Not a very exciting title, is it? Probably why we had only five riders on the day. What we need is a little more literary license for otherwise boring destinations on the itinerary. What about_ _ _ _ "Expose in Kosovo Kountry"! Yeaahh, that’s it. That’d be good for at least ten or twelve riders.

I forgot to mention that it was wet and reasonably miserable leaving home on the Sunday morning. O.K. How would you like to ride your motorbike to Seymour in the rain? You wouldn’t. Oh, all right. Then five is probably a pretty good turn out.

Geoff Jones (lead rider) Kawasaki ZZR 600

Craig Morley Yamaha YZF 750

Jack Youdan Triumph Daytona 900

Ray W Suzuki (I think) GSXR 750 with Honda duck tail.

Les Leahy (rear rider) Yamaha TT350 Grande Tourismo.

In the words of Australian motocross champion Garry Flood, "when it’s raining and the track is a mess, always ride your smallest bike." And so I did.

Oddly enough, while waiting at Whittlesea, great areas of blue sky opened up and I foolishly removed the waterproofs. Stupid move, for as we headed north we were quickly enveloped on the Kinglake ranges by a murky and impenetrable cloud of mist. Ever the optimist I pushed on until quite wet and convinced that the foreseeable future would not bring dry roads. And then I put the waterproofs on. I’ve been doing this all my motorcycling life. Get wet; put the waterproofs on. When am I going to learn.

It seemed no time at all that we were riding into busy, down-town, Sunday morning Seymour. By the time that I flicked down the side stand, Geoff was already on the mobile blower to Val, saying to back-off on the six dozen sausage rolls ‘cos there weren’t great numbers of us. And that we’d be over sooner rather than later as it wasn’t turning out to be a whole lot of fun.

In the meantime the local Seymour bakery lured us in with aromas of hot cooked things. Their piece de resistance was ‘frog in a pond’. A real eye catcher of a chocolate frog emerging from the center of a doughnut covered in the greenest lime icing I have ever seen.

We knew the Kosova were not far away, as there was a printed sheet taped to the door of the push-bike shop reading "Welcome" in Albanian. Although I am not fluent in Albanian, I knew that it spelt "welcome" because it was translated in English underneath. It just goes to show that travel (if only as far as Seymour does broaden the mind.

After filling the petrol tanks we splashed off in the general direction of Pyalong. After Pyalong the weather really got serious as we took the road to Kyneton. Visibility was down to 100 meters. It was that road that we normally take. You know! the one with the few hundred meters of sandy dirt that no self respecting sportsbike rider would go on in a fit except that it’s the only way to get from bitumen A to bitumen B. What with the wet sandy gravel and the mist, Garry Flood was right: "Always take your smallest bike."

Kyneton was wet. Ray needed something from a hardware store to keep the Suzuki going, and without much ado we were soon rotating the wheels to Trentham. I’m almost sure I could hear the sausage-rolls of Melton calling to me. Calling, calling.

The mist and rain persisted to Blackwood. And if you know Blackwood at all you’ll know what they don’t come much mistier and much wetter. Ten k’s out of Blackwood we rolled over the crest of a hill and there it was! Yes, dear reader. Dazzling sunshine, a dry wind, bone-dry bitumen. I felt such a fool. Thermal underwear, down west, vinyl wet-weather jacket, vinyl wet-weather trousers, rubber over-boots, waterproof gloves and over mittens. And riding around in sunny, bone-dry western Victoria.

At the freeway, Jack bade us farewell to attend to other appointments and than there were four.

By now I was down to reserve on the 9 litre fuel tank so I took the side chute up and across the bridge into Bacchus Marsh, confident that Geoff would be heading straight down the freeway to Melton. Fuelled up, I pressed on to Melton to discover no corner markers on the highway exit. "Funny", says I. Yes, between the ‘in’ road to Bacchus Marsh and the ‘out’ road, Geoff had turned off to take a more interesting back-road to his place.

As I wandered around the streets of Melton, not having a clue where Geoff’s place was (as I had only been there once before) I could hear the calling of the sausage rolls becoming fainter and fainter. Then, as if by sheer chance, there were 3 motorbikes on the other side of the roundabout! "It’s them", I cheered into my helmet. And the calling of the sausage rolls become louder and louder.

The ordeal had been worth it. With each mouthful of sausage roll and each mouthful of a choice of not one but two of Val’s cakes, the hardship of the days exhausting, cold, wet ride to Seymour began to slip away and was soon only a distant memory.