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What was I thinking? (photo fetishists will be frustrated)

Series4

Cruisin' Guzzisti
Joined
May 11, 2009
Messages
367
Location
Melbourne, Victoria
Warning: there are very few photos to go with this ramble, and I can only work out how to attach five anyway. Either the weather or the light were so crap it was futile. Next time.

Day 1: Melbourne – Penola

Ansell to the rescue!

More than once on this trip the products of the Ansell company came to my rescue. So to speak. It always turns to smut.

The plan was simple. One of my favourite wineries, Hollick Wines of the Coonawarra, were having a Showcasing Shiraz Dinner at their restaurant, Upstairs, on the outskirts of Penola (during spell check a suggested spelling for Penola came up as Penile, and the system asked if I wanted to add the word to standard.dic. Snigger, snigger. It's not going to get much better so be warned. The 'plan' was that I'd take my time getting there and on the way explore some of the skinny red roads I'd for ages been meaning to explore. Stop for a leisurely lunch somewhere, maybe Cafe Catalpa in Tarrington? Then meander into Penola before dusk to avoid the kangaroos. How hard could it be? The Shiraz Dinner was on the Saturday so to make it a Michelin Tour, because the Old Sow (scrofa vecchia) wears Michelin Macadams, I'd booked Piper's of Penola for seven-thirty on the Friday night, and the Royal Mail at Dunkeld for Sunday night to allow for a leisurely start on the Sunday. Here's the route, for your interest.

The week leading up to departure had been idyllic; still, clear and warm. In fact it was so idyllic it would have won Australian Idyll. So idyllic that one made mistake number one: not checking the long-range forecast. So that's how the dill got into idyllic! Lulled into a sense of complacency by the weather one also made mistake number two: I didn't pack my winter gloves. You just know what comes next, don't you. It's about here that the pantomime audience shouts “They're behind you!” and it all descends into farce as Widow Twankey gets stuck in the chimney. Anyhow, off we went in the warmth of a Friday midday and, after a couple of stops to provision, headed for the Mobil station on the Ring Road where I topped up at about 2pm. Keen observers will have noticed by now that to get to Penola from Hughesdale via the Glenelg Highway takes about five hours and fifty-three minutes for the four hundred and fifty-eight kilometres. No prizes for guessing that the idea of meandering had been straightened out and that a quick dash was the order of the day. At least I'd shown some foresight by employing Google maps to work out the fastest, most direct way to go. So to make Pipers on time there was no leeway.

The first sign of foreboding that started tapping on my thick skull was that the flags on the Westgate Bridge were standing straight out with just little fluttery bits on the end. This normally means winds in excess of twenty five knots, about Beaufort Force 7 (I was heading for Beaufort anyway). Force 7 is classified as; “Near Gale. Sea heaps up and white foam from breaking waves begins to be blown in streaks along the direction of the wind. Yachts remain at harbour, those at sea lie to.” And so maybe should have I. It was blowing from the NNW straight into my right shoulder. Bugger. Turns out the winds were gusting between thirty-five and sixty-five kilometres an hour and the temperature resolutely refused to reach ten degrees.

Still, on we pressed hoping that the wind was just localised (cue panto audience). After topping up at the Mobil station I switched to my touring gloves and silk inner gloves (the combination of leather and silk is strangely stimulating yet somehow comforting...) and set off. Oddly, the wind didn't die down but seemed to increase in velocity to the point I was riding with a permanent lean to compensate. And it was getting colder the further I went which shouldn't have been a surprise seeing Ballarat is consistently one of the coldest non-alpine places in the state. Anyhow on we pressed and by the time I reached Bacchus Marsh there was no feeling in my fingers and my back was freezing its tits off. It's a strange analogy but there you go, one more troubling dream for you. Then the rain started and before too long my hands were wet as well as cold. The wind chill escalated but by then my hands were beyond pain. They had in fact turned into bicycles. Icicles is when one hand freezes, bicycles is when they both freeze. Not a lot of people know that.

