Horror in the Dirt.
Saturday’s ride got off to a great start with a meeting at French Fantasies – sadly not a brothel, but a charming little French cafe on Toorak Road. After coffee, croissants, a quick scan of L’Equipe, a packet of Gitanes, a shot of Cognac and a heated argument about existentialism, myself, Peter English and multi-talented Son of Cycling Neil Robinson set off on a a jolly little tour of the rolling countryside toward Kinglake.
Unfortunately, we took a succession of wrong turns and found ourselves lost in the network of muddy lanes which characterise the region, where we faced a succession of woes – chiefly bandits, wolves, appalling gradients and a redneck gypsy camp deep in the bush, which saw us climbing faster than than Euskaltek-Euskadi’s finest domestiques as mullet-sporting infants waving machetes chased us up the dirt road that passed their lair.
After 130km’s and 2100 metres of climbing we made in back to the metropolitan safety of Melbourne – but the memories of our trip into the backcountry will haunt us to the grave.