Dinner at the Main Hotel - Bairnsdale
PART ONE
Those of our readers who have not yet been entrapped by an addiction to cycling probably cannot begin to appreciate the level of excitement that accompanies the start of any of our extended cycling weekends. After all the months of meticulous planning (all of it by myself) it is such a relief to be finally heading off on another two wheeled adventure.
Our initial plan was to be underway no later than 9.30 am on Friday morning. By 9.00 am I had the bike loaded, all my gear packed in the car and was ready to get going. I sat in the car waiting for Maggie. By 10.30 am Maggie had finally finished drying her hair, polishing her nails, saying goodbye to the cat and chatting on her mobile phone and came out to join me.
In spite of my frustration I did my best to get the weekend off to a good start. "Well that didn't take long", I said, biting my tongue. Instead of being appreciative of my support she went off on some tangent raving about why I hadn't been there to "hang out the washing, do the dishes, tidy the kitchen, feed the cat, lock the doors" and a host of other minor irrelevancies. I ignored the distraction and concentrated on my driving instead.
We were finally on the move and it was great feeling to be on the freeway with the cruise control set and the kilometres ticking off. The sign announced that Bairnsdale was still 192 km away. I figured that should only take about 2 hours, but by the time we reached Moe we had to take our first stop. I wanted something to eat (country air and driving does make you hungry) and Maggie wanted a rest room (she always does). We stopped at Macdonald's for a short snack and comfort break.
The Princes Highway is a huge improvement on what it was 20 (or was it 30?) years ago. With dual carriageways and a 110 kph speed limit for much of the way the countryside soon began to flash past. Maggie started looking for the next convenience. I told her the accelerator was stuck and that we would be in Bairnsdale before she knew it.
Somewhere about 50 km west of Bairnsdale I noticed a surprising sight. Two elderly cyclists were wobbling their way down the road ahead of us. As is my custom, I was getting ready to pass judgment on their poor cycling technique and incorrect seat height when I happened to notice that one of them was wearing something resembling the remnants of a Ghost Rider jersey. By the time we pulled alongside I discovered that it was actually Legs Warren and Duncan. They said that had left at "4 am in the morning" to cycle all the way down to Bairnsdale. I resisted the urge to ask "which morning?", wound the window back up and zoomed off up the freeway leaving them in a shower of stones.
"What's the matter?", Maggie asked. "Bloody showoffs", I muttered. "This was meant to be a weckweational weekend, not an Olympic Trial".
About 30 minutes later we had reached Bairnsdale, been given the keys to our huge Honeymoon Suite at the Colonial Motel and went off in search of lunch. In the centre of the main street we stopped outside a Bakery and I was pleased to see that they made fresh sandwiches to order. I went down to the sandwich counter to look at the range of fresh ingredients they had available to choose from. The large black blowfly happily crawling over the chopped chicken caused an immediate loss of appetite, and we made a hasty retreat back to the street. It was now about 2 pm and dinner did not seem all that far off.
We decided to spend the rest of the afternoon taking in some of the major sights of Bairnsdale (10 minutes), drinking cappuccinos (60 minutes), reading my Keith Dunstan book (70 minutes) and relaxing in our giant spa (80 minutes), while Peter and Duncan rode the remaining few kilometres into town. By about 5 pm they finally arrived at the Motel.
Peter was covered in grease and sweat, was unsteady on his feet and seemed to be having trouble putting his words together. His face was frozen in a rictus of anguish. When you consider that was how he was before he left Monbulk, you can only imagine the state he was in 250 km later. We prized his hands from the handlebars and carried him to his room. He seemed past caring. Duncan, on the other hand, looked a little grey but insisted that he could easily do "another 200km before dinner".
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Dinner at the Main Hotel - Bairnsdale |
Meanwhile Ben had devised his own unique way of passing the afternoon. He had also arrived early and had begun his weekend adventure by securely locking his keys inside his car. He then spent the next three hours scraping copious amounts of duco from his rear door with a bent coat hanger. Not being an expert car thief I could offer him no advice, other than "are you in the RACV?" For good measure I decided to repeat this advice every 15 minutes.
