Tasmania 1999

Day 0 - Friday, 22 January - Climb Mt. Wellington - 41kms - mountainous

With Phil J. flying into Hobart on Ansett, and his Arizona buddies, Bruce “Handle Bars” Tucker and Dan “The Man” Klemmedson flying Qantas [same flight as Silvia and Brenda], the guy with the pooffie mo introduced himself to Brenda and Sil at the Qantas Terminal shortly after arriving at Hobart Airport. How did two strange talking dudes from sleepy Tucson, birthplace of Linda Ronstadt and death place of Linda Macartney, know how to recognise two charmingly stunning, nearly always stately and demure, lasses from Sydney - the town where it never rains - not? Phil, who had entertained his two American guests amidst constant showers since they arrived the previous Wednesday, had shown them a photo of Brenda and Bruna, which he had taken whilst the two divas were testing out one of the motel double beds during our last trip to Tas in ‘97. No, the two Brunette Bombshells weren’t getting all mulchy with each other’s private parts in the double bed. The photo which Slick Bruce had recognised Welsh Widget was a pic taken when the girls were jumping on the dam motel bed - the way minors still do. In any event, the shot was useful enough for Handle Bars to confront two complete strangers in a foreign airport. [] After totally confusing the shuttle guy outside Hobart Airport our ever burgeoning contingent ended up jumping cabs to our swanky diggings with all the trimmings at Salamanca Inn, just up the way from the ride start line at Salamanca Place. The two Septic Tanks were already smiling ‘cause after being greeted by a sloshfest in Sydney over the two previous days, the sun was peeking thru with increasing intensity. The outlook around noon from our initial flat white fix at The Retro Café across Salamanca Place was a lot more colourful than the stark Arizona desert. And to top it off, the smickers lodgings were to Trendy Bruce’s satisfaction. Early arvo Dan’s rented Trusty Blue Clunker arrived. Brenda’s missing bike was eventually delivered by Qantas. Around 3pm. with the rest of the crew doing the touristy thing, Doctor Dan and Lucky Phil took off up Davy Street from sea level and 1 hr and 57 mins later reached The Pinnacle of Mt. Wellington - 1,276 metres altitude. About half way up The Doctor was still getting his sea legs on his Trusty Clunker and he began questioning whether it was such a smart move escalating lofty Mt. Wellington, just ‘cause Phil had told him that he’d climbed it before. Dan was contemplating whether he was relying solely on adrenalin, ‘cause he’d spent too much time in his Tucson surgery over recent weeks clearing a backlog of patients so as to get on the blessed Tas Ride - problem was it had left him shy on training. Hence, the long climb was starting to seem a pondersome plight. Good Buddy Phil, who had initially met Doctor Dan on the wettest ride of ‘em all, ‘88’s Melb to Sydney, gleaned what his cycling compatriot from 10 years previously was conjuring in his cranium. Hence Trusty Phil deployed a bit of the old Sig logic by explaining to his Affable Septic that “this seemingly never ending steep section will soon start to level out becoming flatter. I think the top is just around the next corner. If we go slow, we’ll be OK!.” After spinning that yarn for as long as it took, the two enthusiasts made it to the summit where fortunately it wasn’t as cold as when a bunch of us, including John Fladgate and Mark Keillor, huddled in close for a photo on the previous Tas visit in ‘97. [] Around 7:30pm Phil re-visited the Richmond Arms for a few deja vu jars of Boag’s Premium and managed to slip the two Yank Dudes into the middle of a Hugh Heffner type photo where the two chaps were adorned by a hand full of local Hobart lasses who were celebrating the first Friday in the week down at their local Rubbity Dub. The pic might appear compromising to the two Yanks’ wives, but it was innocent stuff. Although it is not every day that two Out of Towners, one with a real dorky moustache, find themselves surrounded by a bevy of young women for a team shot. After re-grouping with David Seaton [shortly to be labelled Old Custard Nuts by an old codger local publican], and B&B, we sat down at Rockerfellas Restaurant for a pleasant get to know the two new chums. Phil and Bruce opted for the Kangaroo. Everyone tried the Ninth Island Chardonnay and no one seemed to disgrace themselves. Me thinks the Two Septics would have likely put their respective heads on their separate pillows that night under no misconception that the Two Gals like their food, the Two Oz Lads enjoy a wine and an Aussie doesn’t hold back at expressing his/her feelings about a fellow crew member if it might get a laugh at the other person’s expense - something about “taking no prisoners”.