The plan was to stop at Beaufort for lunch and so I did. It took about five minutes to unfasten my helmet because I couldn't feel the clasp, I had to look at the rear-view mirror and try and work out what's normally an automatic sequence. After I worked out how to undo the zips off came the jacket to fit another thermal layer and the reason for the missing dorsal dugs became obvious; I had left the vents on my jacket open and the arctic wind had been gleefully sucking all the warmth from my body. Can't really complain then. Jacket back on and zipped and I immediately felt better. I will pause here to endorse the thermals I had bought from Woolerina. Very fine Merino with properly interlocked seams they were extremely light, comfortable and warm. Closing the vents was easy enough but there was still the problem of wet gloves to overcome. In a flash of inspiration my cold feet, closely followed by the rest of me, stumbled off to the local sandwich shop and begged them for a pair of their latex food service gloves which I fitted over the silk inners (mmm; leather, silk AND latex. Put the kids to bed and read on, you know you want to...) inside my moist outer gloves (leather, silk, latex AND moist). The idea was that the latex would keep the water out and the silk would keep the warmth in. Happily though the rest of me was dry, the helmet visor hadn't leaked or fogged up so there was hope for me yet! Pressing on to south to Skipton the road was empty and with the wind behind me and some warmth returning I could start to relax.

By jing-goes!
It's good to not to be freezing cold in fingers
Or freezing cold in your toes
It's the cold that lingers
In your fingers
That stops you picking your nose
(to the tune of Boogie Chillin')

Turn right at Skipton and soon the faded or fading little towns are passing; Carranballac, Streatham, Westmere, Lake Bolac, Wickliffe and so on. The road straightens out and we're heading due west on the Glenelg Highway, one of the best-kept secrets to a rapid trip to South Australia, on the way to the first fuel stop at Hamilton. It's not a hugely inspiring ride and the rain continues play with me, just flirting with a shower here and there to keep me interested and alert. Soon it's Dunkeld and the fingers are working again. Let's boogie! We pass through Dunkeld with a nod to the Royal Mail, we've a date in a few days and I'll be back! Through the scrub again and Hamilton appears, the first servo only has crap 91 octane so on to the BP and a feed of 98. The gloves have dried off a bit and I'm warmed up and starting to feel a bit confident. Some of you may know he meaning of 'hubris'. As I ride out of Hamilton dusk is approaching along with lowering storm clouds. The gods are saving their best for me! Strong wind, darkness, rain and maniacal wildlife all in a diabolic cocktail to punish me for being cocky. Still, I have a booking at Pipers in Penola and if it takes the labours of Hercules to get there, I'll do it.

Off we go again and dusk falls with heavy rain as we arrive at Coleraine. The rain falls with a type of indolence that mocks you, the roadsides and paddocks are full of standing water and leaving the bitumen means sinking up to your ankles in mud. DAMHIK. Then, as the symphony gathers pace (ref: Beethoven's Pastoral), the wind picks up, darkness falls and the Furies fly. The next twenty-six kilometres are the most frightening I've ever spent on a motorcycle. For those who don't know that piece of road it's two-laner that runs along a ridge at the edge of a plateau and the winds come from both sides, across the plain and up from the valley, which means a bike is tossed from side to side at random. Moments to be feared are when the traffic coming the other way blinds you with spray, thumps you with their slipstream and leaves you to the mercy of the gale as they pass. It's also a special moment going through a cutting because you can't tell which way you'll be going when you emerge. In addition there were unsigned roadworks with unsealed sections that were invisible in the darkness, it was pelting with rain and oncoming traffic meant I was alternately dazzled or in darkness. I'm sure it was only the grip of the tightened sphincter that kept me in the saddle and blessed ignorance that kept me on the road. Finally, Casterton and I admit I nearly gave the game away but after a few moments sitting with the kelpie (it's a bronze statue, Casterton being the birthplace of that breed of working dog), some depths of resolve or foolhardy saw me remount and head off into the darkness.

The next fifty kilometres I can barely remember. If there were kangaroos (and there always are) I didn't see them, perhaps they took pity or maybe they were at home in front of the fire. What I do remember is having at times to stop on the highway (too muddy to stop on the shoulder) until approaching cars had gone by because I couldn't see past their spray. And the rain kept pelting down like the hail of arrows at Agincourt. Still, on we ground, trying to stay smooth and minimise sudden inputs to the controls. Then high beam started flickering, probably from water in the switch, forcing me to slow down further. Just before seven I was on Robert Rymill Drive and could see the lights of Penola. Before I knew it I'd pulled the bike up under the verandah of the Bushman's Inn. Wasn't supposed to but I didn't care. The poor wee Scotswoman at reception actually stepped back two paces as this Creature Of The Deep stood, shedding streams of water, at the counter. “Perrrhaps ye'd prreferrrr to drrry off aforrre ye rrrregisterr?” she enquired, tentatively pushing the key across the counter. She spoke with a pronounced burr (pronounced: bear) which was a surprising because I couldn't see any bears there. “Aye, and ye'll hae a drrram rrready errre I rrretairrrrn” was the reply. I, too, was speaking with a bear, having barely made it. She very kindly suggested I park the bike in the breezeway at the end of the building where it would be out of the rain. At least I think that's what she said so I did. I was feeling that curious adrenaline-fuelled elation one feels on having a close escape. I'd climbed a huge mountain and got the wet weather monkey off my back (it's the only way they'll let go, they don't like heights). I still hate riding in the rain but at least I know I can if I have to. Certainly things weren't as bad as they could have been. I'd made it, under the outer gear I was dry, the newly-fitted NOS Krauser panniers (oh, hubris!) hadn't leaked and the bike was under cover. A quick shower (and a double dram) and change and Pipers was achieved on the dot of seven thirty. Mind you it was still heaving down and I had to wear my wet-weather gear to get there but it was well worth it.

