tallarook-yea

I sit in the car on the quiet side of the divided highway that is Yea’s main street listening to more grand final sum up and analysis on ABC radio. Rock and three others should arrive soon. The rendezvous is 10:30. Naturally I slip into a bakery to fill a gap in time and desire. Soon the others join me.

They coffee, then we foregather at the Royal Mail. The publican is happy to check us in at 11; Spartan rooms, but who cares? Outside we load my bike and Rowan’s into the back of Rock’s ute and cruise down to Tallarook where the Goulburn Valley High Country Rail Trail kicks off. It’s 38kms back to Yea and 121 to Mansfield.

The country is as green as five bastards, as it should be after the wettest winter for donkeys'. We’re well organised: it takes all of five minutes to slide front wheels into dropouts and roll away. Rowan hares off, disappears. Rock and I pedal gently along the packed fine gravel of this most recently opened trail. Wendy and her new beau Nick look good pedalling side by side.

Rowan is Rock’s cousin, Scotch alumnus, musician, good-time boy, good fun to be around. He hasn’t swung a leg over a bike for some time, has gone soft around the middle since I saw him last six or seven years ago. He’s on a heavy, thick-tyred MTB and comes back to the pack soon enough.

I’ve been on the road with Wendy a few times. She’s a no-nonsense rider, a rower too. It’s her first serious off-road ride on a lovely Trek MTB and she’s right at home on the thin gravel. Nick’s on a secondhand lime Cannondale MTB he bought on the net after fucking up the forks on his previous bike. You can see his rowing background in his pedalling.

The first 25kms are glorious, green hills all round, the swift brown Goulburn appearing through the trees. The trail insinuates its way, sometimes steeply banked, along the valley. It’s not flat at all. I have no inclinometer on the Red Rocket but my legs say three per cent on some drags. We choof along averaging 20kph.

This is the nicest section of rail trail I’ve ridden in Victoria. The surface is mostly intact, the bridges first-class concrete and iron affairs, all standard design. They’re narrow but the trail carries few cyclists. The scenery is brilliant. The only magpie attack is in the main street of Yea as we roll back into town.

Rowan and Rock shower and drive back to Tallarook to pick up Rock’s ute. The five of us spend the late afternoon on the glassed-in first floor verandah of the pub, banging on—tall stories, of course.

Rock on.