#1 Thread starter
This one's from Taxus of OzVFR.
Further info in AB-OZ's original Summer in the Snowies 2007 topic.
--
AB wrote:
> I didn't include a lot of stuff on purpose! Hopefully one of the other 24 or so people
> on the ride will also write something, from their point of view.
As your Catship pleases...
Location: Running
Date: Late
I knew I was being optimistic about leaving anywhere near 2.30pm when I didn't get home till 2.25, leaving myself precisely 0 minutes to pack SWMBO, say goodbye to my luggage and kiss the dogs. By the time I'd got back from work, forgotten 9 things on my list of 8 things to remember, pulled the luggage off the bike twice, repacked it three times and wobbled off up the road, it was too late to bother looking at the clock - there were miles to meet, people to do and things to munch.
Burning down the Hume Highway looking like a streak of whitening, I knew AB's dancing girls had gone to ground and all my cat-herding skills would come to nought - I'd forgotten to organise the weather. Great wodges of sky were a fugly blue-black colour, with some nice green bits thrown in for contrast, all heading my way. I knew I was going to get shat on from a great height, it was just a question of when and how bad. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, suddenly riding a bike seemed marginally less sensible than, say, poking a brown snake with a short stick, until I whizzed past a sign saying "Services 5km".
"Engine Room - Full Noise if you please and be snappy about it"
"Aye aye sir".
Doing about $2.00 plus some loose change was probably insane, but so was the alternative. About 500m from the exit ramp the first hailstone plummeted into my helmet making a bang so loud I thought the fecker was going to come straight through my visor. Roared up the ramp and under the fuel bowser shelter, anxiously sussing out a sheltered spot somewhere, and found a covered path (a path! A path!) behind a shrubbery (a shrubbery! A shrubbery!). And there I stood for over an hour as this 'orrible storm cell alternately threw hailstones bigger than a golf ball, horizontal rain, gravel size hailstones, more golf balls, more rain and so on. Lightning strikes all around, one was so f*cking close it put all the power out at the services.
"Where yas goin' mate?" asks one bloke as we watched the tide of stormwater and backed-up drains all around us.
"Errr, Jindabyne"
"Oh, hah, you'll have fun they eh??" he laughed as he rushed off back to his warm, dry, weatherproof air-conditioned tin box. Bastard.
After an hour of this bollox, it all settled down to a steady torrent, so I set off again as 'twere gettin' late. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea, as riding along a freeway with 6" deep sheet water in heavy rain while being overtaken by semi-trailers is one of those biking experiences I can live without. Fogged up visor, helmet wet inside, leaking waterproofs (nothing short of a neoprene diving suit would have been waterproof in this) and sodden gloves had all but dried but by the time I got fuel at Goulburn, but somewhere I harboured a deep suspicion it would happen again. Which it did. I could see more of this shite ahead as I passed Lake George, and if I'd thought the Hume Highway was bad in rain, it paled in comparison to Canberra on a Saturday evening in pi$$ing rain.
Imagine if you will, a parallel universe where every stupid stinking roundabout looks exactly like the last 153 stupid stinking roundabouts you've just slithered around. Imagine trying to navigate yourself out of this black hole. It's not that the junctions lacked road signs - there were sh!tloads of them - just that none of them pointed to anything useful, like a place - any place - outside Canberra. Ningnong, Pingpongeranong, Connor Shops, Banner Centre, Dinner Time. I'd have stopped to ask someone where the hell Melbourne was, but no-one walks anywhere in this place - Canberra must have the most pristine set of footpaths anywhere in the known universe. I can see the ad on EPay - 'Genuine Vintage Canberran Footpath, at least 40 years old, immaculate, never used.' Hopeless as it is - but for the full frustration, add heavy rain, dickwits in taxis and make it dark.
By the time I'd *finally* found the Monaro to Cooma, it was pitch dark, the roads were awash and immediately the wind started to gust suddenly from the east, it would change its mind and do it from the west. Things, unidentified, unidentifiable things lurked alongside the road. And I had another 150km to go. Was I going to be brave and keep on? Was I bollox. I turned round and headed back into the Gehenna that is the back streets of Tuggerenaranrong or somewhere like it and booked into a hotel for the night. The receptionist type looked me up and down several times as I waddled past the hotel restaurant up to the desk, probably estimating how long the cleaners would have to take to mop up the trail of mud.
"Name" he said.
"Just call me Dye" I said, signing the forms with hands black from sodden gloves.
"Oh very dry" he said. I stared sullenly at him, all the while steadily shedding muddy water on the carpet like a dog after a hard day chasing sheep round a wet paddock.
