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

TJURFGT SGHJITT DAE 3: Gassy Cassy

A night of fitful methane terrors meant little sleep for me, but Toddles slept like a wee cherub and I took comfort in the fact. That or the in-tent tear gas explosion left him unconscious. The morning was foggy and cold down by the river, and our car-camping neighbours had yet to stir as I stumbled glassy-eyed to the nearby toilets where a parma exorcism awaited. Todd had the audacity to film me as I left the facilities.

Now time for my least favourite bit - packing all that bullshit back up.

A short pootle through town followed to payi a visit to our benevolent water Gods - armed with only a vague description that their house was "Up a driveway by five poplar trees and an X5 out front", which would have been a tall order had we not been in a fucking ghost town with only 20 full-time locals.

True to their word the happy folk were awaiting our arrival, and beckoned us in to fill bidons and chat awkwardly about our alien plans.

"We're going to ride through Happy-Go-Lucky", Todd said referring to the oddly named town we'd spotted on the map.

"Fuck me, that road is rough. You'll have a great time on that!", the adult son quipped, clearly taking the piss. He'd obviously not been keeping up with the Huge-Action Monsteur - Wolveurine 650B Toureur thread, the fucking amateur.

We turned down toast in the hope that the town's only cafe would be open on the way south out of town and our bidons floweth'd over with what was likely tainted water as we took leave of our good samaritans.

Gladly the stay of execution for an already battered and bloody peanut butter bread envelope was extended, as we feasted like delighted morons on toast with suggestively placed rosemary mushrooms (Todd's), and the old fave cured pig and chicken embryo sammish (for piston legges himself). The coffees rated extremely highly when adjusting for the coordinates.

Suitably sated we slid almost silently from town. Silently save for the soothing sound of a certain Hope Pro 4 Hub, explained in detail here. Some say that Hope engineered their hub in such a way that they could listen in from Barnoldswick and diagnose faults because they don't believe in the internet, but I don't go in for that kind of stuff. Are you still reading?...Hello?

We swung left up a 4WD (shorthand for Floor Whelk Dock) track that climbs behind the old train station on the opposite side of the valley to our entry point, bent on seeing a place that had the audacity to call itself 'Happy-Go-Lucky'. Colonial settlers knew how to have a laugh, eh?

Right off the bat, cold legges felt the burn of Flourbag Track MKII. This was supposed to be an easy day, what's going on? This sucker kept coming, and bizarrely there were plenty of four wheelers making their way down the steep incline, doubtless off to a faster moving road where they could get a real good run up at cyclists. We pushed on with octogenarian gearing engaged over the rutted, rocky incline with a that feeling we weren't really covering any ground. They really don't build roads like these anymore, which is great because everyone would be dead.

After what felt like at least 40 minutes the climb abated, and pines replaced native trees with grassy clearings off to each side. You'd be forgiven for hoping more out of a hamlet with such a great name, but this was HGL, and there was basically bollock-all to speak of save for a plaque with some historical bullshit on it.

Onward then, over the brow of the hill to a sandy plateau that exposed us to the sun's first zesty prods of the day. Several kilometres and a number more giant trucks passed before the descent began proper. There have been a great many times that I've decided, while cycling, that I would finally give yoga a go to address the general aches and back pains suffered in the pursuit and this choppymangled road was one of the most convincing arguments yet. Fast, yet winding and ruff made for a hand-numbing hellride that seemed to go on for an age, when in reality it was more like two minutes.

The trees began to clear, and we were spat out onto one side of a deep valley, the shimmer of a metallic bridge gesturing at us a few hundred metres down the dusty track. We trundled down as the feeling came back to our hands and stopped to watch some petroltards gun through the beautiful waist-deep water below, and took pictures of the dusty bikes.

It seemed like a good idea to look at homeward transport options, bearing in mind our usual misfortune with the V-Line service, and we noted that there was a train from our goaltown, Traralgon, around 2-and-a-half hours from then. After that, it'd be another three hours before the next which seemed the more likely.

After the bridge things got tits-out pretty quickly as we were quickly faced with rectifying the descent. The same twat responsible for all the other danger roads in the area had clearly put his hand up to do this one, and this time opted to carve it right out of a rock face. Exposed to the quickly rising sun lord I hit peak curse mode and adopted the requisite mid-air ski jump position to prevent wheelies. More trucks, weird looks, shaking heads. Gobs full of dust. The easy day!

It was, in the end, a short ode to the climbing we'd been churning out all weekend, but it must've been the end of the climbing. Atop the hill things balanced out and started to gain ground. The earth was sun-bleached, and the forest much of a muchness. The dried figs came out. The change from native to pine came as abruptly as ever, and the fire roads indicated we'd most certainly entered plantation territory.

A local draped over the hood of his truck with a scoped rifle further confirmed things, and we pedalled past quickly as the descending started. The mountains were behind us now, and middle Gippsland, all flat as shit, was sprawled out below. After rickety roads galore it was nice to put tyre to a butterway through the glorious farmlands, a first taste of bitumen since Walhalla.

