Nice bike!!
What is your bar tape? -
So - the decaleureur:
Take one silly MTB Light mount rail thingy available on eBay. Ignore the bullshit placeholder stem, it hurts me to look at as much as it does you.
Cannibalise the raill of an Ortlieb QL2.1 pannier. The reason for using this rail is that that it supports the 20mm hooks, whereas the earlier model only goes up to the width of a bee's dick.
Solder that shit through like you normally would...
And you got yourself a rock-steady bag scenario. Went over some pretty hectic ground in Gippsland over the weekend, including a very quick descent down a logging track which was rutted to all fuck. The bag does hop up at the front a tad on the very rough stuff, but for the rest of the time it was pretty much glued in situ. Next hacks will be a hook on the bottom towards the front that holds the rail, and potentially an aluminium plate which sits within the bag and goes around the inside to stiffen the whole thing.
Ideas for the rack hack came from various similar things on the internet, but I'm not sure I've seen this particular rail used. As with anything, I stand to be corrected..
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Black walls look goooood!
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Heh, I disappeared for a bit there but now I'm back with an all nÜ adventure and I'll do the other one when I've sorted out the million pictures.
The Plan:
Get an early train north to Benalla (not too backwards, but certainly a farming town in rural Victoria), then trundle through the ever-swelling hills taking in as many duelling banjo settlements as possible, savouring phone signal where available and spitting out on the train line far East of Melbourne, hoping that the train would deliver us somewhere near home.
TUFF SHJITT: Day 1.
We converged equidistant to our respective homes on Canning Street (king of Melbourne streets) and scooted through the city to Southern Cross Station. 7AM is too early to catch a train, but we were both prepared to make concessions in the pursuit of aDvEnTuRE. Crossing the imaginary line where the city ends, and nothing but sun-scorched land and ambivalent Kangaroos unfurled through the window, we were reminded that it was most definitely summer.
The day's route would see us pass the farm I'd once laboured at for the right to stay in Australia longer, but this time I'd sail past with nary a shudder. A quick stop in town to purchase regulation sausage rolls and coffee, and we were on our way south into the (partially) unknown. The flat farm lands that sprawled out around us for the first 35 kilometres were pallid and uninviting, with that familiar kiln-esque dry heat I would have rustled cattle in. We pushed on for the first punch-in-the-dick climb.
As we approached, Toddington regaled me with the account of his last ride over Mount Samaria, where a member of the three man group had pressed on ahead in a bid to catch an earlier train. The hero had sent a text back to the group once over the mountain to say that he'd left a bottle of water and SOS chocolate to help a bonker in trubs. Todd's voice came a quiver, and I could swear I saw tears well in his eyes:
"We never received the text"
Then we'd fucking well see if it's still there. The marker was unmistakable, as most lonesome giant trees tend to be. Behind it, sure as shit there was a half-full (thinking positively) bottle of water from two years prior with the teeth marks of a likely long-dead and mummified animal. The chocolate had been claimed by another animal, probably elevated to the status of legend by it's peers, and now living a relaxed life in retirement.
We churned on into the sandy state park to poke sleeping Samaria, quickly reminded of just how tough the climb was. As far as grinding a laiden-bike uphill goes, this one ranks in the thigh-splitting territories. Sand, crumbling sharp rocks and water damaged track pitched at a sickening gradient made for a gruelling start, and would prove the benchmark a lot of the climbs to come.
As we snaked up toward the spine the sun pelted our arms and legs, turbochharging sweat from every pore. I'd ridden this twat previously on an ill-fated road bike ride, and kept mistakenly assuming there was a lull in the climbing around each brow.
Finally Sammy broke to a more rhythmic incline, and the lactic acid knobbed off to bother other parts of our bodies. Shots fired in the war of legge attrition. The mercury was creeping in tandem with our elevation so sweet relief in the shady undulated road that traversed the mountain couldn't come soon enough.