Bill of Fare:
Sherry, glass of
Ravioli of rabbit
Pork roulade with truffled pearl barley et al, side of green beans with anchovies and toasted macadamias
Cheese, assortment
Some glasses of wine (Bowen's shiraz)
A coffee

Then back through the rain to bed, perchance not to dream.

Day 2: Penola – Millicent – Penola

Geeze, wasn't it cold last night?! Sleep was fitful what with the cold and the heater rattling on and off all through the night. Turns out the cleaners had left the sliding door open and the heater in my room was trying to change the climate of the district. After rising late (8 am, late for me) I checked my gear and apart from the gloves it had all drip-dried overnight which was a relief. Wandered into town, stopping at the CRT store to buy a pair of nice green nitrile gloves (size L) to go over my lightweight leather gloves. A bit tight but a good start and better than nothing. I then meandered on through the rain to a leisurely breakfast at The Vine. Eggs Benedict, in case you were wondering. Then a good read of the newspaper and sundry magazines until the rain decided to go somewhere else for a while. Back to the motel and the wee Scots manager kindly agrrrreed to put my soaking wet tourrrring gloves in frrrront of the heaterrrr next to the dog, Wee Hamish. Not a command, that's his name. Still not happy with the green gloves I stopped at the supermarket and picked up a nice pair of pink washing up gloves in XL, a perfect fit over the leather ones. Thanks again, Mr Ansell! The pink was 'very' pink so in an effort to retain credibility I decided they were high-vis pink and therefore a safety item. Nobody can question my manhood now!

Without any sort of plan I didn't top up with fuel (oh, hubris!) but headed south-west toward Millicent, just because. Is that Widow Twankie I hear? Being Saturday the roads were quiet but so much more dangerous because whoever's on the road has switched off the brain for the weekend. No carving up the curves then. Not a bad road but as is common in that part of the world lots of sterile pine plantations blanketing the countryside precluding any sort of interesting landscape. It's here that I should say that the Old Sow is fitted with little single-LED lights as used by pedal cyclists. Because I like to be visible to the zombies I had the LEDs set to 'flash' and it seemed to be working, zombies would actually make room for me to pass. As it turned out, not far from Millicent there was a nice man who also had flashing lights who thought he needed to have a talk to me, possibly because he was lonely. He was part of 'Operation Saturation', an initiative to get Police presence back on the roads as a deterrent to speedsters. And he was the only car between Adelaide and Millicent. Anyway he thought I was trying to impersonate a police officer and we had a nice chat about how my bike was ex-LAPD (ironic or what?) and he started going on about wanting to buy a Honda ST so I let him go on and we eventually parted without me causing him any inconvenient paperwork. Heading north-west toward Kingston SE on the Princes Highway the wind picked up again, who'd have thought? Just because we're on the fringe of the Roaring Forties doesn't mean it has to be windy, does it? I suppose in that part of the world 60 kmh wind isn't windy. To help compensate though the temperature climbed to a blazing fourteen degrees. Of course had I followed the B101 up the coast at least there would have been a bit of dramatic, windswept and interesting scenery instead of the waterlogged cattle pasture along the B1.

Anyhow I got bored with leaning into the wind (from the NE this time) and decided to turn back to Penola via Naracoorte at Reedy Creek, just short of Kingston SE and fuel. Did I mention that I wasn't carrying any maps? At about the same time as I became geographically independent I turned the fuel taps to Riserva to stop the motor from coughing. Not knowing exactly how much fuel I had left (folks have a habit of cutting down the reserve tubes) or how far to go, where I actually was and being out pf phone range was not actually as liberating as it sounds. And so I headed into the unknown and just as I picked up fifth I noticed a brief, unsettling shadow. Checking the mirrors I saw one of my new side cases bouncing off into the ditch. One of my home-made latch tongues had fractured. Turning back I retrieved the case that had survived with only a couple of serious bruises and, thankfully, had not burst. Now it may just come as a bit of a surprise but I was actually carrying a couple of ratchet straps so In short order the case was re-fitted, and the other strapped as well seeing its bracket was half-sheared. I had dropped a F650GS Dakar (on the way to collect my new NSU Supermax muffler from Overlander) and broken a case mount a couple of years ago and jury-rigged it the same way, so just maybe I had unconsciously learnt from that?