Celebration soon turned to a realisation - the early train left in 40 minutes, and the next nearly four hours later. You may already be aware of my distaste for Gippsland towns in the mouthbreather belt, and I wasn't about to spend any more time than I had to in this one. We agreed to pour curry on things, and started to wind up the legges. I'd loaded the journey into my Garmin and on my phone, and began obsessing over the calculations. 30kmph for 20km, loaded, tired and now figless. The inner smoothboy was channelled, and I took off ahead of Todd for some time, gasping for air along the main roads as the town loomed in the distance. 10km to the train, and WE CAN FUCKING DOOOOO THIIIIIISSSSSS. A particular song started to play in my ringing ears.

I assumed the position and slick-skin form of a dolphin, hunching as low as one can over bars of that height, thankful for the stunning aerodynamics afforded by the giant black ice-box mounted on the Wolverine.

With a bit of a tail wind our luggage was less of a burden, and we collected distance faster than required for a while. On reaching the town's limits a few hundred metres ahead of Toddy, and in a moment of exhausted sweaty madness, I swung right off the main road at the behest of the Maps.me route on my phone. Bollocks. Within seconds I was powering through a suburban estate, awash with tiny redundant roundabouts and those weird curbs that are smoothly sloped. The mapping was taking me the most direct route it could think of, but the amount of turns and apparent stops seemed to all but seal my fate. I hoped my accomplice had found safer passage than myself, and I began thinking of messages of love I'd have him send to my family.

NO! You won't die in Traralgon you sweaty wazzock! Not today. Not on my watch. A cut through to another road in the burb's flew by, and I was up the weird curb with a hop, powering toward what looked like an older part of the town. A stop, a left turn and butter my unwashed arse I'm staring down the high street at a clocktower - beneath it lay the train station. Car loads of slackjaws studied as I flew past, teeth bared and groaning. Then, as if delivered to me on the wings of a Salsa angel, Todd exploded onto the road at the junction, and we both howled at the red light that'd stopped us. The clock loomed above like a moon-faced wanker with bad news. One minute to go.

"WHERE'S THE FUCKING ENTRANCE?" I stated calmly.

"BOTTOM OF THE SHOPPING CENTRE" came the measured response.

The lights turned and we blasted straight over the T-junction, hopping onto the pavement and straight through the automatic doors. THERE! It was a train, the doors lined u perfectly at the top of a ramp, which we duly rode towards. FUUUUUUCCCCKKK, off the bike and onto the shoulder with it. ZOOOOP into the doors, and BING, they slid shut behind.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

We spent the next while hugging, shouting the above, sweating continuously and shaking our heads in disbelief. TRAINFUCKER strikes again. Fellow passengers were generally bemused. Bet we absolutely stank.

EPIC-logue:

Jubilation once again turned to horror, as V-Line dealt a crushing dick blow. The train would only deliver us as far as Pakenham, and meant another 30km scooch which would amount to almost entirely climbing. Not so fresh off our heroic train dash, we alighted at Pakenham, and rode as a small bunch with two older chaps we'd met on the train. Though drained our semi-competitive nature soon left them behind, and we got to work advancing to the boss level of this climbing bullshit. I took basically no pictures, despite there being some lovely scenery in the area - but this was business time and I was Michael Douglas in Falling Down.

As testament to tiredness, here's the only picture I took on that bastard leg:

Beautiful example of a roundabout, that.

Up-and-down, up-and-down, crossing main roads and bombing through sleepy towns, 30 clicks felt like a the longest time. What should have been Cup Hundy metres of climbing became more than four, and the under-breath "Fucking Hell Todd" mantra was uttered variously. WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE? One last horrific road climb with no shoulder, cars overtaking on the blind bends, and fumes thick on the air, and I was read to call it quits. Fuck this ride, fuck this bike, fuck me, fucking fuck.

Then, the Belgrave station sign loomed atop the hill, and an unseen magnetism dragged me toward it. Down the ramp, and onto the platform without the energy alight our vehicles. I slumped in a seat, and Todd kindly took a picture of my toasted ass.

I returned the favour.

Of course, this being Public Transport Victoria, the train we'd had to take went nowhere near our respective homes, so it was off at Richmond for a final spin through the city and up into Thornbury. The usual proclamations of "I feel surprisingly fresh" after a sit down soon evaporated, and any further ascents hurt far more than they would to commute on. It was fitting that our journey would end at both a pub, and at the top of the hill, with my lovely girlfriend waited there with cold watermelon and an approving clap. The third wheel of our usual trio joined on a snazzy Cannondale and we got to replacing those poor lost calories with beers that weren't Carlton Draught. Friendshipventure overload.

All jokes aside guys, I was pretty happy with the RX100.

Film Cam Boners Footage

Benalla - Mansfield - Jamieson - Kevington - Gaffney's Creek - Woods Point - Rawson - Walhalla - Happy Go Lucky - Traralgon - Pakenham - Belgrave - Richmond - Thornbury

http://www.strava.com/activities/1388501164

http://www.strava.com/activities/1390212624

http://www.strava.com/activities/1390354253

http://www.strava.com/activities/1390449394

P.S - how do I embed Strava rides so as to not look like such an amateur?