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

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.