Raw Undisciplined Emotion - the bicyclist turn bikie
The weather was magic. The traffic unusual. