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Hey that's really nice!
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I'd probably have to tone down the blue language ;)
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Yeah it's pretty fucking hectic along there. We were so glad to get off the GOR, and straight back into the quiet dirt!
Turton's is tits out. Think I thought I was hallucinating from cheese overload at that point.
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What are you after - some real smutty close-ups? I'm doing some hacking and bodging of a decaleur and light mount for my new rack so I'll likely take some pictures of the process to remind myself how badly it went..
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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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That's fuckin' WILD!
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Very excellent.
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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 ;)
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Saw a guy's tubeless Clemente tyre explode off the rim mid-ride on the weekend. Which was fortunate as I had my own flat and was waiting for someone with a pump..
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This looks like a lot of fun. May I ask where you've ordered the frameset from?
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It's a great part of the country to ride, if a bit challenging at times. The trick is avoiding the GOR where possible I'd say.
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Maxxis Crossmark II!
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And lo the call of adventure rumbled audibly in the distance, and gayly we piled into the back of a Peugeot 205 (XT) with 276,000km's on the clock as rain lashed the exterior. Our aim: Solidify friendships old and new, climb mountains, view vistas and eat packet noodles. We would drive to Forrest, get arse-faced in the brewery there, stay the night and froth our way to the beautiful coastline. All we needed was ourselves, snacks and our dreams and some money to buy booze. The three 650boiz, ready for anything.
An overnighteur wouldn't be one without a race against time, which came in the form of Forrest's premier (and only) brewery closing its kitchen at 8:30PM. We screeched sideways into the carpark not fully confident both bikes were still atop the car and ran in salivating at 8:20:PM. Now, Australia has a lot of breweries, and if you land one in an otherwise sleepy town popular with mountain cyclists, you'll likely do well. That does not mean however, that you can necessarily produce good yeasty beverages, as evidenced by their $15 (!!!!) pint of IIPA which tasted of distant farts and grass. The brewery redeemed itself with a Philly Cheese Steak sammish for the ages, all oily as fuck and delicious in spite of the inevitable heartburn.
A quick re-negotiation of our credit card limits later and we were a few pints deep, ready to venture outside into what should now be clear skies and absolutely no rain whatsoever. We'll braid each other's hair under the stars and share stories under the stars, I thought. But it hadn't stopped raining, and we sat in a car park staring glumly out into the boglands that were once a campsite. After some reflection Sam flung open a door and stormed into the night to find a suitable spot. There was not a suitable spot, but after some searching and fumbling in the night a BBQ shed was located, and that was where we'd be camping. As far as camping next to a BBQ leaking gas goes, the experience was most pleasant. Just the inner of our tents were required leaving the tin roof to deflect golfball sized rain globules throughout the night. On reflection it was a bit like sleeping in an outdoor store display tent.
DAY TWO: the The Friendship Overnighteur (AKA The 650Boiz, AKA Otway Adventureurs)
Got the day started the RIGHT way with cured pig and chicken embryo sammies doused with coconut (?!) hot sauce. Look at these happy flanneltards:
And with that we were off, each astride our bicycles, farting nervous energy and real farts as we wheeled free of the constraints of civilisation. A mere ten minutes in we'd veered off tarmac and straight into a suitably crumbly climb out of the valley up to Ridge Road - a first peak of the glorious rolling hills before the inevitable troughs (and more peaks). As we crested the sun illuminated our winter grizzled faces, but a wall of dark clouds hither to the coastline indicated we may not have seen the last of the night's dampness. Muddy wet arses loomed like spectres as we trucked along the ridgeline through lush pines. The heavens opened, and there was a brief stop to don technical waterproofed body casing. It was hard not to lament my blackened toenail, wounded in the frosty mountain adventure battle up at Keppel Hut thanks to my plastic bag booties, and which had only last week broken free of the rest of my foot like a rudimentary yellow coin from a civilisation long forgotten. So 'Never again shall I lose an upper toe shield to the cold' I said to myself, staring wistfully up at the sky.
