The final section of the trail to Brimbank Park
Having lived in Emerald for the past twenty years I guess it could be said that I have gained a pretty good knowledge of the Dandenong Ranges. Regular trips into the city have even given me a passable knowledge of the Eastern Suburbs. I would be first to admit, however, that the huge area of land on the Western side of the city has always been an unknown territory. If I had lived in medieval times I would have boldly written across my western suburbs Melway maps "HERE BE DRAGONS".
When the suggestion was made that we should add a Western suburbs ride to our Annual Ride Calendar, I could not help but feel a certain degree of apprehension. Important questions arose in my mind such as "What language do the locals speak?" "Can I use Australian currency?" "What month of the year will it be over there?" and a host of others. Eventually I pushed these nagging questions to the back of my mind and tried to sound enthusiastic in my support of the suggestion. Peter assured me that we should have no trouble because he had in his possession a tattered old map of the area. "If this map was good enough for Burke and Wills, it will be good enough for us", he boasted, "nothing ever changes on that side of the city".
Keeping in mind what an epic journey lay ahead I packed my car the previous evening and went to bed dreaming about fighting mysterious beasts with smoke billowing from their flared nostrils. After a restless night I was up before dawn to do a final check on the bike and on the provisions for the journey. When the sun did finally arise it revealed a beautiful day with an unbroken blue sky. I could only hope that the weather in the west would be just as kind.
Not knowing how long the trip would take I decided to allow 90 minutes and headed off into the unknown, making sure that my trusty 1980 Melways was safely ensconced beside me on the passenger's seat. The trip down Wellington Rd went smoothly (and surprisingly quickly) and soon I was cruising down the Monash Freeway towards the city. After disappearing down a long tunnel I emerged and headed towards that famous portal to the unknown - The Westgate Bridge. In my mind it could have been called the STARGATE BRIDGE - the link to another universe.
A glance down at the Melways showed me where to turn off and a few minutes later I was parked in the Memorial Park, right under the bridge. To my surprise the entire trip had only taken a little over 45 minutes, leaving me with a lengthy wait before any of my fellow riders were due to arrive. I decided to take the time to have a look around these unfamiliar surroundings and hope that I would not fall prey to some terrible beast.
When I looked up all my worst fears were realised. The skies were filled with vast clouds of billowing black smoke - surely not just one dragon but a whole bunch (flock? peloton?) of them. When my eyes focussed better I saw that the fumes were, in fact, not from some terrible monster, but were just the regular prolific output of noxious and toxic emissions from the numerous chemical refineries in the area. That was a relief.
Not such a relief was the fact that the blue skies of the East had been replaced by a series of low black clouds, blanketing the sun and adding a leaden pall to the surroundings. Combined with the incessant smoky output from the towering chimneys on all sides, the scene reminded me of something from Dante's Inferno. Would the Ghost Riders survive this challenge ? Only time (and inspired leadership) would tell.
I decided to take a chance and risk leaving my car for a short walk. The Memorial Park is a small park which has been constructed to honour the memory of all those who were killed in the Bridge collapse of 1970. As I looked up to the huge structure towering directly overhead, I could only hope that the second group of engineers were better qualified than the first. Looking at the long list of names on the memorial plaque and the sheer size of the concrete and steel spans overhead, it was not too hard to imagine the terrible events that unfolded. At the time of the collapse I was working at the Aeronautical Research Labs in Fisherman's Bend and remember looking out over the water at the ruined span on the other side. Thirty five years later, some of those memories started to come back.
While I was lost in thought I was brought back to the present by a large group of lycra clad cyclists sweeping past on road bikes. I soon began to notice that this area must be akin to the Beach Rd of the West. We were regularly being passed by cyclists of all shapes and sizes. My spirits started to lift as my mind turned back to the main reason for our visit.
At about this time I began to be joined by the other members of the Warbies. Lex had managed to conjure up yet another of his Bavarian slap dancing Team members - this one answering to the name of Norbert. Apparently Norbert had never been on a bike before, but, having seen our pictures on the web site, figured that if we could do it, anyone could. I was pleased to see that Marg Jones had also turned up for her second ride with us. She looks like she has a good competitive nature and could fit in well with the rest of our elite athletes. We also had Brendan, Mal, Cheryl and her son Peter, John Dawson, Ben and Peter Warren (clutching the remnants of his ancient map). Soon after 10.30 am we all pedalled off into history.
The first section of the ride took us up some flat back roads before crossing the railway line and following the Maribyrnong River upstream. We had to contend with a liberal number of walkers, joggers, dogs and pram pushers, but the pleasant scenery made the time pass quickly. It was only after we had travelled about 7 km or so that disaster struck. Fortunately it struck Mal and not me. Soon Mal had his wheel removed and busied himself with his puncture repair tools while the rest of us had a well earned break.
