Maldon Sunday 1^st August, 2010

Misho Zrakic/Pina Garasi	Honda CBR1000	Cliff Peters		Kawasaki ZX10
Ben Warden (rear rider))	Honda CBR954	Jason Wilson	Kawasaki ZX9
Geoff Jones (leader)	Yamaha R1	5 bikes/6 people	373 km

My zip finally gave up the ghost on my black waterproof overjacket so I took it to the bootmaker to get repaired Saturday morning. “When would you like to pick it up?,” he enquired. “Today would be good,” I offered. Friday morning, he countered. And that was that.

With forecast “damaging” winds, snow down to 1400 metres, heavy showers and a cold 12 degrees to look forward to, trying to stay dry was paramount. Julie offered me her blue MotoLine jacket, nominally waterproof, but short in the arms. I later learnt it was a women’s cut. Big gloves, unmatched of course, would hide that small deficiency.

Two thermals, shirt and synthetic push bike racing top, and Julie’s jacket had the top half covered. Thin waterproof pants over the top of my usual non-waterproof but warm quilted pants over my leathers over long shorts topped off with two stripes of silver electrical tape to stop the whole ensemble from flapping completed the picture of sartorial elegance.

Arriving 10 minutes early at Whittlesea, I expected to see Geoff, but no one else. Then Misho and Pina arrived. Then Cliff, wringing his hands, fingers already frozen. And at the death, Jason, out on day release. Then Ron and Julie Johnston rolled up in the red Commodore and noted that they would catch up with us for lunch at Maldon.

It wasn’t actually raining – blue skies out west and ominous grey murk over the Kinglake precinct. Geoff pondered staying on the lowlands but we agreed to take the chance. So, with Ben at the tail, Geoff leading and the other three bikes sharing the corner marking duties, the fab five set off into the unknown.

Geoff had already discussed his printing work, the boss who could feel the speed of the presses through the concrete floors and would come storming down to the shop floor if the printers weren’t running flat out. Flat out meant making money as fast as possible. Naturally, Geoff was always in the good books as he always ran the print jobs as fast as possible to get to the next job, requiring the mentally challenging aspect, the set up. And hence time passed fast.

Geoff takes this philosophy into riding, only knowing two speeds: flat out and, well ... flat out! With Jason dallying, Geoff was away and we already behind the eight ball. Luckily the wet roads and Cliff’s race tyres moderated the mood a little, until at least he got some heat into them.

Up through the freezing cold Kinglake West and on to Flowerdale and the first of the running water across the road. I’ve had a couple of moments through here before and look out at a particular off camber corner. No dramas this time.

At Flowerdale we turn left for Strath Creek, then left again for Broadford. The roads are 100% wet and will remain so for the rest of the day. But modern tyres are brilliant and the wet had little or no effect on the ride. The group is riding as one, except for Geoff, who is out there somewhere.

At Broadford we work our way across to Pyalong using all my dodgy little roads. The new bridge works were covered in wet clay and very slippery, the rear spinning up and stepping out. How quickly a new road becomes the norm. At Pyalong on Rod’s corner there is a river flowing across the road today, maybe five metres wide. They must have had a lot of rain overnight. I get to thinking about how poor our civil engineers are. Or is it just lack of maintenance?

Turning right off the highway at Pyalong towards Lancefield water and mud is streaming down the road, flooding out of the gutter. It is going to be a tricky ride if this keeps up, I thought. In the end I counted about 20 places where water was running across the road, a few of them mid-corner and quite dangerous. Pina had a few questions the next day on what to do when this sort of streaming water is encountered.

At Lancefield we stopped after 120 km and 65 minutes travel time. You do the maths, as Marty would say. I spoke to the woman behind the counter while ordering my usual handmade monster ham and salad roll. More rain, I queried. “Yes, I hope so. And we’ve had heaps overnight.” While it rained she didn’t have to work at home. Why? We just felled five large pine trees, enough for 6 families for 10 years, or 10 families for 6 years! And if it rains, then I stay inside and we don’t have to cut it up. The joys of country life.

Pina had already earned a brown strip up her legs and back, care of the lack of a functional mudguard, and the wet and muddy roads. Such is her dedication.

