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

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.