Otway Oscillations ride

Rolf’s Otway Ranges Ride.

Summary

A group of 20 happy riders struck off into the sunny hills west of Geelong known as the Otway Ranges. Snaking up, over, down to the coast, and back up over, lattes were sipped, corners conquered, inner hoons unleashed, leaf litter squished, tall tales told, and one galah possibly slightly injured. The Great Ocean Road weaved its magic – who could resist? Not us. Back home, slightly after dark, for around 470km for the day. A day on your bike – what more could anyone want?

Long Version

The morning for my first-ever stint as an MMT ride leader was upon me, and I couldn’t find my bike key. While trying to remember the safe place I’d left the spare, it occurred to me to check the pockets of the pants I’d been wearing the day before. Bingo. Helmet, gloves, sunnies, map, and out the back door I went, to another shock. Instead of two gleaming black steeds, I was confronted by an alien expanse of dusty blue sheet-metal, plastered with tacky stickers. What the hell? Where were me bikes?? The hot flush of adrenalin and endorphins woke me up enough to recall Justin S riding off on my Ducati the night before, abandoning his four-wheeled carriage in my parking spot. There’s irony for you, riding an Italian bike because his British one had electrical problems! My venerable 1988 GSX-R was parked around the corner. Phew!! Ten minutes later I was sculling someone else’s skinny cappo-latte at the Domain St Cafes. Shaky start, but the day was shaping up.

With five MMT ride stalwarts confirmed as non-starters (yep, you know who you are!), I was a bit nervous about numbers. And yes, it was a small crowd at South Yarra until some last-minute arrivals boosted the group to 13. The number of bikes and faces unfamiliar to me grew at the second pickup (hi, y’all, I’m crap with names!), the total finalised at 20 with military precision by Phil R who intercepted us at a Geelong on-ramp. John M, as the sole representative of the scooter brigade, honourably volunteered to be tail rider, possibly so he could sip on his Thermos unobserved.

Glorious sunshine, blue sky and emerald-green fields replaced the Geelong sprawl as we ran right to the end of the current M1 extension, otherwise known as the Geelong Bypass. Excellent idea. Briefly trailing a NSW-registered two-up yellow BMW who seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, we turned left onto the C135 through Moriac. Riding conditions improved, corners wriggled invitingly, and speeds increased, only the appearance of ominous black clouds on the horizon taking the edge off perfection.

The temperature dropped and by the time we pulled up in Deans Marsh, those of us silly enough to have shed a layer of clothes at Laverton, were un-shedding. A pleasant if rustic café, Martians appears to be so named due to the number of locals who, if not actually from other planets, appear to have at least visited a few. Photographic evidence suggests the place goes off at night, assisted by some relatively big-name performers. Some other bikes were also in evidence when we arrived, a somewhat unlikely meeting between Wuff (Tzup) and Woof confirming that we too were on the right cosmic Path.

The arrival of a large northbound Ulysses group then threatened to overwhelm the carpark, with bikes mixed up willy-nilly. Bike models and even specific model/colours were multiplying. MMT riders were always easy to find of course, being by far the youngest and best-looking in the crowd. Mostly. Some reports of a blue-light disco between Lorne and Anglesea filtered through, but happily we were headed the other way. Happily, because we all know that disco belongs firmly in the 80s and those days are well behind us all. Aren’t they?

Adam H scouted ahead for photo opportunities while the rest of us lingered over our lattes. The forested and scenic 20km down to Lorne gave us all the opportunity to rehearse our cornering techniques, a taste of what was to come. Once down on the coast, it just kept getting better. The offshore breeze now did nothing more than improve the surf rolling in, the sun came out, and if corners had wriggled invitingly before, they now positively boogied. After the solar-powered roadworks traffic light that is! No whales and surprisingly little traffic meant the ribbon of wide, clean and smooth bitumen known as the Great Ocean Road got one’s full attention. Just as well too, because there were enough wet spots to keep one on one’s toes.

The GOR is always an incredible ride, if only because it offers everybody the opportunity to get “in the groove” – find the right gear to devour kilometres of 40 km/h corners, right, left, right, using just the throttle to effortlessly feel like a moto legend. And look like one too, in one’s own mind at least. Spectacular coastal vistas unwind all around, making the whole experience feel almost too good to be true. Blue skies and sunshine were the icing on the cake. Always when riding this road, I say to myself “I should do this more often”, followed by “I must come back in a car one day to look at the view”. This road is irresistible, with everybody, and I mean everybody, discovering their inner hoon. Some notably impressive riding performances were turned in, with engine capacity having less to do with it than might be expected. The grins on faces, especially those of the GOR first-timers, said it all.

