21st to 23rd November 2003 - We Test the East Gippsland Rail Trail

If you had to identify any one factor that was responsible for the spectacular rise of the Warby Riders to pre-eminence in the cycling world, it would no doubt be our readiness to take on new challenges and then triumph over them. After having already tackled such epic rides as the Great Traverse (and the Reverse Traverse), The Donna Buang Summit, The Poowong Classic, The Toolangi Hill Climb, The Bellarine Circuit, The Warburton Trail and countless others, we needed a new and greater challenge. I had studied the charts in detail and eventually decided that the next step would be to attempt the East Gippsland Sand Slog (aka East Gippsland Rail Trail)?

This promised to be an even tougher challenge than most earlier exploits. No more sissy smooth bitumen roads or light weight plastic "toy bikes". This would be a challenge for real men, requiring stamina, determination, bike craft, mountaineering skills, bush mechanics and ...... mountain bikes. The ride would take us into the unknown Victorian High Country and the mysterious Colquhoun Wilderness Area. Those who succeeded would have something to bore their grandchildren about for years into the future.

Although we had been hoping for a fine weekend the weather forecast was less than encouraging and the low overhanging clouds that followed us all the way down to Bairnsdale were dark and pregnant with foreboding. When we arrived at the motel we were met by Fran and Bob (who was already busy looking at his unfamiliar mountain bike with a mixture of fear and loathing). He told me that he did not know if he would be strong enough to ride a bike that weighed more than he did.

Within a couple of hours we were met by the rest of the team. John and Joy had arrived in time for John to immediately get all nostalgic and regale us all with long meaningless stories about his early childhood spent in Bairnsdale. He insisted on showing us the house that he grew up in. The only problem was that each time he conducted this tour he pointed out a different house! He also went off to one of the local nursing homes to visit some of his old girlfriends. (Later in the evening we discovered that he was offended on the way down to Bairnsdale when he stopped at the Macdonald's drive through and the serving girl asked if had his Seniors Card with him).

Mal and Darrell also arrived with their impressive mountain bikes. Mal spent the next hour trying to figure out how to program the impressive looking bicycle computer on his (borrowed) bike. Apparently the computer was running the latest version of Windows and kept crashing. It's also hard to use a mouse while you are pedaling, but this was just another challenge for him to overcome.

Mal's balloon tyres were clearly marked "max pressure 40 psi" so he proceeded to challenge the laws of Physics and Rubber Technology by coercing almost 120 psi into each rock hard tyre. I tried to remind him that if one blew it would be heard all the way back to Melbourne. Did he look concerned? Not in the slightest.

The biggest surprise was when Warren arrived with his brand new bike, he hadn't even had a ride yet so he decided to try it out by riding up and down the street behind the motel. When Duncan arrived with his (recently repaired) mountain bike, the team was complete.

Of course no riding exploits can be achieved on an empty stomach so we all walked up the main street to the Central Hotel for a belly bursting meal and lots of jovial conversation and peals of laughter. Although some of the weaker riders may have been apprehensive about the challenge that lay ahead, they were determined not to let their fears affect their appetites.

Plans were made to begin the ride at 10 am on Saturday morning and by 9.30 all riders were kitted up in their wet weather gear and gazing forlornly at the leaden skies. No matter how hard we looked not a patch of blue was visible anywhere, and the parts of the sky that were not dark blue were actually black. At least the rain had settled down to just a gentle drizzle - at that rate it would be at least several minutes before we would be wet through.

At 10 o'clock the riders all lined up for the obligatory group photograph. The large sign behind us proclaimed "POO", and this was probably the way we were starting to feel about the weather. But having driven 250 km we would not be distracted by something as trivial as pneumonia.

Eight brave souls rode out of Bairnsdale into the unknown, led by Brian Coulter, the one-time Warby Rider who had chosen to emigrate to this area. Brian, being a retired army major (and hence an expert in weather forecasting and survival skills), accompanied us to the start of the trail, looked up and said "That's it, I'm getting out of here", and then promptly rode back to the warmth of his house.