Folks freezing their butts Testing beds Tasmanian style

off on a hill in Tasmania

Day 1 - Saturday, 23 January - Hobart to Richmond - 30 kms - hilly

A fine but cool day greeted us for our short sortie from Salamanca Place to Historic Richmond. However, that was after we had climbed Mt. Wellington as a final tune-up for the week ahead. Comparing the contour maps of the previous West Coast and pending East Coast rides, the West Coast route was heaps more hilly, by the proverbial length of the straight. Hence, ascending Mt. Wellington on the way out of Hobart seemed a good idea. Quoting Bruna, mimicking her Seriously Demented impersonation, “I like it. I bloody like it.” Around 8:15am following a tasty petite dejeuner, where else but in one of the myriad of sumptuous Cafés in Salamanca Place, PJ beckoned to Brenda that she should commence the assent with Dan and Phil some 15 minutes earlier than David and Silvia, ‘cause PJ had figured on Brenda being left at the starting blocks by the two Mountain Monsters - well one anyway, who has a reputation for separating many a pack as it strove to hang on to her up a steep precipice. Be that as it may, the lady, alias Rocky from “Rocky and Bullwinkle” notoriety, assured the Welsh Widget that it was “only a social ride” and “we will all ride together”. Ha! Ha!. About two thirds up Mt. Wellington, prior to the 1,000m mark, first Sil then David passed PJ. Dan was reigned in shortly after despite both having also stolen a 15 minute lead. PJ enquired as to the whereabouts of Bullwinkle. It seems that somehow Brenda had dropped of the pace early on, but rest assured, “we’ll see her at the top”.] Around 1pm we were pedaling on our treadleys to Historic Richmond, but not before complimenting Fluffy Anthony on his delightful cycling garb, except for his Fried Egg Helmet, and listening to some suck-up speech from a local pollie to the effect, “We would especially like to thank our friends from the United States for coming such along way to join the ride.” It seemed an incongruous gesture after the pollie had just mentioned that a few Canadians were also in the 750 strong contingent. Apart from Brenda almost meeting her maker negotiating her way across one of those confounded cycle ways, our 30 kms jaunt out of Hobart along the City Cycleway, across the Derwent River [home of Lakeland Coloured Pencils circa former school days], and up Grass Tree Hill was uneventful. [] By 6pm our contingent had grown to eight after tagging up with our other Melb crew members, Mark Keillor and John Fladgate. Our tents were up without any whingeing from Dribbler David. Bruce was happy with his Wolly Trike Bike and Dan willingly shelled out to replace his rear tyre/tube on the Old Blue Clunker, ‘cause that back tyre wasn’t looking or feeling safe. Brazen Bruna collected the Yellow Jersey, however, it proved to be her only one for the week due to an addiction to caffeine, cakes and chattering to new and old cronies and coves in a myriad of Cafés along the route to Launceston. Before dusk Dan, Phil and Mark K. checked out the “oldest stone bridge in Oz”, built by convicts in 1833, which the gang cycled over on the way out of town the next morn.

Tasmania's a good country to visit

Day 2 - Sunday, 24 January - Richmond to Triabunna - 68kms - hilly

Another fine day evidenced our crew bid farewell to the historic town for a toughish ride to Triabunna. No one got a sleep-in thanks to a low flying buzzard, with a brain the size of a pea, which performed sniping raids from 5am over the entire camp site, emitting a horrendous “ark, ark” squawk, until the flying chook was comfortable that no one, not even the most hung-over happy camper, was still asleep. [That wasn’t the only morn that the blessed buzzard provided a free early morning wake-up call.] Early on in our ride to scenic Triabunna, approaching “Bust Me Gal” Hill and prior to “Break-a Neck” descent, Doctor Dan found himself caught between a rock and a hard place attempting to rationalise the Welsh Widget’s cycling methodology. Phil had forewarned Doctor Dan that the two Brunette Bombshells played hardball in the saddle. In addition, Brenda had mentioned to Dan that she rarely ever used her Granny Gear. Anyway back to the Doctor’s Dichotomy. He had been tailing Brenda up an awesome, seemingly never-ending hill, where they were both doing it tough, only problem was that Dan noticed that Brenda was still in her big chain ring despite having plugged her way up a long, tough grind. Conjuring in his cranium was the question, “Is Brenda that tough a hill climber or is she so stupid that she doesn’t know that she’s in her big chain ring crunching up a 12⁰ gradient.” Brenda wasn’t too proud to admit that the answer lay in the doctor’s latter prognosis. Shortly after, when we reached a flattish downhill, and Brenda accidentally noisily crunched into her Granny Gear after one of her less than proficient gear changes. Doctor Dan’s medical training to provide a diagnosis evidenced him exclaim, “Brenda, I’ve established your problem. You’re dyslexic!”. PJ collected the Yellow Jersey with the creditable finishing time of 1:01pm, by a veritable hair’s breadth from Bruna. Subsequently Sil had explained to our two Yank Compatriots that ladies merely “fluff and glow” and don’t do those ostensibly man-ly things - farts and sweating. In addition, “no lady would ever pick her nose”. David, whose beak came in for regular attention throughout the week, copped a nasty barb from someone who shall remain nameless, that “it would take you two days to pick your snoz”.

