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

TOFF SHJOTT: DAE TOO

A night spent mostly awake to the sound of the mentally challenged meant a later than expected wake-up. Todd snoozed a bit while I started to pack and and went to see if the publican had reopened the hotel for breakfast. He had not. We started packing our biked, which is why they call it bikepacking, and resolved to GTFO Kevington breakfast-less should this nonsense continue.

As we finished cramming sweaty undies into our bags and rice crispy bars into our faces, a nice lady from the other side of the campsite approached.

“Would you boys like some proper breakfast? I’ve got eggs and mushrooms!”

Holy shit lady, you bet your fucking arse we want breakfast. Coulda kissed her, but she was there with her husband so I’m glad I didn’t. And she wasn’t my type. We wandered over to take a seat after drenching her in thank-yous, and ended up having a lovely conversation. They seemed to be of retirement age, and the fact they’d been cruising around Australia for going on two years pretty much confirmed it. The lady must have been in her sixties, but had previously done the Hawaii Iron Man (Hawaiiron WoMan?), which was very impressive indeed. Old mate even pulled out a coffee plunger and we obviously went fucking bananas.

After shooting the shit for longer than intended we bid those great people farewell and took pictures of some parrots on top of some green and red pigeons sat on the hotel before taking off.

Out we turned onto the only road south which continued to snake along the leafy river. Tarmac turned to primo grav-grav once again, and the fire in Toddy’s alternative route loins reached fever pitch.

Lets’s take this shortcut over the mountain, he said. It’ll be much more picturesque he said. The name Flourbag Track conjured up images of a half-dead donkey dragging a knackered cart full of sacks and provisions uphill to keep a town of nine in dried groats for the winter.

It pitched sharply upward and aligned with my expectations - Ballbag Track was narrow, rutted and lined with more of that exposed rock made of meatcleavers, exclusively to keep you on yer tootsies. Not sure I mentioned it was fucking steep? The stage was set for another day of sweating, climbing in the drops and avoiding wheeling into oblivion.

We snaked up the mountain like intrepid turtles as the valley sprawled out below. When level ground came it was clear that there would be a distinct chance of a boner-inducing descent from whence we stood.

We snapped some photos and battened down any shit that needed battening. Seconds in and I knew the hackeleur would be tested to it’s limit along with my disc-brakes and ability to suppress shouts of “YEWWWWWWWWWWW”. The boys thrashed and slashed across the steep chicanes, diving through overgrown corners likely built by a masochist and all but sure that a tyre would be slashed to pieces. As quickly as it began we popped out at the end to a surprise river crossing, grinning like the idiots we are.

Toddington sploshed through the drink, rightly confident in Ortlieb’s world-famous waterproofing capabilities (editor’s note: I do not work for Ortlieb, nor do I have any affiliation with the company, i just think that the Germans really cornered the market with their waterproof cycling luggage). I stomped through cautiously, determined not to ruin my new camera on its maiden dangle.

Back at the road having traveled through time up ye olde hille, we were thrust into its dust and ultimate width.. The sun exacted a spicy toll on our bare skin, and for a while it felt as if we’d seen the end of the good riding and had entered a pale clay oven of undulating bullshit. Mercifully the road once again narrowed, and began a to and fro over along the river that’d gouged out a valley in the first place.

Gaffney’s creek would be the next stop on our odyssey, though as it turned out we found it more of a reason to keep pedalling than stop to enjoy. It’s a weird decrepit mining town full of corrugated rust and perpetual ‘lets pull a chair down to the river’ parties that sits along the hillside. There we passed a camper van called ‘It’ll Do’, which is the simultaneously the most genius and Australian things I’ve ever seen. We pushed on for Woods Point.

Of all the climbs we chugged and chuffed over, the next may have been the biggest drag. It was wide, extremely exposed and by all accounts not all that interesting. Despite weaving up through the valley any good view was obscured, as the Vitamin Douchebag continued to needle at our respective rumps. I ground on ahead for a short while and stopped to inhale peanuts some three quarters in. As Todd joined, so did a fucking idiot tiger snake intent on ruining our ‘Not Cycling Uphill At This Very Moment’ time, and we took it as a sign that God did not want us to be on that mountain.