The seven remaining riders rode on towards Nicholson on a smooth bitumen track. We were welcomed by a head wind that blew in our faces with all the fury of a genuine Force 5 gale. At least the howling wind helped to evaporate some of the water than was rapidly seeping into every nook and cranny of our bodies. I tried to remain positive as I took up a position in Mal's slipstream, gritted my teeth and pushed ahead. The wind responded to my challenge by increasing to a Force 6 gale.

Slowly we progressed along the trail, tacking when necessary to avoid the full meteorological maelstrom that assailed us. We knew that we still had another 65 km or so to ride, so why were we so tired at this early stage? We had to hope that our second wind would arrive soon and that it would NOT be directly in our faces.

Disaster strikes early

The first major landmark we reached was the enormous trestle bridge across the Nicholson River. This was indeed quite a sight and somehow we must have been a little distracted because the next thing we knew we were spread eagled all across the bitumen. Although I cannot actually remember falling it was obvious that some sort of incident must have occurred so I reached for the camera to record it for our readers.

After a few minutes of high jinx we remounted our bikes and pushed back into the wind. Once across the bridge the bitumen ceased and we found ourselves riding on a smooth surface constructed out of SAND. This is probably a most excellent surface for horse's hooves, but definitely NOT a great surface for bicycle riding. Whichever enterprising contractor got the job of "surfacing the trail" has a lot to answer for, and I am sure he has never ridden a bicycle in his life.

For the next 5 km or so we pushed against the head wind AND the sandy track AND the rain. This was proving to be quite a challenge, especially for Warren on his first ride on a mountain bike, but he remained cheerful in spite of it all. Fortunately the trail takes a sharp turn to the North a few km past Nicholson and this meant that the wind was no longer in our faces, although the rain was still dripping down our backs.

It was somewhere along this section that we noticed a couple of riders approaching us from the opposite direction. When they got closer we could see that it was in fact, Bob and Mal riding in the wrong direction. Apparently Bob's heart starter had fallen from his bike and they were riding back in search of it. Bob could not understand how it could have fallen off because he had secured it with his finest rubber band. Unfortunately the search proved fruitless.

Waiting for the mossies

When we reached a nice tunnel it appeared to be the ideal place to shelter for a few moments while we enjoyed a drink and a rest. We did not realise that 4.7 million mosquitoes had already claimed this tunnel as their abode and they set about introducing themselves to our exposed legs with unbounded enthusiasm. After a couple of minutes spent dancing our own version of the Bavarian slap dance we decided that the rain was better than being eaten alive.

No sooner had we outrun the mosquito plague than Duncan staged a spectacular blowout. Actually it was not Duncan that had the blowout but one of his tyres, but the delay was approximately the same (and much more pleasant for the other riders). Darrell joined in the fray by announcing that he had lost the cap off his front suspension but found a convenient acorn of the approximate size to replace it. True bush mechanics at its best.

Approaching Bruthen on Day 1

The remainder of the trail down to Bruthen consisted of undulating hills surrounded by gentle green countryside. These would not normally have posed much of a challenge, but with the soft sand, the heavier bikes and the incessant rain, we were all quite glad when the township came into view. Bruthen is a very pretty place with a wide main street adorned with a covered rotunda and lots of well cared for gardens. It even has a couple of nice bakeries.

While we sheltered in the rotunda and drank our cappuccinos I noticed a strange looking object nearby. It looked just like Mr Squiggle's rocket ship, but in fact it was the remains of an air force jet that crashed in the district many years ago. It's amazing what little gems these little towns hold. Poowong might have it's wooden horse but Bruthen has it's mounted nose cone (and Nowa Nowa has its nudes - but that's another story).

While we had lunch in the shelter, Bob, John and Warren decided that they had had enough and changed back into their warm clothes. Some of the others were still a little undecided what to do, but when, after another half hour, the weather showed no sign of improvement and hypothermia started to set in, the unanimous decision was made to pull the pin and hope for a better day tomorrow. At least this would give us all extra time to enjoy a good rest in the motel at Lakes Entrance.

Noddy - The VERY talkative Cockatoo

The bikes were loaded, the lycras were discarded and soon we were all checking in to the Cunningham Shore Motel in Lakes Entrance. I was especially blessed to see that Maggie and I had been recognised by the proprietors when they allocated us to the "presidential suite" - complete with huge spa, VCR and other little luxuries. The other couples retired to their (lesser) rooms and soon the sound of snoring was heard from one end of the motel to the other. I soon found that we had also been "blessed" by being the closest room to the cage of NODDY the (very talkative) cockatoo.