Day 3 - Monday, 25 January - Triabunna to Bicheno - 94kms - almost flat

“Wakey wakey. Hands off snaky. Rise and shine its breakfast time” was the wake up chant from an adjoining tent of previous night merry makers - revellers who never seemed to lose their energy, albeit aided by age - a lack of it. Seven kms before Swansea we passed the Spiky Bridge, built by convicts in 1843 which we glanced at on the LHS. No one seemed to know why they built the dam thing with all those spikes anyway. It was not as though there were any battlements to protect from encroaching, marauding foot soldiers, ‘cause the bloody bridge was way out the back of no where, with all those spiky fieldstones sticking up ominously. [] Approaching the picturesque coastal town of Swansea on a clear and warming morn, The Dribbler and Brazen Bruna had a slight lead, restricted ‘cause Dan and Phil had drafted behind a Kiwi couple on a tandem who knew how to hammer, so much so that Dan and PJ were averaging mid 30 kms on the flats until, after about 25 kms, they got spat out off the back. [] Brenda’s social skills then came to the fore, successfully keeping Silvia and The Whinger in a quaint coastal coffee house long enough to evidence PJ and Dan share the Yellow Jersey much to the protestations of Melbournian, Mark Keillor, who reckoned that it should be counted on net cycling times. We experienced seriously energy sapping head-winds post-Swansea and it was onerous work grinding out the last 30 kms, yet Sil still averaged 26.1kms - 4kms p/h faster than Sly Phil who had “snuck-ed” into the attractive, sun adorned Bicheno shoreline camp ground a few minutes earlier. After initially gathering our bags adjacent to the camp site fence, we departed for lodgings which Sil had booked from a glossy catalogue - heaven forbid she ended up picking good. That arvo, under Sil’s tutelage, we visited enchanting Maria Island catching the ferry and lumbering around lots of pretty parts of a picturesque island, with breathtaking views of the coastline - to all appearances from a bygone era. After trekking around an array of ambrosial, often majestic scenery and returning to the ferry wharf, PJ opted to swim out of the cove, intent upon circling four large moored schooners. Apart from the chilly waters, only other problem was that the four anchored boats were of the fishing variety. With the water beneath crystal clear, PJ could see for miles downunder. Noticing several large fishes hovering beneath the schooners, Lucky Phil deemed discretion the better part of valour and opted to circumvent the four grand schooners and high-tailed it back to the shore. Sil also seized the opportunity for a short, sharp, splash in the coolish Tas briny. [] After being knocked back on the four o’clock return leg which meandered in at 4:30pm, we eventually jumped on the five o’clock, ably sighted by Sailor David when it was a tiny spec on the horizon and ultimately arrived closer to six bells. Alas, our return to the mainland was not before Sil dropped the clanger of all clangers of our entire voyage. Possibly uttered in all innocence, Silvia’s perhaps honest mutter, or was it by chance a slightly more audible bleep, could have severed diplomatic relations with anti-gun lobbyists and humanists around the globe. Cutting straight to the chase, we had traversed the toughest day’s ride to date - some 94 kms into headwinds and then slogged our way around an unsullied island, which notwithstanding its beauty and grandeur was once a penal settlement. We had been rejected upon application for the 4:30pm ferry. With an hour to kill, consensus was achieved to suss out the paddock off to the right - a Nor-East fork, a mere bagatelle for such a fit, steadfast contingent of proven adventurers. After heading in that direction, most of us seemingly ran out of gas merely a stone’s throw from an old brick dwelling, under the shade of a Coolibah tree. The grass was kinda lush, green and softish [that’s an exaggeration] and the afternoon sun was gaining intensity. Feeling tuckered out, before you could bat an eyelid, our tribe was horizontal, juxtaposed, adjacent to an old stone cottage, in true Sara Lee formation [layer upon layer, upon layer] like lemmings, and rapidly drifting into the land of zzzzzzzs. A tour guide happened to walk by, followed by seven or so sightseers. The guide commented, “What’s this? It looks like the aftermath of a horrendous car accident!” To which irreverent Sil retorted, “No! Merely a re-enactment of Port Arthur”. The remainder of us were caught between trying to work out whether we could believe what our ears had told us, and trying to crawl into any accessible cavity in the grass below, out of sheer embarrassment. Silvia later explained that her ears were still blocked from water after her swim in the crisp briny only minutes earlier and didn’t realise that anyone could hear her sinister machinations, as she was merely thinking out loud - something like how you talk louder when you’ve got headphones on and everyone else wonders why you are yelling. [] Commonsense came to the fore after we disembarked the return ferry to the mainland. Realising that we all wouldn’t fit on the awaiting mini van, David led us back to the adjacent lodge for a “cleansing ale”. Problem was that no one remembered to tell the van driver to return and pick us up after he had cleared his bus load. To our disappointment - not even soul mate Brenda, who caught the early bus back, put the bus driver in the loop. After Mark K. eventually contacted the bus company, via Bike Vic, around 5:30pm we cheered Hero Bruce into Bicheno after the toughest day’s cycling he had experienced. [] That night we kinda “hosed ourselves out a tad” with more fine wine and food at Cyranos’ Restaurant, after all, it was the rest day tomorrow. We took some really zonkie photos at the restaurant with all of us attempting to emulate Bruce’s dorky recumbent pedaling style. Sassy Sil held the floor with some saucy jokes, in particular the one where the Fairy Godmother was able to help Cinderella out at that time of the month, but Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater came up trumps after midnight, and the WIFE joke - washing, ironing ____ing etc. All week PJ had given the Wolly with the Waxed Mo a “gob full“ that all his talk about his alleged wife, children and grand children hadn’t “cut any ice” with Phil, ‘cause “...it’s obvious you’re a closet poofter”. During conversation over dinner, PJ acknowledged that Dan the Man hadn’t cooped the slings and arrows which had beset Bruce. PJ invited the crew to hone in on any foibles which might expose Dan’s Achilles heel. Sil commented that she would remember the Good Doctor for his “Donnie Osmond smile with a dimpled grin from ear to ear”. So much for attempting to mount an assault against Dan to take the heat off Handle Bars. Later in the week, Bruce said he would remember Sil as The Crusher, ‘cause he reckoned that she could crush a man’s head between her thighs. [] With friendly faces drooping after a long day, PJ attempted to explain that it wasn’t polite to rest ones face on ones elbow bent hand, ‘cause a thousand years ago when PJ was in the 2nd grade Old Mother Ignatius, who would be reduced to dust these days, used to wander around the class room after the nippers returned from running around the playground after lunch. Any young whipper snapper, who dared to rest his face under his perched elbow, would incur a vicious, but well intended, whack delivered from the sharp side of Old Mother Ignatius’ ruler. Phil reckons that he has never propped up his face ever since. Judging by one of the end-of-ride team photos, with all except PJ resting their melons on their hands, the well intended message about appropriate manners, no matter how tired you might be, had been allowed to pass through to the keeper

