yea-mansfield

Had Juan Antonio Samaranch ridden the Goulburn Valley High Country Rail Trail he’d certainly declare it the best rail trail ever. And he’d be right. I’m with Juan Antonio one hundred per cent, even though neither he nor I have ridden every rail trail in this state. But of those I’ve ridden the GVHCRT is the best with a capital B.

Wendy hasn’t ridden a rail trail before so she has to agree. Rock agrees. The agreeable Rowan would surely agree. Nick too. We’re all on Juan Antonio’s side.

We postpone breakfast in order to eat at the only likely-looking eatery in town, Marmalades, in the heritage-listed old Purcell grocery building, wooden counters, grooved stairs to the basement, shadowy figures down there in the dark if the door blows shut. The chef stuffs up the orders and the bill, but no one’s complaining: the food is first-class.

So is the trail from Yea to Molesworth. It heads south-east out of town, crossing the Goulburn’s flood plain on a sweeping causeway and several bridges, sedges left and right, then climbs steadily through lush pasture to the 201-metre long Cheviot Tunnel. Three workers perished in building its horseshoe arc.

Approaching cyclists can see clean through it from half a kilometre away, like looking through a reverse telescope. Yet in the middle it’s dark enough that the walls on either side disappear and only a fixed stare at the far opening sustains the ability to stay on the straight and narrow.

Our descent to Molesworth is not as dangerous as it was for locomotives a century ago, a sign telling us some came to grief at Suicide Corner near Sheepwash Lagoon.

The trail is less magnificent after Molesworth but still offers plenty of variety and a long tough drag up to the Merton Gap, at 400m the high point of the ride. No gastronomic high point is to be had, the greasy spoons in Merton and Bonnie Doon are wasted diversions.

The magpies from Bonnie Doon to Maindample swoop in pairs and prefer me with my special magpie-attracting helmet, aggressive eyes stuck to the rear and several tie-on antennae warranting close inspection. Visual cues failing miserably, I resort to yodelling, screaming and loud expletives to deter them. I recommend this method.

What it ride! Grand company, as perfect a day—clear blue skies, no wind, 25 degrees—as one could wish for, and Juan Antonio’s first-choice trail to follow through scenery fit for Rowan’s wank-bank.

Rock on. 

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.