Ben progressed from scraping off paint to destroying most of the rubber weather strip. "Is it working?", I politely enquired from a safe distance. I could not understand his reply. It was then that I had a brainwave and suggested that a locksmith might be a good idea. A few minutes later the "locksmith(s)" arrived in an old beat up hatchback loaded with safecracking tools in the back. The two professional locksmiths looked like two inmates from the nearest reform school, doing some extra work experience.
About two minutes later, thanks to a large screwdriver and a length of packaging tape, Ben's car was open. Their work was not entirely finished however. They then proceeded to lighten Ben's wallet to the tune of $60. Cash only of course - no receipts issued. Off they went with big smiles on their faces. I can only imagine what their opinion of city slickers was.
Once everyone had found their way to the motel it was time to head off to the Main Hotel for dinner. This was only a short walk down the road and Hooters immediately assumed the role of Tour Guide by pointing out all the houses he grew up in and kept us informed with valuable information like "That was my Primary School", "I walked down that street", "I remember that tree", and so on. The 10 minute walk seemed to drag on for a much longer time.
At the Main Hotel we were ushered to a large table in the rear section. Although Peter did not have a reservation we smuggled him in anyway. I was just thankful that he had a shower, although he was still looking rather disheveled.
An East Gippsland steak for me and some vegetarian concoction for Maggie helped to satisfy our hunger. The servings were generous and well prepared. It was a pity that the desserts were not up to the same high standard as the main courses.
After dinner we enjoyed another slow walk back to the motel to prepare for the start of the main ride in the morning. While I was sitting on the bed I discovered that they were screening King Solomon's Mines on TV and that it showed early promise of being a good yarn. Three hours later I was still waiting for the story to get going and I finally lost interest. Sleep seemed a much more intelligent option.
PART TWO
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Some of the initial starting peloton gathered at Bairnsdale, waiting for Ben to arrive. |
One thing I did check on Friday night was the weather forecast for the Gippsland region. It was for morning showers followed by afternoon rain, or vice versa. In any case, it was not all that promising. Previous experience had showed us that the East Gippsland Rail Trail can be an inhospitable place in pouring rain. I was therefore very relieved when I looked out of the window on Saturday morning and was greeted by a much more encouraging sight. Instead of pouring rain we had been blessed with a fine morning with breaks of blue sky.
We proceeded to pack up our rooms and retrieve our bikes from the billiard room where they had been locked up for the night. (The motel owner did not want greasy chain marks on the bed sheets). One by one yellow clad riders emerged and started flexing their powerful leg muscles and chatting about the challenge ahead. It was at this stage that Roger made a horrifying discovery - he had left his cycling shoes at home. Since his bike was fitted with clipless pedals his ride was already looking to be in jeopardy before it had even started.
Various alternatives were discussed, including binding his feet to the pedals with duct tape, but he decided to head off into Bairnsdale in search of a bike shop. About an hour later he returned with a brand new pair of $50 bike shoes, for which he had paid $230. I guess the word had gone around the local traders that the Warbies were in town.
Before we could actually begin the ride we had to securely park the cars that we would be leaving behind. It was fortunate that Robyn's mother lives in Bairnsdale and offered to look after the vehicles for the next evening. We rode out of the motel and rode the short distance to her house. Somehow Ben got lost and headed off down the main street and out of sight. A few minutes later we were all gathered outside one of the stately old homes in the posh part of Bairnsdale wondering how we would ever find Ben.
Fortunately Hooters was fully equipped with his usual battery of mobile phones, GPS units and personal organisers (mostly either mounted on his head or strapped to his utility belt). He called Joy to see if she had seen any sign of Ben. It was a stroke of good luck that she actually happened to be parked alongside him at the traffic lights. For a short time it looked like the crisis had been averted.