Day 4 - Tuesday, 26 January - Australia Day Rest Day

Intent on clearing a few cobwebs, PJ grabbed some early morn laps in the motel’s cement pond. After initially stuffing up the bus booking arrangements, and under o’cast but clearing skies, Mark Keillor jagged a booking for us on a tourist van which would carry us the 40 kms to Freycinet National Park, with pick-up at 11am. But that was after a sausage roll pre-breakfast apertiser, followed by a full-on breakfast elsewhere. Fortunately David didn’t dribble once during the entire bus ride from Bicheno to Freycinet, perhaps due to his cycling compatriot’s regular finger waving reminders to “remember your manners”, but always delivered with a compassionate, heart rending smile. PJ, sitting at the back of the bus on David’s LHS, was careful to ensure The Dribbler’s head didn’t tilt to the right ‘cause that could spell trouble. Upon egressing the Jerries van and with David’s salival juices still slobbering somewhere they were supposed to, under delightfully blue skies, we took our initial look at the National Park just short of midday. After a scant gork at the map we figured that we could complete both the hike to the lookout on the peak and also the one down to pristine Wineglass Bay, where Kerry “The Goanna” Packer was spruiked to be visiting, albeit by helicopter, come mid-Feb. Notwithstanding that we had all drunk heaps the night before, we were now feeling kinda parched - perhaps we should have drunk a little more the night before. We enquired of the Park’s Officer where we could get fresh water prior to embarking on our two hikes. The delightfully helpful lass, resplendent in traditional khaki Park’s garb, proceeded to tell us that there was NO drinking water, and we would probably make it back, although our blood would thicken due to de-hydration and we would likely not be feeling too flash by mid-arvo. [] We completed both journeys, capturing a host of memorably photos, although PJ had to ask another tourist at the lookout to “get out of our photo”. Bruce went from Hero to Has Been in less than 24 hours by opting out on the trek to unsullied Wineglass Bay. With our return bus booked for three and a half bells, and having arrived back at the bus pick-up point almost two hours earlier, under crystal clear skies, David hatched “another cunning plan”. David, Brenda and Sil would trek to Freycinet Lodge for more fine food and caffeine fixes and PJ would hold the fort by telling the bus driver to pick ‘em up. Eventually, we all followed ‘em the five clicks back down the trail with a humungous mountain up front reminding Dan of something similar back home. After rejecting cups of tea made from tank water, the management of the lodge offered the girls, and David too, a round of white wines in exchange, which was enjoyed from a balcony setting affronting a memorable blue coastline landscape. Several of us enjoyed the Antipasto which had to be the best eight bucks expended during the entire junket to the Apple Isle, although consensus seemed to prevail that the chef must have taken a fancy to Phil, ‘cause his was “better still”. [His meal serving, silly.] Eventually, our van driver found us. And after taking forever to turn around, we were returning to our lodgings at the “Beachfront” Bicheno. Sassy Sil entertained us with a few songs and managed to bring two unassuming young Argentinean brothers out of their shells, along with an English lass also on the bike ride.