I've become fond of rural Australia's fondness for ridge roads. A few zesty lung-stingers skyward and you find yourself on a rollercoaster of ever changing vistas, the gentle rolling allowing for riders to indulge in sea shanties and this part of the Great Otway National Park was no different. The sign said we'd made it, and though we were happy for the words of encouragement, we knew that this was just the beginning.
You'll note a lack of pictures until this point, but our triumphant arrival at Gellibrand along the first section of boggy rail-trail marked a turning point in coverage. They hang cyclists in Gellibrand, but they're thoughtful enough to create a commemorative tree to all of the unlucky visitors that had come before us. We'd been forewarned of the locals insatiable desire to kill and had all sprayed ourself with goat milk, known to send Gellibranders running.
There in the sleepy town we stopped for warm beverages at a little cafe and I don't mind telling you I treated myself to a biscuit. Outside a local sidled up, looking for conversation and received it in the form of information about our ride, from whence we had come was quite far he said in swear words, and to where to were going was further (also in swear words). Before we could found out more about this man he'd inhaled the last atom of cigarette between thumb, forefinger and index before folding himself into a dilapidated circa 1993 Nissan Skyline and bezzing off with a respectable burnout. Oh to be 36 again.
Before we could leave the town's limits we'd segwayed back onto the rail trail, which Todd promised wasn't our daddies rail trail, and was in fact a bit of a troublesome cunt at times. Nonsense, if a train can ride up this bullshit then I can certainly do the same thing in a flannel.
Even this poor masonry work wasn't going to stop me.
So far so beautiful, apart from being muddy as shit and the narrow trail presenting patches of ground that looked absolutely fine, yet turned into molasses as your wheel hit. I'm not afraid to say that ol' piston legs felt the first stingy thigh of the day.
Then BOOM, out we fucking pop on another ridge, felled trees laid waste to by some hungry logging monster all to our right presenting a gaping vista, which Todd kindly explained would one day all be mine. He's yet to substantiate this with any real evidence but in the spur of the moment I was very excited.
Another bend, another great view of the boys off in the distance. Outside is free.
That's when Old Beechy Rail Trail turned from the stuff of erotic novels to an all out praying sesh at the church of muddy pain. Legend (Todd) has it that owing to the sectioning off of private land, the route of the trail no longer followed it's original - e.g. not fucking mental - route that Thomas the Tank Engine would whip through sans problem, to something only a lunatic could have conceived. An ultimate sloppathon up 25% mud pinches and back down through bog gullies. Old mate Sam stacked fairly hard and was saved only by his tenacious flannel, which to a junior toureur may have been game over, but not this man.
Hike-a-bike and slick ground had grown tiresome after a few kilometres, but we slopped into sleepy Beech Forest some time around 1PM and made for the pub, greeted by a wolfhound and a wood fire.
It's reassuring to know you're among professionals, and it's never more clear than when a ride colleague playfully drops a well known bike shop cap into the shot with nary a wink.
Just look at that placement by the golden chippies. The gravy was magnificent, and the four beers we snaffled were at least on par. With no further stops en route to our coastal campout, and out of pure fear of holding a sober conversation among ourselves, we purchased further frothies and a bottle of wine and took to the road again after a rain shower.
The full extent of Sam's short-lived mud wrestling career was plain to see as we passed over the rolling farm lands out of Beech Forest, destined for the Triplet Falls within the valley's gaping gusset.
And lo did the boys of adventure descend rapidly amidst the mossy aromas buried deep within the hills as it wound down to the now audible falls. Past the car park we piled the bikes up in a threatening way so as to scare off any drop bears, and off down the million stairs to our beloved falls we went, cleats a cloppin'.
