Wearing Woolly Socks (And Riding Bicycles)

Over in France, pretty boys roar up and down mountains on bicycles, veins pumped full of red blood cells, testosterone, and goodness knows what else.*  In a fine tradition of watching not doing, I got up early every morning to watch the Tour de France highlights, augmented as they were by breathless commentary.  "He's wearing aerodynamic socks!" gasped the commentator as one of the favourites struggled through the individual time trial.

"I don't wear aerodynamic socks!" Exclaimed Roger.  "I didn't know there was such a thing!  Maybe that's why I'm so slow."

I didn't have the heart to point out that even if he donned aerodynamic socks while sitting on the couch, he still wouldn't go anywhere.

Inspired by the TdF and with a window of sunshine and not very much wind, we hopped on bicycles and went for a ride.  In the tragic absence of aerodynamic socks I donned my thick and woollies instead, ensuring toe warmth in trade for speed.  I left home early, getting a head start with plans to meet Roger at Port Vincent for thermos coffee and fresh donuts from the Port Vincent Kiosk.

In true TdF style the ride started with a fierce uphill, at least 50 vertical metres with a lookout at the top. 

I watched a pod of dolphins out to sea.  I tried to take photos but they were too far away, so here's the lookout and the WtY signpost instead.

Just a spot of bicycle posing.

The wind was behind me, the sun shone warm on my back, and little birds tweeted happily in the trees. The path wandered along the cliff top until it came to the first grumpy land owner who hadn't allowed the WtY on his land, and I was summarily spat out onto the freshly graded gravel surface of the Old Coast Road.

 

Mind you, the Old Coast Road wasn't too shabby.  Trimmed with trees, wheat on one side and sea on the other.  

Mindful of my lack of aerodynamic socks, I paced myself along the Old Coast Road, talking to galahs and sheep and ever on the (unsuccessful) lookout for wombats.

 

I rode through Sheoak Flat, another conglomeration of fishing shacks where buildings outnumbered permanent residents by a ratio of 3:1.  If the number of seaside seats was anything to go by, the residents of Sheoak Flats spent a lot of time sitting and looking out to sea.

 

I can think of worse places to sit and contemplate.  But I couldn't contemplate, because I was time trialing to Port Vincent with a deadline to get there before Roger ate all the donuts.

 I detoured from the Old Coast Road at the Port Vincent Golf Course, because the path hugged the edge of the cliff with fantastic views and minimal chances of being hit by an errant golf ball but even if that happened it would be worth it.

 

Black is the new green.

 

Time trial complete, I took a hiatus at Port Vincent.  The donuts were as promised: hot and made while we watched.  We gobbled them down and prepared for the next round of riding: no longer solo, this would be a cat-and-mouse competition down to Deep Gully and back again, both of us jostling for the winning position.  "We have to get back in time for fish and chips from the Kiosk," said Roger.  Our home owners had waxed lyrical about the Kiosk fish'n'chips and he was keen to try them.

 

Our peleton of 2 had several unseemly tussles of who got to draft whom along the boring bits out of Port Vincent until we returned to the cliff top, after which the race had several hiatuses for the purposes of photography and bicycle posing.

 

Stop the clock. I need to take pictures.

 

The turn-around point came when another Grumpypants land owner forced cyclists to return to the road while walkers took their chances on the beach with the tides.  The return trip presented challenges with a strengthening head wind and a peleton that was both tired and keen for fish'n'chips.  Although a quick chat break was necessary when we met Mr and Mrs Walker, who put us to shame having walked from Port Wakefield over the past 7 days.  They regaled us with stories of walking and bicycling through Europe and places wild and wondrous, like Queensland.  We swapped tips on ultralight equipment tricks and commiserated about weather and gravity.  They had walked from Port Vincent along the walkers' track, while cyclists such as us were diverted to the highway for a dose of tedium and extra kilometres.  I asked them what the walkers' track was like. 

 

"It's all flat, just like this.  Apart from the steps.  There's steps down and up through Deep Gully."

 

Huh.  I could carry my bicycle down and up a few steps if it meant avoiding the highway.  We said our goodbyes to Mr & Mrs Walker and rerouted the race.

 

Indeed, Deep Gully had steps.  It was deep.  And a gully.  Not that I would have guessed from the name. It had quite a lot of steps.

All those steps notwithstanding, it was entirely possible to just walk around Deep Gully.  Indeed, a worn pathway through the grass and over the rocks suggested that most of the walkers and all of the illicit (like us) cyclists did just that.

It was still better than the highway.

From there it was all sea on the right, wheat on the left, ho-hum kind of cycling with another set of steps back to the esplanade at Port Vincent where Roger found his second wind and, despite his lack of aerodynamic socks, won the sprint finish back to the Kiosk and the long-awaited fish'n'chips.

 

He's like a horse.  Turn his head toward home, give him a sniff of a feed bag, and he's off!

Cheers.

 I went home happy in my warm and woolly and decidedly non-aerodynamic socks.  All those fancy lycra lads zooming up and down Mount Ventoux past French chateaux and cobblestoned villages really can't compete with the Gulf St Vincent cliffs, the Deep Gully steps, and the Port Vincent Kiosk cuisine, now can they?

 

 

*Coffee, guys, coffee!  What else would they have in their veins?