Day 5 - Wed., 27 January - Bicheno to St Helens - 79kms - well nigh flat

After an exhausting day’s hiking over the Rest Day, Dan was heard to mutter as we geared up for a return to the saddle, “The only thing which I managed to rest yesterday was my liver. I only drank 2½ beers all day.” Pre ride, the two Yanks were comparing notes on some high tech gel Band-Aid which helped heal their bum blisters. One was complaining that the seat on his rented bike wasn’t doing a lot for his Jatz Crackers. [] Lucky Phil collected the Yellow Jersey once again after taking a left onto the bike route, rather than returning to the Bicheno township for a pre-ride coffee starter with the rest of our squad. We enjoyed a slight tailwind to St Helens which was a welcome respite following our tough approach to Bicheno. Come 11 o’clock, the entire gang of eleven [two Yanks, B&B, The Dribbler, two Mexicans from South of the border, The Editor, Michael and Julie (Bruna had earlier recognised from local Sydney rides) and Chatterbox Euan], were gathered under more sunshine around a large table at “Something Fishy” in the coastal settlement of St. Helens - Tas’ largest fishing port.. Dan renewed his acquaintance with the Oz “Chico Roll”, eventually accepting that the Oz Chico is down market tucker. Later David hatched “another cunning plan” by ordering a swag of Crayfish from “Captains Catch”. Around six bells, under a sunset which seems restricted to parallels of latitude closer to either Pole, we sat around a wharf-side table amidst a charming St Helens Fishing Village waterfront setting, pigging out on sumptuous shellfish, washed down by, what else but more “Ninth Island Chardonnay”. Silvia picked up a spare Cray for the crew at Pegasus. With a few glasses of wine to wet the imbibing palate, we called in to “Panorama on Bayside” for a few more jars, Cointreau on ice and chips on the way home, whereabouts no one had too much difficulty entering “the land of nod”. Brenda chipped John for not showering the previous day. Silvia assured Brenda that she’d taken a shower around nine bells, when most of us, with the assistance of much imbibing, were well into a holding pattern of “zeeeeees”.

Day 6 - Thursday, 28 January - St Helens to Branxholm - 72 kms - hilly

With three Yellow Jersey’s to protect and Silvia appearing that it was time to show the impostor up, PJ stole another march on the crew by sneaking out of camp at six bells, only to find another cyclists still pip him for first to the camp at Branxholm. The chap reckoned that he hadn’t left camp ‘til “approaching seven”, but that couldn’t have been right, as it must have been heaps earlier. Brenda later commented that she heard zippers “surreptitiously” being covertly opened ever so slowly, however, she couldn’t imagine anyone daft enough to take off in the dark. None of our other crew members threw pearls before swine by attempting to haul in Phil’s lead, rather not giving a tinker’s cuss, after all it was only a figment of PJ’s imagination and didn’t exist anyhow. Sassy Sil, having burnt off David on one of them their mountainous climbs up to Weldborough, arrived at our Branxholm football oval camp site around 11am, cycling in with a chap named Craig who labelled her “Chickie”. The locals reckoned Wallabies gathered at the ground at night. There was an adequate sprinkling across the oval of strange looking dung turds to support their contention. After his mega early arrival at 9:30am, Surreptitious Phil took the opportunity to ‘phone Sig to find out how the Audax contingent had fared. He learnt that it was the hottest weather ever. Eric registered a PB. Sara turned in a highly creditable effort. Andrew Argent broke Sig/Phil’s time of 10:50 mins. And Silvia’s world record time of 9:55 mins in ‘98 remained intact, ‘cause although Jamie’s net times for the various legs were lower than Bruna’s, Jamie/Richard spent way too much time at the breaks. When PJ told Sig that he had held on to the Yellow Jersey for four days running, Sig immediately retorted, “You must be cheating!” [] Some of us luncheoned in a time capsule of Old World Charm at the “Old School Tea House” at Branxholm. The Manageress, a pleasant old stick from a seemingly bygone era, who reminded some of us of an old aunty, was run off her feet attending to the biggest thing ever to hit the “one horse town”. Payment was on the honour system, ‘cause there was no time to write up bills. Phil grabbed a swim in a less than appealing swimming pool in the main street and we evidenced a few sharp, short rain showers, however, our tents were up and the ground dried as quickly as it got soaked. Several of the side, including the Two Septics, returned to the “Old School Tea House” for din dins where duck proved popular. David had to endure one of the things expected when slumming it on a bike ride, ‘cause the only red wine he could muster were two bots of Queen Adelaide. Even then, the publican didn’t know how to open ‘em.