Two passing walkers warned us of a downed tree ahead of the hill, and once we'd hucked bikes over it, the descent began proper. Without the full width of the road to descend, it would've have been an extremely spicy affair thanks to the choppy surface and knifey swathes of bare rock. Cornering across bulging stone like the bellies of a sleeping rock man at 40kmph presented a unique challenge, and one that would ultimately would claim my home-made decaleur hack with a KWAPP-PING.
BOLLOCKS.
I stopped gingerly to survey the damage as the Ozette skittered around and quietly declared myself a cock biscuit for not having brought zip ties, my Leatherman or anything else that would have helped. Travelling light! Thankfully we weren't far from the base of the hill so I trundled on like an excited fat lad running with a box of donuts, for once hoping that the gravel would end.
We popped out at the river as the pine-lined fire road ended, and onto the sensual silken tarmac. Native trees lined the road like a parade, and a gaggle (Fock? Hoard? Arse full?) of Cockatoos flew above at our speed to signal our march into Mansfield. It's a shame you can't see the cockies in this picture, but if they were any bigger of a bird they'd be fucking terrifying.
It should be noted at that I was born near Mansfield in England, and that this Mansfield is in fact nowhere near as much of a shithole. What it shares with my beloved quasi-home town is a vibrant mid-day drinking culture enjoyed by the 30+ types. Sheesh, people must knock off work early huh? We joined the locals at a premier drinking hole and ordered a pizza each chased down with a jug of countryperson beer while I attempted repairs.
Todd sat handsomely and watched on.
Because it's touring and we're a pair of fucking hard nuts there was no panicking, and we rustled up a rock solid combination of cardboard, a padded shopping bag and zip ties generously donated by the LBS to secure the Ozette. Almost ready to roll on to Jamieson, we stopped by at the local supermarket for supplies, not knowing if we'd have many other opportunities to grab food.
Delicious stuff.
We slipped silently south out of town and onto Rifle Butts Road (heheh), a treat of undulating gravel and vistas of glorious Mount Buller to our left.
Todd starred in the first of a series of 'Todd Pissing In Great Places', a photography exhibition for which I'm tipped to receive critical acclaim.
All good gravel roads must end. Fortunately, this one ended on a nice tarmac road which slithered its way toward the Howqua Inlet on Lake Eildon, directly opposing Bonnie Doon. The Doon was popularised by cult classic film The Castle, which is a stone cold classic and you should all go and watch the shit out of it: https://youtu.be/PAy_e2Egt6E
After a dramatic sweeping turn that brought us to to the same level as the lake we followed its shore with little traffic, or people in general.
Before long we'd climbed to enter Jamieson, our originally intended stopover. We found nothing of note but a sleepy mountain town and a main street doing its best Twilight Zone impersonation. Far from the waterfalls of golden Irish Whiskey or green pricks in hats. We pushed on to Kevington along the snaking river, surrounded by the swell of tree-lined mountains as the pizza finally merged with my legs and slowed rotations.
I'd somehow run out of gas by the time we saw the unmistakable red roof of the Kevington Hotel. Unmistakable because it says 'KEVINGTON HOTEL' in letters across the top, but also because it is red.
We stumbled in and ordered chicken Parmas to be taken on the veranda overlooking the river. It would have been far more romantic if I couldn't smell the heady aromas of beaten gooch through my shorts, but such are the trials of bicycling. We pitched up by the river, and unbeknownst to us, the only fire pit in the camping area. As we drifted off to sleep the beautiful rushing sound of the river was replaced by a drunk bogan emulating Chunk from the Goonies who'd sparked up a fire just meters from our pitch. Three hours of the inner tent lit up like a Christmas tree and slurring bullshit chat later I got off to sleep, ready to go deep into the unknown on the morrow.
Bonus picture! Me holding up some underpants in front of the hotel.
🅑🅐🅣🅣
Alex-K2000
Quincy
spotter
hollow__legs
pascalo
MisterMikkel-
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Huge-Action Monsteur - Wolveurine 650B Toureur (Wolverine)
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@sensom
Thanks all, you beauties! I'm waist-deep in horn inducing pictures for Part Dos.
@seafish Yeah I don't see why not, I hadn't really thought of a kit list but I shall whip one up in due course, but it may just be a pannier full of Ti Dangleurs ;)