So, again I headed off down the road not really looking forward to the next installment of misfortune. Did I mention it was dusk as well and lots of creatures came out to wave as I passed? I wish they'd stay on the coins, where they belong. There was not another car on the road, and not a house in sight so it was a bit knee-clenching until the highway was regained at the Bool Lagoon turnoff near Struan. Sticking to 80 kmh I eventually reached the motel just as the darkness swept in from the East (odd, seeing Broome is in the West) bringing with it some turgid, angry skies. It was very close, when I refuelled the next morning there was nothing in the tank so I must have been running on the float chambers. I later figured I was about 80 km out of Penola when I switched the taps. The Old Sow gets 50 mpg (imperial) no matter what, and according to the book there's a four litre reserve. Just goes to show there's no point in filling up if you don't have to. I had been relatively fortunate though because it hadn't rained all day worth speaking of so weighing up my chances (remember hubris and the panto chorus?) I decided to walk the two kilometres to the restaurant. About five hundred metres from the restaurant Wendy Hollick, on her way into town to pick up some other guests, stopped and offered me a lift. I needed the walk so I politely declined and no sooner had she driven off that the heavens opened. Serves me right, remember hubris? I was wearing my rain gear but it still wasn't comfortable and there were lots of WTFWYT? looks from other guests as I walked in, shedding water etc etc etc. Hi, just call me Dustin. It was well (there's that water theme again) worth it though because the dinner was sensational and through the picture windows the lightning show was spectacular. Turns out they had twenty millimetres of rain overnight.
LOOK! A PHOTO!!


Bill of Fare
Woodbridge applewood-smoked ocean trout with potato roesti, lime aioli and salmon roe – 1989 Hollick Riesling (you'll be surprised by how good Coonawarra whites can be)
Pan-roasted duck breast with a duck, fig, pancetta and pine nut cabbage roll; braised lentils; duck and shiraz glaze – 2001 Hollick Shiraz Cabernet Sauvignon
Roasted venison with parsnip puree, glazed beetroot, star anise jus – 2006 Hollick Wrattonbully Shiraz
Eye fillet of MSA beef with potato dauphinoise, beef cheek croquette, brussel sprouts and bacon, Wilgha Shiraz jus. Sauteed green beans with chevre and a sherry vinaigrette – 2005 Holick Wilgha Shiraz
Green apple and Hollick Frizzante sorbet
Comte (flash French fromage), quince paste, Upstairs fruit cake, pear, lavosh and apricot and honey bread – 1999 Hollick Wilgha Shiraz
coffee and macaroons
coffee

Lift home from Upstairs manager, Tim, in the pouring rain. Almost monsoonal intensity. The rain, not Tim.

Oblivion (sliding door closed)

Day 3: Penola – Dunkeld
It was a sloowww start to the day and I asked for late checkout. Easing into the day I wandered back into town for breakfast after tidying up a few items on the bike. It had been a much warmer night since I'd closed the sliding door onto the verandah of the room. Revisitng the hardware I stocked up on bungy straps to locate the panniers a little more securely. Waiting for the sun to fully emerge I planned the day and decided to head for Edenhope via Langkoop and make my leisurely way to Dunkeld where, and you'll never guess this, I had a dinner booking at the famous Royal Mail Hotel. Just for something different. Having retrieved my dry gloves from wee Hamish I headed up the road for about ten kilometres when I thought, due to the threatening clouds,

it would be prudent to stop and fit the wets. You'll recall the previous comments about sinking to the ankles etc? Once I got the bike back up and found somewhere to put down the stand the wets went on just in time for the sun to come out. They were on now and they weren't coming off. Fortunately, being Goretex, it didn't get too clammy. On to Langkoop

where previously I'd been helped out when a keen motorcyclist living there gave us four litres of the petrol he was using to wash parts in, so we could get to Penola. He wasn't about so Edenhope was soon gained and lost. Not much of a loss. I'd thought of seeking out every back road but just couldn't be bothered so headed to Harrow. Harrow's a nice little spot but well off the highway so not a lot of people end up there. Worth a brief visit though. Then off to Balmoral through some nice twisties. Nice, but covered in lichen so it paid to be circumspect on the damp roads. Did I mention it'd been raining?