Day 7 - Friday, 29 January - Branxholm to Lilydale - 68 kms - rolling plains

Just for a change and to shy further away from camp slops, queuing-up and washing dishes, consensus was reached to take breakfast at Scottsdale, 25 clicks down the trail after a noteworthy climb. We agreed that all we would be downing at camp was a cuppa tea. Perhaps Brenda didn’t hear or maybe her tummy got the better of her, ‘cause she broke the rules by grabbing a hand made scrambled egg roll creation and somehow also forced down more cake. [] Ten seconds into the ride, PJ found his rear tyre flat. To his surprise, the rest of the gang waited at the start of the steep downhill from Branxholm for Phil to change his inner tube. “Astonishment” was probably a better description than “surprise”, seeing as how he had snucked out at 6am the day before to retain the “Yellow Jersey”. Around 9:15am after an unexpected hilly climb from Branxholm we were all seated in pleasant sunshine at the “Cottage Bakery” 9 Victoria St. Scottsdale customarily filling ones face. Not only having to contend with a tyre flat, PJ had experienced rear derailleur problems. Around 11am we were half way to the quaint hamlet of Labrina, renowned for the Clover Hill Winery when, as David described it “to placate the girls and do the girlie thing, to make a solitary concession to their femininity”, we detoured right onto 3 kms of predominantly gravel road to visit the Bridstow Estate Lavender Farm. After a treacherous few kms on the gravel, and with the temperature climbing by the second, we struggled up another hill to the setting of valley upon valley of lavender trees. Or were they vines? As it turned out no one liked lavender anyway, least of all John F. who shelled out 3½ bucks for a lavender fudge which tasted like crystallised stale sugar. Focusing on the dear old lavender, Silvia, adopting her Seriously Demented characterisation, also chipped in with a “I don’t like it. I don’t bloody like it!” Sil’s comment was surprising as, after all, she was a proponent to take the off road route, notwithstanding that most of us struggled on 23 mil slicks over the diabolical gravel road. Brenda purchased an imitation miniature Tasmanian Devil at the trinket shop and irresponsibly perched the poor sod on the her bike frame so as the little critter could enjoy the view. [] Closer to Lilydale we again forked to the right for the pay-back - a visit to Pipers Brook Winery, the largest winery in Tas and more significantly, producer of Ninth Island. An hour later, after traversing up hill and down dale to find the precious winery, we enjoyed still more fine food and delightful cappuccinos. Matt from Prahan, sketched Old Custard Nut’s “kisser “appearing to go easy on the magnitude of David’s snoz which Brenda alleged “could be used as an Olympic ski slope”. Phil enquired about the likelihood of scrounging a few oversized bottle tops which Pipers used to cap its champers, only to be given a bag containing a few hundred bottle tops. A comment from David, "Well Shepherd! I reckon that it is time to get the flock out of here." had us back on our way to Lilydale. [] On the way back, Brenda went into mourning after she realised that her unchristened Tasmanian Devil had fallen off her bike and an unfortunate certain death awaited it, without the TLC Brenda should have been bestowing the baby devil. Cognisant of the potentially lengthy penal internment in the Old Bailey, seemingly awaiting a certain Australian child carer, Louise Sullivan, who was covering the front page of newspapers across the globe, Phil undertook not to report Brenda to the RSPCA for careless, irresponsible, and unconscionable Tasmanian Devil care. [] PJ’s cantankerous rear derailleur finally packed it in nine clicks short of camp, necessitating him walking up a monster hill just shy of town, ‘cause his rear gear was set in the smallest chain wheel. Brenda reckoned his gummed up gear was a godsend, ‘cause the hill climb was tough. [] With several of our crew still caught back at the pub in Branxholm, PJ was the first to arrive at camp from our plus 100 kms sojourn, via a lavender farm and a winery, to be greeted by a Merry Dan who already had a few jars under his belt, drinking with “mate”, alias Euan, in Café de Canvass. Around 5:30pm, after we had pitched our tents and with several campers seemingly "fiddling whilst Rome was about to burn", we agreed to seek shelter in CdeC from the pending storm rather than try and high-tail it to town. The skyline was growing increasingly ominous, with black, threatening clouds, rolling in from the horizon, with ever augmenting intensity. It promised to "dump a veritable shit load in the short term”. Seconds latter, it was raining something serious, fortunately only for a few minutes, then clearing up as quickly as it came, with the sun again bellowing in, amidst a background of dark clouds moving away over the nearby mountain. PJ beckoned that we up stumps by taking our table outside. Only problem was that after we took-up our bed and walked, everyone whinged that the late arvo sun was too intense, something about “getting crows feet” from squinting. We returned to the shade of CdeC. Around dusk, Phil J. joined the kids in a game of park cricket where one young punk regularly managed to hit Phil’s “yorkers” clean out of the park. PJ offered Buddy Dan an opportunity with the bat. However, Dan indicated that he already had a few too many frosties on board to be sure of making regular contact between bat and ball. Shortly after, David S. spotted this real dorky looking guy, way over in the shower queue, who appeared not to be wearing any anything. It turned out that this chap created quite a kafuffle on the female shower queue. Little did we realise from a distance that it was our own, Beloved Bruce, testing the waters over his, strictly northern hemisphere pseudo "Speedo”, floral “sluggos”. Sil has the pics to prove it.