Fifteen minutes later Mal was back underway again, travelled about 200 metres and then split the air with a resounding explosion from his rear wheel. We gathered around to help Mal hold together the remnants of his sanity while he abused Peter for selling him yet another dodgy tyre. Mal held the tyre up to show us the gaping hole. Peter looked rather sheepish and muttered something about an "expansion hole", while secretly hearing the sound of the cash register in his mind.
Ben's bike, having recently been serviced by Peter, had also developed a caucophony of evil sounding malfunctions. Each revolution of his crank brough about a combined cracking and crunching noise that set my teeth on edge. One thing was for sure, Bem would have no need for a bell on his bike during this ride. Even deaf people were covering their ears as we passed by.
Fortunately the Ghost riders have never been stopped by anything as mundane by a flat tyre and we were soon on our way again. As we progressed further upstream the terrain started to become more "undulating" (ie hilly). We zigzagged our way up and down an enormous cutting with Norbert beginning to wonder just what he had let himself in for. When we reached a fork in the trail Peter reached for his tattered map, stared at it blankly for a few minutes before pointing and proclaiming "We go this way", sending us up another fearsome hill climb.
Half an hour of huffing and puffing saw us back at exactly the same spot we had been earlier that morning. Peter should have warned us that he has absolutely no idea how to read a map. In spite of the fact that he sells both bikes and maps, apparently he knows nothing about either of them. Fortunately I was on hand to take charge and decided to ask directions of a passing jogger. Soon we were back on the correct path and, once again, following the gentle incline of the river bank.
A few minutes later I asked another female walker if we were on the correct path to Brimbank Park. She assured me that we were and that we had "only another 20km to go". Since I was already hungry, that was news I was not ready to hear. I was also beginning to have serious worries about Norbert's ability to cover that distance. Thinking it best not to worry the other riders I turned back and yelled "We're almost there, not much further now". I am not sure that Norbert believed me. After all, his eyes had completely glazed over. I could only be thankful that we had Brendan on hand to administer emergency first aid if it became necessary.
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The final section of the trail to Brimbank Park |
Fortunately when we turned the next corner we were confronted by a sign which promised that Brimbank Park (which by now had assumed status akin to the Promised Land) was, in fact, only 7 km away. This final 7km section was the most enjoyable of the entire trail, with wide, hard and smooth surfaces and gentle gradients. At this part the trail meanders alongside the river and winds under some spectacular bridges and through deep cuttings. The Maribyrnong dwindles to a narrow, almost stationary watercourse, surrounded by dense bush. If it were not for the huge jumbo jets from nearby Tullamarine rumbling low overhead every few minutes you could be forgiven for thinking that you were miles from anywhere.
We finally turned the last corner and entered the almost mythical Brimbank Park. The broad green lawns were covered with happy holiday makers but all I could think of was coffee and cakes. A friendly new Australian stopped to chat with us. Our first question was to ascertain the location of the kiosk. "There's a no shops a here mate", was his reply. "You'll a have to get onna your bikes and a ride a back to Melbourne".
Our spirits sank. How would I ever break the news to poor Norbert, without him snapping like a bent stick? Peter stared intently at his map and scratched his head. "It clearly indicates a Cobb and Co Depot somewhere near here", he puzzled. "It should be near the Blacksmith". Little John bent over his bike to repair his flat tyre, his tears splashing on the split rubber.
Just when all hope appeared lost I noticed two Park Rangers walking along the path. I thought I might gain some pity by asking them where the kiosk was. To my utter surprise they replied that it was only another 1 km further along. And to think that we had almost turned back. We had again been saved from starvation, but only by some incredibly astute leadership.
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Part of the huge railway bridge over the river |
Ten minutes later we were all happily seated and enjoying ample portions of hot chips, cream cakes, coffee and pies. This is of course, ideal food to restore our strength for the ride back. It was a pity that the sky had now assumed the colour purple and the rain looked like it was about to start with a vengeance. But were the Warbies worried? Not in the slightest - our stomachs were now full of whipped cream and sugar and our bloodstreams full of caffeine.
I am not sure of whether it was because of the howling tailwind, the downhill slope, the food in our bellies or because we were NOT following Peter's map, but for some reason the return ride only seemed to take a fraction of the time we had taken for the outward ride. With triumphant smiles on our faces we swept back along the trail, once again knowing that the Ghost Riders had conquered another challenge.
By this time Lex had tied Nornert to his bike to ensure that he could not fall off again, however we all knew that, once we had passed the fearful zig zag section it would be plain sailing all the way back to our cars. Soon after 3 pm the ride was over. In spite of a few minor problems and a dodgy map, all agreed that it had been a good ride, and one that we should make a regular part of our annual cycling calendar.
As we cut Norbert's remains from his bike and carried him to the waiting ambulance, I could not help but wonder whether we would be adding his name to the growing list of others who had managed to complete only ONE RIDE with us. Of course I still had the one challenge ahead of me - how to navigate back to the safety of the Eastern suburbs. (I needn't have worried, I was home soon after 10 pm)
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The victorious peloton live to savour another ride |