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Hooters leads the peloton up a steep slope |
Hooters took up a command post overlooking the valley, adjusted the antennas on his helmet and proceeded to give Joy directions on how to drive the 300 metres to where we were all waiting for them. He looked like the famous Colonel Blimp directing his troops from a safe distance. "Turn left", we could hear him shouting. "Now straight ahead, stop, turn right at the big tree, under the bridge, U turn at the river, turn right, slow down, past my old house, turn right at my old school........" and so it went on. After about 15 minutes on this inane nonsense Joy decided to ignore John's instructions and use her common sense instead. She arrived within 30 seconds, with Ben still following.
Finally we were underway, only about 60 minutes behind schedule. All that remained was for a slow formation ride up the main street. This was for the benefit of any fans that had been waiting patiently all morning for us to pass by. I suspect that some local traders may have also been excited at the prospect of removing some additional money from our wallets.
Although the crowd in the Main St turned out to be a little smaller than I had anticipated we were waved to by an old guy standing in a shop doorway. We picked up pace as we crossed the big bridge on the outskirts of town and then turned on to the actual rail trail. The first 10 km of the trail is actually constructed of bitumen and previous rides have shown that some, less disciplined, riders (ie Bolter Doswell) have an early tendency to bolt into the distance leaving the peloton in ruins. I was very pleased to see that no such tendency manifested itself on this ride. In fact everyone seemed content to ride in formation and enjoy a pleasant chat as we rolled smoothly along. After crossing roads the front riders even slowed down to allow the group to reform. This was truly pelotonic social riding at its best - even Hooters seemed satisfied.
We were soon at the first big bridge over the Nicholson River. From this point on the surface of the trail reverts to a gravel top. I was pleased to see that the quality of the surface had improved significantly in the past 12 months, with most sections now packed quite firm. We were able to roll along quite freely without the drag that I remembered from our previous rides along this trail.
By 11 am we were rolling into the main street of Bruthen, surely one of the most pretty small towns in Victoria with its well kept gardens and lawns a most relaxing place to rest after a stint on the bike. We also learned from previous experience and avoided the shop where the main claim to fame is the slowest service any of us had ever experienced. Most of us chose instead to visit the bakery for a hot pie and coffee.
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The group rests at the summit of the climb at Siberia Crossing (We did not realise that Peter was missing due to a puncture). |
After the early lunch it was back on the bikes again for the slightly more strenuous section where we climb into the Colqhoun Forest. In spite of the increased gradient, pelotonic unity was maintained for a suprisingly long time. At the summit we stopped at the "Siberia Crossing" sign for a group photo to send to our friends in Russia.
Once part this point it is mostly downhill to Nowa Nowa, although we were regularly kept on our guard by several sections where some expert had chosen to dress the trail surface with 15 cm of soft beach sand. This sent most of our riders out of control and struggling to decleat before falling off their stalled bikes. I must admit our antics would have done the Keystone Cops proud.
A couple of km from Nowa Nowa we see a spectacular trestle bridge, surely one of the largest in Victoria. Since it is not possible to ride across the bridge itself, the trail detours down to the gully, before a steep climb up the far side. Going down the slope presents no real problems, but no-one managed the climb without having to get off and walk. Obviously it is much steeper than it looks.
The final short section to Nowa Nowa saw several more sand traps for unwary cyclists, but by now we were starting to get the hang of it, and, after a final downhill sprint we were all safely gathered outside the Nowa Nowa Nudist Show. This is a regular part of all of our excursions down to this part of the world, and for some of our riders, it is an apparent highlight.
At this point I chose to get a lift down to Lakes Entrance so that I would have time to enjoy a long walk along the beach. Most of the others were conned by Chris' claim that it was "all downhill" from here and chose to ride down instead. They were not a pretty sight when they finally arrived at the motel. It made me all the more thankful for the recuperative powers of a long soak in the spa and a walk on the beach.