Day 8 - Sat. 30 January - Lilydale to Launceston - 27kms - up hill, down dale

We didn’t have to worry about that blessed, bleating buzzard, ‘cause the Truck Alarm made sure that no one slept beyond six bells. Why is it on the final morning of every ride, after everyone has partied hard on the final night, does everyone get up early? Perhaps it is always those confounded noisy semi-trailers rolling out early ‘cause their job is done. [] Notwithstanding we were only a stone’s throw from Launceston, spot the dead animal remained a preoccupation. Bruce had stolen a march, however, it wasn’t big enough. Sil and Michael set a more than steady pace approaching the outskirts of Launceston proper. With the exception of Bruce who was still pedaling away in his funny fangled frame, all had gathered around 9:30am at “Molly York’s Café” in delightful old world charm Yorktown Square on yet another agreeable morning for a final caffeine charge, along with a lot of scrumptious brunch type tucker. [] Around 10:20am PJ returned to the finish line intent on intercepting Bruce so that our entire squad of 10 [B&B, DS, PJ, JF, MK, M&J, Dan and Handle Bars] could cross the official finishing line together. Alas, The Moustache had pedaled harder than we’d expected and crossed the finish line 10 mins earlier, regretfully without a familiar face in sight. Apart from no doubt appearing a rather ungrateful act for his faster friends to “piss off”, it also didn’t say a lot for our capacity to calculate Bruce’s arrival time - after a week of winding down one's cerebellum. Hence, Bruce, perhaps by default had collected the Yellow Jersey. Nonetheless it was his. [] Brenda, David and Silvia had already dropped their bikes in at nearby Sloan’s Cycles for packing, ‘cause they are unmechanical, nothing to do with being lazy. Dan had dumped his rented blue jalopy at Paddy Palins, not sorry to part company with it, after almost paying for it in regular repairs - five “broked” spokes, a tyre rupture and a tube puncture - all to the rear wheel. Consequently, half our contingent had to improvise their way over the finish line, with a rendition of Riverdance proving the preferred “modus operandi”. Even more team photos, one including the Ride Dis-Organiser, Noel Reid, who received our tumultuous praise for getting everything right, perhaps being attributed for some of the favourable things beyond his control such as the fine wine, marvellous restaurants and our successful lodgings selection. David hailed a cab to take our bags to our “Park Lane” Launceston motel which turned out to be only a stone’s throw away, merely on the other side of City Park which we soon learned was the venue for Launceston’s annual Carnivale celebration. [] After showering at our motel, we all headed out of Room 4 & 5 to see our American buddies off to Devonport to the delightful dulcet tones of Songster Sil “we’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when,....some sunny day”. Under splendid Summer sunshine, our route through City Park evidenced the Carnivale in full swing. After sussing out stall after stall of sumptuous fare, we opted for sharing German sausages and sauerkraut, although Bruce took a fancy to the Wallaby shish kebabs. There was much welling of eyes and long faces as our two American friends boarded their bus for Devonport and the o/night ride on the Floating Hotel to Melbourne, no doubt awaiting it’s characteristically foul weather. [It wasn’t to be, ‘cause Melb. stole some of Sydney’s sunshine.] Even more photos and lots of waves and tar tars. Unfortunately we lost Mark and Johnno and missed saying chow now to them. John cycling forays at the peloton were uncharacteristically hampered for most of the week due to a lingering virus. Mark’s efforts to ensure that everyone’s tent went up properly was, as always, appreciated. For a chap who seems to cycle only infrequently, Mark packs a punch on a pushie. [] On the way out of the bike compound, Sil said good bye to Fluffy Anthony with typical European enthusiasm and vigour. Bruna then beckoned David S. to similarly hug our Adelaide acquaintance. The Dribbler, caught unawares obliged, however, it almost set David into cardiac arrest. [] After more of the touristy walk walks, consensus had us select La Cantina for Sat. night din dins where Robertsons Well and Cloudy Bay were employed to wash the wind pipes, that, of course, was after we’d wet the whistle with a pint of Guiness at O’Keefe’s. However, mid-arvo, during reconnaissance to pick the right tucker spot, Brenda coerced affable Trevor Lewis 03 6331.8835 Mark Daly from “Pierre’s on George” to serve us a cappuccino when he wanted to shut up shop for a mid-arvo siesta. Notwithstanding having sampled victuals and grits from half the stalls at the Carnivale, Brenda ordered carrot cake with her caffeine. David marvelled over its size, which the four of us struggled to down. Later that night, following a sumptuous dinner at La Cantina, we re-visited Pierre’, offering possibly the best coffee enjoyed during the entire trip - a big call, ‘cause our travels had us tasting in a lot of fine Cafés. Brenda took a fancy to the shirts the staff at “Pierre’s on George” were wearing, even prepared to buy one straight off the back of one of the staff. Phil arranged for two mediums to be posted to Sydney - one for each of the girls, in case they ever want to open a Café in Sydney. However, it wouldn’t remain solvent for long, ‘cause they’d drink and eat all the profits.