More nice, quiet roads to Cavendish and the interesting-looking Bunyip Hotel. No beers though, I don't drink if I'm riding. Nice little general store with kerbside fuel bowsers, too. Starting to feel the last few days I took it easy through Karabeal on the way to Dunkeld. Lots of manky single-lane roads on this stretch and with people heading home from Sunday activities there was a bit of traffic about to keep things interesting. Views of Mt Sturgeon appearing rom the cloud were briefly impressive and served to spur me on. Finally the B160 and Dunkeld and the thought of doing the Dunkeld-Penshurst-Dunkeld loop lost its appeal. For those anoraks amongst us the order of roads was: A66, C212, C208, C206, C204, A200 (briefly) and C188 to the B160. Checking in, the nice lady at the Royal Mail said I could park the bike under the verandah if I wanted (I mentioned the rain?) so I did and trudged, dripping, into the room which had a spectacular, personal view of Mt Sturgeon. Unpacking a few things and having a bit of a sit down and a nice espresso I decided there was enough light in the day for another ride. Casting about the maps I decided to do the Victoria Valley loop (C217-C216) so orf I went and just as I turned on to the nice road all the little currencies came out again to say Hello, why not lie down for a while? So I took it easy and, again, the roads were damp and covered with lichen. So I took it VERY easy. No point rushing anyway. Splendid ride and splendid views and I didn't really want to go any faster then 80 kmh anyway. Fortunately. Did you know that the Grampians were formed through a combination of tectonic and volcanic activity? A bit of inter-continental bumping and grinding followed by an eruption. It always turns to smut, doesn't it? And that the valleys were subsequently carved by glaciers? Me either. And if you look at the Flinders Ranges and Wilpena Pound, same thing! Whooda thought?

Back to the hotel with enough time to sit, reflect, bathe and relax as Mt Sturgeon disappeared into the gloaming (it is the Grampians after all). Just for a change it started to rain so off I scuttled to another magnificent dinner, this time featuring a wild mushroom risotto that was made with pine mushrooms gathered that morning from Penshurst. I know I had wine but I can't remember what. I think it was Yarra Valley Pinot. I don't recall much of the rest of the evening but I do know that I was content. Not in the web sense, the feeling of well-being sense.

Day 4: Dunkeld – Melbourne

Today I just wanted to get home. As with yesterday the plans of exploring back roads took a back seat as I got back on the road. Retracing my steps I headed to Skipton for a splash of fuel, not wanting to again cut it close, this time covering a mere three hundred kilometres. The Old Sow hits reserve at about two hundred and ten miles so a stop here was prudent. Then to Beaufort to fully fuel and after riding through the heaviest rain of the weekend and picking up the Ballarat bypass it was a dull ride home. Dull, wet and cold just for a change. I had the good fortune to hit the city right on peak hour so had to spend the last half an hour grinding through filthy heavy traffic and clouds of filthy heavy spray and arrived home in a filthy heavy temper. Not a good end to what should have been a beaut getaway. And the bike was feelthy! Three days of country rain had barely left an mark but half an hour of city traffic was enough to make the bike look completely unloved and decrepit. Just like me.

But, still, after unloading and calming down it had been a very good weekend. I'd coped with my own poor judgement and I'd rediscovered I could ride in the rain (still hate it though). The Old Sow had performed admirably (or Admirally, given the weather). Apart from the flickering high beam the only other problem was that the RH horn had swallowed too much water and had drownded. I'd had some stonking meals prepared by people who really cared about what they were doing, I'd had some wonderful wines and I'd had some great conversations with people I didn't know. So it was worth it. Would I do it again? Of course, but with a little more preparation a lot more organisation and hopefully with like-minded company. I'll keep you posted.
 

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Seems like we got mutual interrests, mate! :laugh:

Am at work, so a more careful reading through will be needed.
 
Thanks for the story mate - I just needed an excuse to come and sit in the office for 20 minutes and do nothing with the aircon on full blast, bloody hot here this arv.

Nice to hear another story of a fellow Guzzi head's weekend ride that adds to the patina of a life spent riding - great stuff.
 
Thanks for the comments. It's a ride I'd like to do again, but properly. I'll post the plans here well in advance in case anyone would like to tag along.

Here are some of the other pics


Peter
 

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