Back to the bikes. It still hadn’t rained, though it was as cold as ever Lancefield is. With the sullen grey sky, I thought snow a possibility. The Burke and Wills Track didn’t seem as bumpy as usual, though sitting at 6,000 rpm in top meant we only hit every fourth bump. The wind was howling in from the west and I ducked down behind the screen for long periods, watching the instantaneous fuel consumption reading jump a couple of km/l as the air resistance reduced.

On to Redesdale and Sutton Grange, across to Harcourt locality, navigate the new Calder roundabout and then back on the straight and narrow running in to Maldon, passing the gold dredge we used to clamber over. The steam train was in the station, puffing and panting, pent up and ready to go.

We parked on a back street and then walked around the block to find the ladies (and Ron) standing outside the bakery, waiting to eat lunch. We had arrived at 1 pm on the dot as nominated after another 105 km of spirited riding in a lazy 53 minutes. Barb Peter’s sister, Elaine Duffy, and her friend Bev Dunbar, joined us for lunch. It was too hot in the Bakery, trussed up as we were, so we sat around the conveniently placed tables and chairs on the footpath. It started to rain heavily and Bev was not envious of us having to ride in such conditions. Ron explained that the water droplets blow off your visor - at speed. After a group photo in the main street it was back to the bikes.

In for a penny, in for a pound. It was off to the lookout at Mt Tarrengower, four kilometres out of town. The rain had stopped by now. In fact it was brilliantly sunny; too contrasty to take a photo. Only minutes before I had to step up the ISO setting on the camera because it was so dark!

Two ute loads of teenagers were getting a lift up the mountain before barrelling back down the various tracks on their mountain bikes. It looked like serious fun and well organised.

On to Castlemaine and Chewton along the boring and 50 km/h slow highway before peeling off to the right under the old brick bridge to pass through the ancient gold mining ruins at Fryerstown, Vaughan and Guildford. A smidge of highway and then back roads to Yandoit, Shepherds Flat with Mt Franklin (mineral water) off to the left. Just before Daylesford we ducked around Hepburn Springs and headed the back way to Glenlyon. There was a fast BMW car along here, a local judging by his corner speed in the wet. And the wet was indeed getting wetter, gentle rain starting to fall.

On to Spring Hill and Tylden through the dark forests, the roads overhung with trees. I saw Jason switch over to reserve – a skill lost on modern bikes where a little LED appears to indicate low fuel. Thirteen kays further on at the 215 km mark Geoff rolls to a quiet halt.

I roll around to the front of the group parking close to Geoff and immediately replace my helmet with my Carlton beany before drinking the remaining contents of my sacrificial water bottle. It is raining hard, blowing a gale, and freezing. The petrol came out of the CBR954’s tank bright purple – an interesting colour for unleaded. It took a while for Cliff to eventually locate the remnants of my fuel, the bendy siphon tube not conducive to being worked in a straight line. Three 600 ml bottles later the big R1 was firing on all four cylinders again. I wiped my freezing hands on the wet grass to remove the spilled petrol. Everyone else still had their helmets on!

Eighteen kilometres later we rolled into Woodend, a wet and bedraggled lot. After fuelling up, Geoff offered a cuppa at Palace de Jones in Gisborne as an alternative to finishing at Bulla. Seemed like a good idea and 20 km later we landed in downtown Gisborne, the light rain having set in.

Val set about feeding us with magnificent vegetable soup, sacrificed her favourite long cream and jam buns which Geoff had purchased in Maldon for her, and plied us with hot chocolates and coffees. Throw in a tour of the garage and the sodden views of Mt Macedon, and the friendly lab Spanner, and all was well with the world.

Alas, the sun waits for no man and the idea of getting home after dark was not appealing to Pina, so climbing back into sodden heavy bike clobber it was. Luckily, I had the spare corresponding (mis)matching dry oversize gloves to pamper me back to Melbourne. And I was still generally dry apart from where water had wicked up from the wrists to the elbow.

I set off, knowing Misho would appear sooner or later, no matter what head start I had. He did.

Thanks to Geoff and Val for their spontaneous generosity in catering for the dripping, uncouth bikies. And we got an education on Geoff’s army life as a conscientious objector who likes guns. And thanks to my fellow riding enthusiasts who without their commitment, the day would not have happened. Geoff and I were already planning how early we had to be home to watch the footy.

Ben Warden