Day 9 - Sun. 31 Jan. - Tour de Launceston - 8kms - hilly with a steep start

We all grabbed a morning dip at the Launceston Swimming Centre, Windmill Hill and regrouped, along with Michael and Julie, at The Gazebo around 9:30am for our final breakfast. Sil tried on someone’s specs and looked kinda “elegant”. Gleaning that the glasses might be adding a tad of respectability to her persona, Sil quickly muttered, “I don’t like ‘em. I don’t bloody like ‘em. They make me look so pisticated!”. Service at The Gazebo wasn’t too flash, ‘cause the skeleton crew was run off its feet attending to transient guests. Much walking up steeper gradients than we’d seen on most of the ride, soon followed, then the chair lift at the Cataract George, sussing out the funny birds with the big coloured wings and then trekking around on the Cliff Grounds side. With David muttering "I'm so hungry, I could eat the crutch out of a low flying duck!", Silvia, after much deliberation, selected Hallam’s “Waterfront Fresh Local Seafood Restaurant” for our final team lunch where we opted for Rycrofts whites. The NSW Hunter white was selected to facilitate re-acclimatising back to the pending hum drum of work, driven by the inevitable clock, which soon befell us - following over a week of being dictated to by only our taste buds. Somehow the waiter botched up the bill which went on PJ’s plastic, after team contributions. Hence, Phil left Hallam’s a little trepidatious that he might find more than one invoice on his Visa and having to try and sort it out from far afield. [] Mid-arvo back at Park Lane more forlorn faces as Brenda, Bruna and Old Custard Nuts boarded their cab to Launceston Airport. Sil beckoned David and Phil to do the poofy thing and have a good-bye hug. However, after a run of each crew member accommodating seemingly everyone else’s whim and wish, no matter how silly it might have seemed for the sake of the team harmony, both chaps declined to oblige Sil’s request. We hadn’t got Bruce drunk and shaved off that Wolly Mo and we’d got used to David’s aerodynamic, smoothless sunnies. We'd even put up with Dan wearing socks with his sandals. David had lasted 10 days with only one real whinge, contending, with some justification that this was his dearest ever holiday paying $240 a meal for his two forays into “Camp slops” - one breakfast on the very day they served baked beans and the lasagne dinner meal early in the week. Notwithstanding everyone’s well appreciated efforts to get on well, Bruna’s beseech for the two chaps to cuddle at good-bye time, rather than shake hands, was deemed by both as going above and beyond the call of duty. [] The remaining crew of three [Julie, hubby Michael and The Editor] returned to The Gazebo that night for another delightful dinner. In keeping with the standards previously set by a fine, upstanding contingent of well intended individuals ably adept at displaying the social graces, the remaining trio continued on the tradition of not committing any indiscretions, faux pas, or blunders, at least none that those present would talk about after the event. [] A fun filled ten days in Tas was over.