All in all it had been a most successful day's riding. The only puncture had been suffered by Peter, but after all, he is the only one who gets unlimited free bikes, tyres and tubes, so no-one felt too sorry for him. Just when I thought that everything had gone according to plan, my quiet contemplation was spoilt by the ringing of my mobile phone. It turned out to be the manager of the Colonial Motor Inn. I suspected that someone must have left something behind, but in fact the reason for the call was something much more sinister.
"We want to know what has happened to all the mugs from Room 4", the voice demanded. I didn't know what to say. I suppose I could have said something like "They have just finished riding into Lakes Entrance", but instead I feigned ignorance.The phone voice went on to tell me that "all the mugs from the room had been stolen" and that they expected them to be returned. After the unfortunate famous 2004 Mug Incident (see last year's chronicle) I could not believe that history could be repeating itself.
I had no choice but to confront the culprits. Rather than feeling guilty for accidentally liberating the mugs, they seemed relieved that the missing sheets, electric jug and TV remote control had not been discovered at the same time. Such incidents surely mean that the number of motels willing to accommodate us next time we are in Bairnsdale will be vanishingly small.
By 7 pm most of our riders and crew were ready for dinner. It was only a short walk down to Pinocchio Inn but the howling head wind made the going difficult. We tried to put our cycling savvy to work by forming a walking peloton and slipstreaming behind the person in front. It must have looked ridiculous but it seemed to help.
The restaurant had a long table set up for 19 people. The only trouble was that when we started eating we noticed a spare seat. Closer inspection revealed that Peter was missing in action. Apparently his extreme cycling exertions had caused such fatigue that he had retired to his room to sleep and nobody had noticed his absence. He would most likely be still sleeping in a week's time unless someone woke him up. A special courier was sent back to disturb his slumber and he was eventually reunited with the rest of the group.
It was a welcome relief that the meals were prepared speedily although for some reason Maggie's dinner was forgotten. While everyone else was satisfying their hunger she had to look on and listen to her tummy rumbling under the tablecloth. The waitress was consulted and she promised that a dinner would be prepared as soon as possible. In the meantime she brought a cup of coffee for Maggie to eat. I enjoyed a very nice Beef and Reef in the meantime.
At the end of dinner we started the usual deliberations over who owed what. Much mental arithmetic was undertaken and money was passed from one end of the table to the other. Nobody was game to see if there was any similarity between the amount on the bill and the amount of cash collected. Eventually poor Duncan said that he would pay by credit card and collected the money and went to the cashier in a state of extreme anxiety. He needn't have worried, somehow when the accounts were toted up, not only did he and Linda get their dinners FREE, he made a tidy profit on the remaining cash as well. They came away beaming and with their pockets bursting with $2 coins. I suspect that the next person who volunteers to pay the bill will not be so fortunate.
Back at the motel I decided not to watch the rest of King Solomon's Mines and went to bed instead. Soon I was in the land of Nod, dreaming about celestial pelotons and rail trails with no sand traps.
PART THREE
Sunday again dawned fine and cool. While some of the team decided to ride back to Nowa Nowa I wanted to err on the side of common sense and take the car instead. We overtook the single line of riders as they fought their way up a long hill near the start of the bike trail and waited for them to arrive at the familiar Nudist Display.
Within a few minutes the entire group was again assembled and ready to begin the reverse traverse of the trail. In single file we crossed the road and began the climb back up to the trestle bridge. This time we were prepared for the quicksand (the slough of despair) and made a valiant attempt to cross without falling off. To my surprise I was able to safely make it across to solid ground without putting a foot down, but I am not sure that my clumsy technique would have scored any points for artistic merit.
At the giant bridge we caught up with a couple of middle aged female cyclists who had just begun their journey. One of these women was the proud owner of a massive dual suspension, giant tyred, monster bike. This was her first ride on her new bike and I suspected by the trouble she was obviously having riding up even a gentle slope, that the inappropriateness of her choice was already plainly evident to her. Why any professional bike shop owner would sell such an unwise choice of bike to such a rider never ceases to amaze me. Maybe the motive of maximum profits wins out over wise advice far too often. I felt sorry for her as she wrestled her stupid monster bike up the trail. The two of them were soon out of sight far behind us and we never saw either of them again.
