www.Muggaccinos.com   The Bullsheet

Scribe's rap-up of last Sunday, 15 June, Patonga Ferry Boat, Woy Woy Iron Horse 96km 
The late running 11am Patonga Ferry was dead-set packed to the rafters with pedal-pushers.  Albeit they weren't pushing at the time, but squawking, waxing lyrical and soaking up the ambience of the majestic blue Hawkesbury on a pristine Winter's morn' - 21 Muggs, Sig's gang of around 9 and a handful riding with Neil Tonkin of Bike NSW.  At twelve bucks a pop, the Ferry Master must 've thought all his Christmases had come at once.  Pacific Pete, ToothFairy, Kate and Rocket Ros had commenced at Hornsby, with the remainder of Muggs having peeled-off 41km via Bobbin Head. 

15 min earlier most of ‘em had the Nose Bag on outside the Café on the Pier.  Ros, resplendent in her schmickers, brand spankers, ‘shiny as a new pin’ black-nosed cycling cleats, dead-set looked like a cyclist in sync as she motored-up from Hornsby, with all her moving bits seemingly in unison. 

At the pier, Samurai ‘crossed the line’ when he motioned to tread on one of Ros’ shiny new shoes.  Whereupon a feisty Roslyn retorted, “Do that and I’ll knee you in the nuts.”  To which Tony retreated, assuring Ros, “I was only joshing.” 

We also met a large lad named Paul who is the new manager of the Café on the Pier.  Smiling Assassin and Scribe espoused to Paul the marketing merits of a buxom waitress with revealing/exposed cleavage, ‘cause that marketing ploy had benefited the previous owner, notwithstanding the former boss’ surely demeanor.  Rocket Ros overheard the two Dirty Old Men pronouncing their sleazy marketing acumen to the new proprietor.   Roslyn retorted, “so long as the new Boss Man, also employs a spunk hunk, slam dunk, waiter with short shorts, and lots to fill them, who serves me my coffee.  Look at the size of Paul!!!  He’d better lose 30kg before he serves me my Latte.”    

18km later approaching 1pm, after scaling a large lump from Patonga wharf, and a fleeting Sag outside the Shell Garage, we arrived at Woy Woy only to find that our favourite hamburger joint in the sunny courtyard,  “Mamma Maria’s Grouse House” was bordered-up and up-for-sale.  Arno aka MapMan, Sarah, Whippet and Ros jumped the early 1:26pm train, with the remainder targeting a verdant grassy knoll in-between two popular fish shops on the bayside.   

Koala Bear and Publican pigged-out on whopper “the lot” burgers.  Whereupon other crew pondered not to draft ‘em and risk getting caught down-wind of their after-burners.  Teller completed his daily office quota of 31 push-ups, looking close to cardiac arrest approaching the last of ‘em.  Rummager was blowing smoke up some local ferry pilot’s arse.  Pete then went off with him to collect some contraband, but we never worked out why Rummager was pissing in the local ferry dude’s pocket. 

With dinner all done, we rolled the 300m to Woy Woy station for the 12 min scenic waterways sortie back to Hawkesbury River station.  Colin aka Springbok and Senorita remained on the Iron Horse to Cowan, with the rest of us alighting at Brooklyn.  One amongst us brought Muggs’ reputation into question with the station clerk for cycling on the platform.   

Mark had some unfinished business in Brooklyn (searching out his cell ‘phone which he’d left at the café that morn’).  The remainder of us hightailed the rapid-fire 7.5km leg to PitS for a short Sag to regroup. 

Marcel, Samurai, Kate, Greenie, Rummager, Publican, Louise, Koala Bear, ToothFairy, ‘n Pacific Pete were too fast for a flagging Scribe who snagged a slow-leaking flat, which he eventually succumbed to change before gang-bustering it down to Bobbin Head bridge.  Upon Scribe’s return to Turra’ approaching dusk, the cupboard was bare of familiar jalopies.  Bank Teller cogitated that a few of the team would’ve been sucking on frosties at the Bluey by then.  But being a God-fearing teetotaler, Scribe resisted the temptation to join ’em.  Another wonderful Winter’s hundred click Sunday ride was all done! 

Don’t know what drugs Kate is on?  But the flaxen-haired Pommie lass is getting quicker by the week, especially on the ascents.  And Rocket looks even more turbo charged having jettisoned her gumboots.  Louise cycles past most of us like a Scud missile honed in on an Iraqi tank.  Golly gosh. The tarts are taking over. 

In a bygone era, they’d be back on the farm, barefoot and pregnant doing the Squaw Chores, whilst the men folk attended to Mens’ Business.  Nurse Karen took the day off, having completed her 3rd annual 100km Oksam trail trek in under 25 hrs the previous day/night, with blisters ‘n black-toe as a legacy.  What happened to the Good Old Days when all things important and aspiring were the province and domain of the Men Folk?

The Scribe     15 June '03