Australia Day long weekend ride 2002

A Darlin’ Range

By Brian McCabe

I knew that cycling in the Darling Ranges would be a challenge when it took three trains, five inner tubes and six hours just to get us out of the suburbs.

It was a game of Chinese taxis from the moment we left Fremantle.  Dennis was supposed to join us at Warwick but allowed the train carrying Mike, Phil and myself to pass him because he didn’t recognise the three scantly clad males cunningly camouflaged as fully-laden Sherpas.  At Whitfords, the PA system announcing that the train was returning to Perth went unnoticed by Phil and Mike who were busy discussing higher matters.  If it wasn’t for the visiting Irishman using his trike as a slow-moving barricade they might be railway children still.  At the disembarking point in Joondalup, Phil had a senior moment and carried on to Currambine alone. Six up-trains and two down-trains later, we were all together and heading for the hills.

   But heading was all we did. Mike and Phil had something of a personality swap when the serene one’s three spare inner tubes could not cope with four punctures.  Mike was so laid back, generating a string of fiendishly clever solutions (sic) that failed to stem the evil cycle (sic again) while Phil mumbled dark and agitated thoughts of capitulation. Despite leadership having many tongues, the four adventurers were soon cycling 10-k in the wrong direction to a cycle shop back in Woodvale, pumping up the slow puncture every 10 minutes along the way.  Two new tyres and three more inner tubes later, we were on our way for certain.

   After the experience of the suburbs, the bush was a piece of cake.  A 75-k spin through undulating countryside brought us to the Straw House in Chittering and the magnificent hospitality of Fleur and Ron just before dark.  Showered and changed we listened to the night while sipping wine at a barbecue.   I became convinced of the aptness of the name.  They are darlin’ ranges surely.

   Next morning after breakfast, serious maintenance was done on my stuffed-up steering (that’s Australian) by King Trike in what was probably the best-equipped shed in the Antipodes.
   
With Ron making us a group of five, we set off on the 55-k cycle through beautiful, rolling countryside (that seemed to roll mostly upwards) until we reached the campsite at Toodyay.

Entertainment that night was provided by the Irishman trying to erect his first tent.  Fleur’s arrival in the VW saved the day (and the night).  She drove the entire ensemble to the local pub where they partook of an excellent  dinner.  

Some even tried to drink their way through the ‘Great Wall of Guinness’.

Webmaster's footnote:
I was only watching the building of the great wall
but I was very impressed.

  Now we were six and growing in boldness as we headed for Spencer’s Brook and our lunchtime rendezvous with Paula and Geoff.  The link-up was nearly thrown into chaos by hunger.  A certain rider with an appetite designed to work in reverse ratio to his girth needed a second breakfast before lunch.  Would it be a case of vision and no sound for the rest of the tour?

Entente re-established, eight happy campers set out for York and the excellent, if reasonably priced campsite run by the affable Murphys.

   That evening Dennis’s family including the most delightful three-year old you could meet in a week’s freewheeling, joined us.

   It was day three and I had achieved the status of experienced camper, throwing up a tent with the best of them (getting it back into the packs was another matter).

Mealtime was a mixture of good conversation, acceptable wine and the less said about the fish fingers and beans the better. Some things speak for themselves!


Conscious of the 90-k cycle on the following day, we retired early.

   The last day’s ride was long and hot through a brittle landscape of sharp, dry hills.  Depleted leg muscles were kept going by the extraordinary good fellowship of the BENT riders.

   It was mid-afternoon when we finally emerged from the quiet network of country roads onto the Great Eastern Highway and its apocalyptic warnings of rampaging juggernauts.

My ass has never sped so fast so close to the ground as it did on the final decent to Midlands railway station.  For more than 5-k, nostrils winced at the smell of burning brake disks while eyes hurt from focussing on a road hurtling upwards at 50-plus kph. Exhilarating.