The falls were not in the least bit shit, but we had a job to do and it was largely related to cycling and friendship, leaving little time for large channels of fast moving water cascading down picturesque rock formations. We rounded back to the car park and got on our way, pulling onto a blocked off 4x4 road to quickly find out why it was blocked off. Winter had ravaged the track's sandy surface and the trees above had staged some form of riot, throwing all their dangly bits down at the floor in a bid to kill us. The rain rutted ground and innumerable objects claimed its first victim; an unsuspecting can of tuna from Sam's Ocean Air Cycles Docena was jettisoned into the air. Much like a tiny gold bullion in form and appearance, and a tin of tuna to an adventureureur holds just as much value. I scooped it up and placed it in the top pocket of my flanny, feeling like the hero I fucking was.
Canned fish heroics aside, all this hike-a-bike and pedal-a-bike had us a bit spent, but the heady climbs kept coming as we ascended out of waterfallsville. The next descent promised to be a belter, with around 300m of elevation cheques to be cashed in at the Bank of Downhill en route to the sea. It was, like pretty much all of the dirt descents I've done in the area, fucking glorious. Winding through now luscious farm land and green hills, wheels skittering over loose rocks sideways to the grippy stuff. The salty bollocks of the ocean felt tantalisingly close.
And behold, a grey wedge of the wet stuff loomed in the distance after another brief climb. All that stood in our way now was yet another vistacoaster. As we trundled up hill and down dale (he didn't mind), I glanced across at a young sheep in fine fettle, who in my euphoria I could have sworn had the head of Anthony Kiedis, mouthing the words "You Did It Chris". Remarkable.
And at the corner of a grassy field the God of Touring had one final word of encouragement for us as He/She forced aside the ominous clouds for a glorious photo opportunity, tears (from the wind) rolling down our rosy cheeks.
Camp Johanna was signposted shortly thereafter. As part of the 'Great Ocean Walk', the access up across a grassy knoll and through a pine needle strewn single track was to be hiked per instruction from said sign, but damnit we weren't walking our bikes anymore.
The campsite entry was a small pathway along the pine tree lined spine of the hill, with a steep drop away to the ocean to your right, and the bumpy farm landscape at your left with options to camp with stunning views of either.
Fortunately there was nobody else camping that night, which means there was nobody around to hear three grown men squeeling "OMG HOW GOOD IS THIS PLACE?". We set to work helping one another with erections, and Sam produced an extensive camp kitchen from places unknown to produce a fiery explosion capable of cooking as many Laksa noodz as we'd need.
The night was spent sat in that great viking half-hall slicing discs of saucisson and drinking wine like three muddy conquereurs wearing head torches, not quite believing our luck. Even forgetting my titanium spork wasn't enough to dampen spirits, and the heady air of friendship solidified by adventure meant two lightweight spoonforks was more than enough. What a time to be alive.
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I'd say that's a bit of a bargain for sure...The paint appears to be in better shape than mine, but finding a good non-tapered fork for these things appears to be getting increasingly difficult!
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Removed the shite Crank Brothers bars and replaced them with Nitto For Shreds. By some fortuitous miracle Blue Lug initially sent me some 25.4 clamp Shreds, then told me to keep 'em and sent the 31.8's. SHREEEDDDDD.
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Cool! Confuses me how that would fit on the inside of the fork though. Does it run super close to the spokes?
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@pascalo looks good. What are you using to mount that light on the front?
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That'll be a beaut. I haven't had a chance to ride mine as yet, but I can say that I've had an erection since first touching it. Now all I need to do is sell my other mountain bike and track bike and I'll be able to move around in the house again.
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Oh don't worry, there's still gonna be plenty of those!
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Yeah, I bought it. Felt bad for the poor bloke. Fuck me it's hot.
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I've all but bought this in my tiny mind brain... Is 900 quid a good price for it?
LFGSS
London Fixed Gear and Single-Speed is a community of fixed gear and single-speed cyclists.
Fuck that looked nasty. Get well soon, Jack!