After 45 kilometres of tyre-scrubbing hyper-ventilation, we turned inland at Skene’s Creek and climbed Gentle Annie Hill back into the forest. I don’t know who Annie was, but she must have been a bit of a goer. Sweeper after sweeper, with just the odd wet patch, leaf litter and mossy bit to make you feel alive. Then, tip-toeing along the spine of Turton’s Pass, a recently-sealed one-lane link road heading west to Beech Forest. Ducking under tree-fern fronds while picking a line through the mounds of wet, slimy, devilishly slippery forest detritus on the road “surface”, it was obvious we were approaching the wettest place in Victoria. Where better to go for a bike ride?! But the rain held off, and we arrived at the Beech Forest Hotel an astonishing five minutes ahead of schedule, welcomed by the rising wind moaning in the wires.

John the trusty tail-rider was in only a few minutes later, a credit to all the riders, as well as the corner-markers who made it all work. Smokers loitered, while the rest of us plundered the limited but bargain priced/sized chip-based lunch menu. The chicken parma I think should be re-named “death by cheese”. Tales of derring-do and heroic exploits began to surface over the sauce-bottle, which was given a fair shake along the way too. Others contented themselves with warming their backsides by the log fire.

Outside, a group photo pose led to renditions of “Happy Birthday” and “Three Roots” for David W, 10 hours in advance. The “Three Roots” were a little un-coordinated but, as was pointed out, that’s often how it goes. Proceedings were disrupted by John M, who was seen to lift the boot lid of his conveyance and quaff the remaining contents of a Thermos flask secreted within. Some sort of elixir to relieve the pain only a solo scooter rider can truly know? It seemed to do the job anyway, and sometimes it’s best not to dig too deeply on these things. You know we’re right there with you, John.

Blasting west then turning north, we descended 50 kilometres of delightful roads towards Colac, the density of pottery galleries and herbariums increasing as we left the hills behind. Still very little traffic to be seen, a fine Sunday afternoon for a ride as we cruised into town. Colac is a surprisingly pleasant place despite its reputation as some kind of western Geelong bogan satellite-suburb. Unfair, I thought.

A change of rear rider in Colac, with John peeling off Ballarat-ways, Ami on the black TRX stepped up to the mark. From here the farmland dog-legging began in earnest, side-stepping the main roads as we worked our way around the dreaded Geelong traffic hub. Incessant corner-marking requirements meant everybody had a go at directing traffic, with Darren B’s duties extending to pursuit of an elitist “turn right at the marked straight-ahead intersection” clique. Tsk tsk. Bucolic scenery and deserted roads let us all unleash the beast, with quite a few throttle-stops being found, even the wind cooperating. Lowering sun behind us, your own shadow out in front, it was good for everybody, except perhaps that unfortunate galah. He (or she) executed a sucker-punch into my right fist, followed by a quadruple backward somersault up my right arm before exploding in a cloud of feathers in front of H.

Plunging down and across cute hidden valleys around Lethbridge and Maude, we eventually made it into Lara. Momentarily confused, I missed a turn (those big green signs are sooo hard to see), but we successfully completed an unorthodox rear lane entry into the Little River roadhouse around 5:40. Post-mortem chats included a much-appreciated vote of “Three Roots”, more coordinated this time, perhaps a sign of things to come?

Examination of Brendan L’s GSXR drive chain at this point revealed that it was so loose it was almost dragging on the road, and had, in fact, been jumping sprocket teeth since before the beginning of the day. Not good, and on the trip back into Melbourne things deteriorated to the point it was unsafe to continue. Assisted by Fab, a rented trailer was procured (the MMT phone-a-trailer service found wanting), car retrieved from Melbourne, and bike trailered to a preferred bike shop. I hope you guys got some dinner at least!

Total ride distance from South Yarra to Little River was 415km, with 55 km left into the city, so call that a round 470 km for the day. An awesome day, lucky with the weather, great mix of roads and scenery, and a group of happy campers who fairly got stuck into it. Only one minor oops, a side-stand topple, pity about that shiny new Aprilia paint, you can relax now Adam!! But really, what more could anybody want? One of those days that leaves you happy to be alive, and on a bike.

Ride Photos:

Skills

Posted on

23 August 2009

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