I had booked us into the Lakes Entrance RSL for dinner and this proved to be another very wise choice. We were soon faced with another formidable challenge - how to empty the enormous plates of food we had placed in front of us. Although none of us won the raffle I am sure we all enjoyed the great meal we shared. Well perhaps all of us except Bob who was starting to fidget and point at the clock. He kept going on about some Rugby Game that was due to start soon. The closer it got to 8 pm the more agitated he became, until he abruptly got up and went back to the motel by himself.

Enjoying Dinner at Lakes Entrance RSL

The rest of us had a much more sensible approach to the game. We all thought that the only important bit was the last few minutes. That would still give us plenty of time to find a coffee shop for desserts and coffee. About 30 minutes of searching around Lakes Entrance led us to a nice Pizza restaurant where we proceeded to rearrange the dining room to accomodate our party of 13 noisy people.

Eventually we returned to the motel where most of us gathered in Darrell and Linda's room to watch the remainder of the Rugby. By this time the scores were equal and it looked as if it could be a tight ending. We had obviously done the smart thing in not watching the first 50 minutes of the match. Out came the sweets and crackers and we settled down to barack for our team (although no-one had a clue about the obscure rules of this weird game).

It was at this point that an appalling event took place that was to change the weekend forever.

In 1984, on a winter's night in Sarajevo, Torvill and Dean skated their way to immortality in scoring their perfect "ten" ice dancing to the haunting strains of the Bolero. In 2003 Darrell O'Grady went one better by scoring an unbelievable "eleven" on the noxious gas emision scale when he uncorked a real world beater in a cramped motel room in Lakes Entrance accompanied by the strains of the World Cup Rugby commentary. In the past I have personally been exposed to some shockers but this one was quite in a class by itself, Darrell had unleashed a toxic plague of truly biblical proportions.

As we unfortunate victims went running into the carpark holding our noses we knew that there was something sinister behind Darrell's recent overseas trips. Although he claimed they were "sightseeing trips" we now guessed the awful truth. He was no doubt working hand in glove with the US Government in developing the latest round of "weapons of mass destruction". I had heard of stealth bombers and cruise missiles but this was much more evil than anything hitherto devised by the mind of man. Darrell would now go down in history as the "human bunker buster". I could just imagine hundreds of terrified Iraqi rebels pouring forth from their hidden catacombs holding their noses and pleading for oxygen. Surely such a weapon MUST be against the Geneva Convention.

Twenty minutes later we were finally able to reenter the room and see the remaining few minutes of the match, although by this time it was hard to concentrate on anything other than personal survival. I wondered what the motel owners would say when they saw the badly blistered paint on the ceiling above the bed. On the other hand, at least they wouldn't need to worry about fumigating their termites for the next 20 years or so.

After seeing Australia narrowly beaten in extra time we returned to our rooms to rest and to hope that the next day would bring better weather conditions. During the night the frequent sounds of heavy rain on the roof did not exactly give us much cause to be optimistic, although I was trying to foster the belief that maybe if it rained all night the clouds would have run out of water by the morning.

When I awoke the next morning and looked out the window I was greeted by the somewhat depressing sight of clouds from horizon to horizon. The weather bureau was still forecasting "showers clearing" - whatever that means. We all know that all showers eventually clear, so what were they really trying to say? Sounds like they didn't have a clue and were simply laying an each way bet.

Being the president does have onorous responsibilities, however, and I donned a fresh set of lycra and went outside to meet the rest of the team. To my dismay I found John and Warren all kitted up in their Sunday best with their bikes packed on their cars. They informed me that they had done enough riding for the weekend and would be heading home. Warren went on to say that he would "quit while he was ahead". I was not quite sure of who he was ahead of, but could only feel pity for them. Bob, near the end of his endurance, was also demonstrating reluctance to complete the remainder of the ride. On the other hand Mal, Duncan and Darrell seemed determined to give it their best shot.

A closer inspection of the weather conditions did indicate some positive signs - it was not raining, the temperature was a little warmer and if you looked to the East, closed one eye and squinted, it looked as if there might be a small patch of slightly less black cloud. What more encouragement could anyone need?