We peaked some time after and fuck that hill. Didn’t enjoy the descent all that much either, probably mostly because of the idiotic way we got there in the first place. It was fast but rickety, and had nothing of the golden allure of downward fun of times gone by. My angry cycling funk dissipated by the time we’d rolled into Woods Point, back at the valley floor.


Many a time I’d fingered the map, plotting a route that could only go through Woods Point. Every time I’d concluded that it was just that bit remote, and surrounded by not all that shitting much. For this reason it held somewhat of an allure to me, and it lived up to my expectations. As you hit town there’s a tiny single-bowser petrol station long shuttered and relinquished to rust, which makes for a fantastic place to take pictures. We took loads of pictures, and I gassed up the pistons.

Next it was on to the most ramshackle general store we’ve had the pleasure of visiting, where the old patron had been chain-punching ciggies indoors for millennia. Everything aside from commonly grabbed chocolate bars was coated with a thick layer of presumably protective dust, and mounds of bollocks-a-brac filled every available space.

“When are you closing?” asked a sweaty Todd.

“Psh… In a bit… Nothing going on round ‘ere” came the cigarette’s response.

Right you are, some Old Gold (rum and raisin) and a can of Coke (other cola’s are available, but I really feel like Coca Cola cornered the market in terms of sparkling brown liquid).

Onward to the Commercial Hotel, and fuck me is that place weird in all the right ways. Aside from the country style misogynistic signage perhaps. To our surprise the girls behind the bar were young, European and decidedly not descended from their cousin’s cousin. We ordered a jug of Carlton Draught and hot chippies with gravy and shot the shit for a while. To my surprise they weren’t just there to gain their next visa, and were just working in a pub in the shit end of nowhere ‘for the experience’. It should be noted that the chippies were served with buttered bread, which can only mean CHIPPY FUCKING SANDWICH. Lord ‘O Mercy. Also, please fucking tell me another port that has a name this good.

At risk of just blowing off all this cycling bullshit and living in the country, we saddled up and sidled out of WP, thrashing down a 4WD track along the river. Quickly the road slumped to the water, and a local man yelled, “You can fuckin’ do it!”. Todd obliged. Shortly after the same man shouted “Ah, just wanted to see him have a crack, there's a bridge right there”, and I too obliged. Back on the sandy, rutted 4WD we swooped up and back down to another crossing.

I’m assuming this was the River Styx, because what awaited beyond was nothing short of hell. I’ve crushed a few kilometres in my time, and dry humped a stem uphills till not everything was quite so dry, but this was pure brutality. Traction came inconsistently as our back wheels slid upward and we swerved back and forth, teeth bared and glistening with spit. The sun ripped through the canopy at times as the road tilted at what felt like more than 20% consistently. That piece of shit hill didn’t reveal his true self until the next bend however. When you’re on your limit and “FNGHHHHHUHHH”-ing at each other, the last thin you want to see is the gradient steepen dramatically for another 5 meters over a huge water bar. We’d launch up, settle to a stand still with a last gasp pedal, then rest track standing atop the roller to catch a breath, then use the two fleetingly flatter ground to mount an assault on the next ski jump. This went on for what felt like two years, neither of us admitting defeat, and both ready to go off lie a Roman candle. My lungs hurt, my legs were now just vessels for lactic acid, and my veins needle highways. On it went, until we heard the close rumble of diesel engines and pulled to the side to dab our slick faces. Four vehicles passed, each one stopping to thank us with a smile and look bemused at the direction we were facing.

"Take me with you", I murmured grasping in their direction.

We pushed on at an almost unrecordable pace where the gradient slackened a bit. The legges returned to their correct mix of blood, bone, muscle and whatever else is in your legs.

WE peaked to an unceremonious fire track to stop and cry. As I stood sweating and shaking my head a friendly horsefly began to harass me, finally deciding it best to bite ME ON THE FUCKING LEG, YOU ABSOLUTE CUNT.

I’d had enough of this shit and got back on, riding and waving my arms while the absolute fucking todger swooped about me for nearly a kilometre. The situation was handled with characteristic calmness and no swearing whatsoever.