Day 2
Cooma
There are mornings and there are mornings. Some are fine, others - like this one - seem to consist of wrong happening in the events order or not happening at all or being only partly resolved. Take for instance the matter of inserting ear plugs. Not a particularly taxing chore, but one that frustrates me on some days. No matter what I do, how I squash, squish or twiddle them I cannot get the feckers in my ear properly. Flies inside my helmet seem to be able to get in my ear with no problems, limited manouevring room notwithstanding. But I, a creature with four trillion times more intelligence dealing with my own ears, cannot approach this level of repeatability. Four stops between Tuggerathong and Cooma ought be enough to sort that little drama out, but oh no, not today. Some partially deaf tw*t on a bike shouting his breakfast order in a McDonalds might be amusing to some onlookers, but obviously the word tinnitus doesn't ring any bells with them. And while I'm here, the next time some pock-marked juvenile called Waz or Bez or Bicky asks me, while I'm in full bike gear, if I want my order takeaway, I'm going to go thru the drive-through just to pi$$ them off.
Cooma seems to be having its annual Mop festival, convenient since last night's storms dumped 3" of rain in 3 hours. Half the McDonalds landscaping (if you can call three stunted Nandinas and a dead cat landscaping) is now appearing as a speed hump across the main road, and the chemists now stocks aqualungs. The road to Jindabyne isn't much better, sometimes it's hard to tell where the paddocks end and the road starts. But no matter, I reach Mooseses in good time. In good time to see Scotty leave. I think I might have nodded to him, but maybe he thought I had a nervous twitch cos he didn't nod back. All the usual gang of old muckers are there, working hard at breaking the OzVFR all-comers tea-drinking record, hard-core types that they are. Several tell me of the storms they got yesterday, at which I scoff and say "Call that a storm lad, why tha' knows nowt". No-one is impressed.
I dump my thoroughly washed gear in the attic and join the rest for a good chinwag and to catch up on the incestuous relationships some of our bikes seem to be having. Apparently some chap called Trev is to blame... At about this point, JohnS and Kev leave, presumably because the tone of the place has been lowered, followed not long after by Mr & Mrs Admin. The weather was still here, so most of us bravely and with no thought of our own safety sat about and drank whatever came to hand and fearlessly watched videos half the day. Kirbs, Trev and Glen got back after seeing Scotty off and selfishly proceeded to brag of dry, sunny, deserted roads, the inconsiderate swines. But it was beer time by then, followed by Pizza time, and rounded off nicely by more beer time, with extra beer
added to make sure.
I can't remember what happened after that. (hic)
Stay tooned, there's more of this bollox...
Steve
Maianbar
Further info in AB-OZ's original Summer in the Snowies 2007 topic.
--
AB wrote:
> I didn't include a lot of stuff on purpose! Hopefully one of the other 24 or so people
> on the ride will also write something, from their point of view.
As your Catship pleases...
Location: Running
Date: Late
I knew I was being optimistic about leaving anywhere near 2.30pm when I didn't get home till 2.25, leaving myself precisely 0 minutes to pack SWMBO, say goodbye to my luggage and kiss the dogs. By the time I'd got back from work, forgotten 9 things on my list of 8 things to remember, pulled the luggage off the bike twice, repacked it three times and wobbled off up the road, it was too late to bother looking at the clock - there were miles to meet, people to do and things to munch.
Burning down the Hume Highway looking like a streak of whitening, I knew AB's dancing girls had gone to ground and all my cat-herding skills would come to nought - I'd forgotten to organise the weather. Great wodges of sky were a fugly blue-black colour, with some nice green bits thrown in for contrast, all heading my way. I knew I was going to get shat on from a great height, it was just a question of when and how bad. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, suddenly riding a bike seemed marginally less sensible than, say, poking a brown snake with a short stick, until I whizzed past a sign saying "Services 5km".
"Engine Room - Full Noise if you please and be snappy about it"
"Aye aye sir".
Doing about $2.00 plus some loose change was probably insane, but so was the alternative. About 500m from the exit ramp the first hailstone plummeted into my helmet making a bang so loud I thought the fecker was going to come straight through my visor. Roared up the ramp and under the fuel bowser shelter, anxiously sussing out a sheltered spot somewhere, and found a covered path (a path! A path!) behind a shrubbery (a shrubbery! A shrubbery!). And there I stood for over an hour as this 'orrible storm cell alternately threw hailstones bigger than a golf ball, horizontal rain, gravel size hailstones, more golf balls, more rain and so on. Lightning strikes all around, one was so f*cking close it put all the power out at the services.
"Where yas goin' mate?" asks one bloke as we watched the tide of stormwater and backed-up drains all around us.
"Errr, Jindabyne"
"Oh, hah, you'll have fun they eh??" he laughed as he rushed off back to his warm, dry, weatherproof air-conditioned tin box. Bastard.