To my pleasant surprise, pelotonic unity again ruled supreme for most of the ride and it gave us a great opportunity to chat as we rode along. From time to time the sun broke through the clouds to take the chill off the air. All around we were surrounded by classic Australian countryside, decked in a luxurious shade of green from the recent abundant rains. Many of the farms had been harvesting their hay and hundreds of giant circular bales were scattered liberally in the hillsides, waiting to be collected and stored. The air was full of the sweet scent of new mown grass. We all agreed that Australian cyclists have a lot to be thankful for.
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Taking a moment to enjoy the view from a scenic crest about 20 km from Bairnsdale |
One highlight of the ride was a large echidna, leisurely making its way across the trail. We stopped to watch its passage and to enjoy the beauty that was all around us. It really was a magic moment when we all felt so much at peace with the world. At least we did until my mobile phone rang again. This time it was the Cunningham Shore Motel. My heart sank. I wondered what had gone missing this time. Fortunately the only thing that had gone missing was about $800 out of Roger's bank account. Apparently they had accidentally charged his credit card with the wrong amount. That was certainly a relief - I had feared that it might have been bad news. We couldn't wait to pass on the news to Roger, who had been the only one to bolt away from the peloton.
At Bruthen we joined with the support crew to enjoy lunch in the park. With only about 30 km left to cycle, no-one was in any particular hurry to get going, but finally we mounted and headed off on the final stage of our weekend ride. This section is gently undulating and quite easy to ride, although we did overtake another woman pushing her bike up a very gentle slope. We stopped at the top to enjoy the view and watched as she walked a few paces, rested and then walked some more. By the time she caught up to us, she looked completely spent. We offered to let her ride with us but she replied that we were "just too fast for her". This was a surprise because, at that time, we weren't even moving. I suspected she would make a great cycling companion for Hooters.
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The ride is over so it's time for a rest and a cup of tea - courtesy of Robyn's mother. |
A couple of km further on we met her husband sitting on a chair by the side of the trail. He had apparently been waiting for her all afternoon. I stopped to ask him whether this was his wife's first ride. "Oh no", he replied, "she has been riding for years". Just as I expected, she was even more like Hooters than I had at first thought.
All too soon we were rolling back into the Main Street of Bairnsdale. Hooters pulled alongside and resumed his commentary. "That's where the train used to go", "I used to play in that park". I managed to summon some residual strength and pull ahead of him, hearing his comments gradually fade behind me. Once through the town we gathered at Robyn's mother's house for a cup of tea and a final rest in the afternoon sunshine. What a perfect way to end a memorable weekend. Surely this is what life is all about - building great friendships while doing something you love.
With the planned extension of the trail to Orbost due to open shortly, when we return in 2006 we will be able to explore another 30 km of new trail. I am looking forward to it already.
In SummaryDamages:
Punctures (three)
Coffee Mugs (complete set taken from Colonial Motor Inn)
Cycling Shoes (belonging to Roger - left at home)
Ford Motor Vehicle (belonging to Ben - suffered severe damage to rear door through attempted forced entry)
Winners:
Peter and Duncan for setting a new endurance record of 250 km in a single day
Duncan for getting two free dinners and pocketful of cash on Saturday night
Bairnsdale Locksmiths for opening Ben's car and pocketing $60 for 2 minutes' work
Bairnsdale Bicycles for making a huge profit in selling Roger a pair of new cycling shoes
Cunningham Shore Motel for making an unexpected extra $800 profit
Hooters for not once saying "Why do we do this ?"
Losers:
Roger for leaving his shoes at home
Peter and Duncan for inflicting permanent damage to their backsides
Ben for locking his keys in the car and getting lost in Bairnsdale
Everyone who missed out on coming on this trip - they missed a beauty.