Images of the spectacular bridge across Stony Creek

We bade a sad farewell to the departing team members and somehow managed to get Bob back into lycra for the short drive to Nowa Nowa. Our plan was to complete the entire trail in the reverse direction from Nowa Nowa back to Bairnsdale.

Nowa Nowa is a small, somewhat uninspiring town on the Princes Hwy. When we arrived we found that the main claim to fame is the annual "Nowa Nowa Nudes" art display. Most of the members of the support crew immediately decided that this would be well worth a visit, although Linda M said she would only go if she could wear dark glasses and a trench coat.

After a brief farewell the remaining five riders departed for the first leg of the trail back to Bruthen. Generally speaking the trail between Nowa Nowa and Bruthen is uphill for the first 15 km and then downhill for the remaining section to Bruthen. The gradients would normally be quite moderate, although the wet sandy surface made us feel like we were travelling through treacle. This section is quite isolated so any potential riders need to make sure that they are well prepared with spare tubes, tools and food. The scenery is certainly attractive as you pass through the Colqhoun Forest where we could see evidence of some recent bushfires.

The most spectacular sight is the huge Stony Creek trestle bridge which you encounter about 6 km from Nowa Nowa. This is well worth a closer look and a few pictures, although it was at this spot that old Bob started to panic and decided that the forest was too scary for him. He disappeared out of sight and was not seen again.

The remainder of the peloton rode on as a team and reached Bruthen at about 12 noon. There we found Bob, who by this time was a spent force. It was sad to see someone who had once been such a strong rider now beaten into submission by a ride that was only a little over 30 km. Although we tried to encourage him to continue he would not leave the comfort of his car, and simply kept repeating "my knees are shot, my knees are shot". He sounded like a demented Gallipoli veteran as he gabbled on in his delerium, so we had no choice other than to leave him behind. (One or two of the other team members suggested it would be kinder to shoot him first, but this was over ruled on account of his age and deteriorating mental state).

Images of the Colqhoun Forest	The Tree Crash (which we will not talk about) and the Bruthen Main Street

After a lengthy lunch with the support crew the time came for the remaining four riders to remount for the final section back to Bairnsdale. Although the weather was still overcast, it had not rained and was actually almost perfect for riding. We knew that the worst was now behind us as we rode out of town in formation. After all, we had already completed this section yesterday.

The "Mr Squiggle" Monument

By this time the quadraton (4 riders) were feeling strong and in high spirits. We managed to complete the section with no mishaps or further retirements and soon were cruising along the final bitumen section into Bairnsdale where the faithful members of the support crew were waiting to greet us. All that remained was the (compulsory) visit to the ice cream shop to replace all the calories we had expended, followed by the long drive back to Melbourne.

Although the weekend had been a little "greyer" than we would have chosen we were all glad that at least 4 of us we did manage to complete over 110 km of quite hard riding. I suppose 4 riders out of 7 is a pass mark in anyone's language. Now where can we go to next ..... I think it's time we went back to Wangaratta.

Appendix One
Summary of Items Damaged, lost, trashed or stolen during the weekend

Coffee Mug (x1) - large ceramic, probably expensive - stolen by Mal and Stacey from Tanjil Motel

Wall Picture (x1) - large, probably expensive - trashed by Mal and Stacey in Cunningham Shore Motel

Heart Rate Monitor (x1) - lost by Bob somewhere between Nicholson River bridge and Bumberrah when rubber band snapped.

Saddle Bag (x1) - owned by Dennis and rendered useless when zipper got full of mud and busted.

Bum Bag (x1) - owned by Duncan and ruined by Dennis when zipper was broken

Suspension Cover (x1) - lost from Darrell's bike somewhere near Nicholson River

Tube (x1) - burst by Duncan somewhere near Mossiface when inflated to 120 psi.

Paint Damage (severe) - paint on ceiling of Cunningham Shore Motel, blistered by Darrell on Saturday night during bunker buster event.

Dummy (x1) - large plastic type, owned by Bob and damaged by repeatedly being spat out during the weekend.

Mobile Phone Hands Free Kit (x1) - probably owned by John and later found in Bruthen Rotunda.