After an hour of this bollox, it all settled down to a steady torrent, so I set off again as 'twere gettin' late. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea, as riding along a freeway with 6" deep sheet water in heavy rain while being overtaken by semi-trailers is one of those biking experiences I can live without. Fogged up visor, helmet wet inside, leaking waterproofs (nothing short of a neoprene diving suit would have been waterproof in this) and sodden gloves had all but dried but by the time I got fuel at Goulburn, but somewhere I harboured a deep suspicion it would happen again. Which it did. I could see more of this shite ahead as I passed Lake George, and if I'd thought the Hume Highway was bad in rain, it paled in comparison to Canberra on a Saturday evening in pi$$ing rain.
Imagine if you will, a parallel universe where every stupid stinking roundabout looks exactly like the last 153 stupid stinking roundabouts you've just slithered around. Imagine trying to navigate yourself out of this black hole. It's not that the junctions lacked road signs - there were sh!tloads of them - just that none of them pointed to anything useful, like a place - any place - outside Canberra. Ningnong, Pingpongeranong, Connor Shops, Banner Centre, Dinner Time. I'd have stopped to ask someone where the hell Melbourne was, but no-one walks anywhere in this place - Canberra must have the most pristine set of footpaths anywhere in the known universe. I can see the ad on EPay - 'Genuine Vintage Canberran Footpath, at least 40 years old, immaculate, never used.' Hopeless as it is - but for the full frustration, add heavy rain, dickwits in taxis and make it dark.
By the time I'd *finally* found the Monaro to Cooma, it was pitch dark, the roads were awash and immediately the wind started to gust suddenly from the east, it would change its mind and do it from the west. Things, unidentified, unidentifiable things lurked alongside the road. And I had another 150km to go. Was I going to be brave and keep on? Was I bollox. I turned round and headed back into the Gehenna that is the back streets of Tuggerenaranrong or somewhere like it and booked into a hotel for the night. The receptionist type looked me up and down several times as I waddled past the hotel restaurant up to the desk, probably estimating how long the cleaners would have to take to mop up the trail of mud.
"Name" he said.
"Just call me Dye" I said, signing the forms with hands black from sodden gloves.
"Oh very dry" he said. I stared sullenly at him, all the while steadily shedding muddy water on the carpet like a dog after a hard day chasing sheep round a wet paddock.
Day 2
Cooma
There are mornings and there are mornings. Some are fine, others - like this one - seem to consist of wrong happening in the events order or not happening at all or being only partly resolved. Take for instance the matter of inserting ear plugs. Not a particularly taxing chore, but one that frustrates me on some days. No matter what I do, how I squash, squish or twiddle them I cannot get the feckers in my ear properly. Flies inside my helmet seem to be able to get in my ear with no problems, limited manouevring room notwithstanding. But I, a creature with four trillion times more intelligence dealing with my own ears, cannot approach this level of repeatability. Four stops between Tuggerathong and Cooma ought be enough to sort that little drama out, but oh no, not today. Some partially deaf tw*t on a bike shouting his breakfast order in a McDonalds might be amusing to some onlookers, but obviously the word tinnitus doesn't ring any bells with them. And while I'm here, the next time some pock-marked juvenile called Waz or Bez or Bicky asks me, while I'm in full bike gear, if I want my order takeaway, I'm going to go thru the drive-through just to pi$$ them off.
Cooma seems to be having its annual Mop festival, convenient since last night's storms dumped 3" of rain in 3 hours. Half the McDonalds landscaping (if you can call three stunted Nandinas and a dead cat landscaping) is now appearing as a speed hump across the main road, and the chemists now stocks aqualungs. The road to Jindabyne isn't much better, sometimes it's hard to tell where the paddocks end and the road starts. But no matter, I reach Mooseses in good time. In good time to see Scotty leave. I think I might have nodded to him, but maybe he thought I had a nervous twitch cos he didn't nod back. All the usual gang of old muckers are there, working hard at breaking the OzVFR all-comers tea-drinking record, hard-core types that they are. Several tell me of the storms they got yesterday, at which I scoff and say "Call that a storm lad, why tha' knows nowt". No-one is impressed.
I dump my thoroughly washed gear in the attic and join the rest for a good chinwag and to catch up on the incestuous relationships some of our bikes seem to be having. Apparently some chap called Trev is to blame... At about this point, JohnS and Kev leave, presumably because the tone of the place has been lowered, followed not long after by Mr & Mrs Admin. The weather was still here, so most of us bravely and with no thought of our own safety sat about and drank whatever came to hand and fearlessly watched videos half the day. Kirbs, Trev and Glen got back after seeing Scotty off and selfishly proceeded to brag of dry, sunny, deserted roads, the inconsiderate swines. But it was beer time by then, followed by Pizza time, and rounded off nicely by more beer time, with extra beer
added to make sure.
I can't remember what happened after that. (hic)
Stay tooned, there's more of this bollox...
Steve
Maianbar