A few clicks went by with little fanfare after rejoining the main road - one which we’d be taking pretty much the whole way to Walhalla. That’s fucking right, Walhalla! The valley ghost town where I’d stopped previously for a Parma and a wonderful shivering sleep. This time I’d be coming in with a Hot Toddy™ for Wally Two: The Bois of Summeh.

On a map there is solid fuck all around in any direction save for this road and some service tracks, and it definitely felt like it. Cue some banging descents that followed the ridge, with a climb after each to top up the altitude and throw us back onto the sunny side. 30km later we’d drawn level with the north tip of Thomson Dam, and boy is this body of water thicc.

We’d follow it to round out the day, powered by dried figs and vintage banter. We detoured to a ‘lookout point’, which was actually just a graveyard on a hill offering average views.

Next up was a legit view though, and one I won’t forget in a hurry. So called presumably after our giant swinging bollocks, this was Iron Point, a sweeping 180 of a big ol’ lake that way, and another angle of the same great lake the other way.

It was getting hot, and time seemed to move faster than we were doing, so Todd took the opportunity to feature in the second “Todd Pissing in Nice Places”, and it was off.

Mt Skene loomed to our left like a fat demon and I resolved to punch him in the dick some day. A descent through tiny Aberfeldy, all grassy and inviting, passed by quickly as the down became more common than up.

The road dipped a final time after a convoy of four wheeling bellends gunned past, and we started to pick up a fierce pace.

So fierce was the pace, that when I slowed for a giant sign reading WALHALLA and pointing left, Todd blasted past, in the other direction. A shout fell on deaf ears and I assumed he knew where he was going. The gravel turned to asphalt, and we fell into the dark valley at 70kmph with that ol’ electricity in yer balls feeling. We ran through our greatest hits of whooping, hollering, squawking and shouting appreciation as the road fired us out onto the flat, and straight across the most kickass dam wall you could hope to see. Water shimmered off to the right as far as the eye could see, and the road gave way to oblivion to our left as we exchanged “Holy shit” related conversation.

As it turned out we’d missed our turning, and we weighed up climbing back up to join it. In the end we reluctantly pressed on across the dam onto Rawson which I recalled as somewhat of a fast road. Turned out there was still a shit load of climbing to get us up to the town, followed by a long fast stretch of road bathed in golden light to deliver us there after the cursing had been dealt with.

Missing the turn was a bummer, but it was amazing to see Mt Baw Baw lit up across the way.

My travel companion is what you might call excitable, and 110km of weighted riding and 3,300 or so metres of elevation wasn’t going to be enough to stop him farting about on a pump track while I shook my head.

I called the Wally Pub to find out when their kitchen closed. 8PM! It was 7:30PM, and the stale peanut butter sandwich in my Ozette wouldn’t have cut it tonight. Time for another self-induced race against the clock, this time for protein. We bombed the hill into the mystical valley that I’d done in the freezing cold previously, while the sunset made for some incredible views rounding the sharp bends. None of that fucking matters when you’re about to miss out on a victory Parma though, and we knew it. My comrade ordered me on without him to ensure fried chicken goodness, and I dug in for a painful TT while watching the clock and distance. Monsieur Fucknuts, chairman of the Committee for Administering Adventure Pain (CAAP) was adamant that I’d need to suffer yet more before claiming the prize of a square meal, and two pinches were thrown in to harshen things.

Sweat gathered at around the forearms under my flannelette as I crested the last hill and bombed over the bridge into the weird little town. 7:56PM will do juuuust nice. For the sake of the story I wish it was a bit closer to 8PM, but I'm incapable of lying. The familiar doors of the Wally pub loomed with a siren call of chicken and pints.

After a long day and a full-blown injection of carbopoteinbeer and a fucking long day of riding, we sloped off to the riverside to set up camp in the dark. Before leaving the pub some friendly locals had offered us the chance to fill our water bottles at their house in the morning, as none of the towns aqua is consumable.

As healthy cyclists consuming only the most virtuous of food and drink on our adventures, tent gaseousness is a constant source of shock. Sure enough though, the hot wind returned to us both that evening as we drifted into a foul-smelling sleep.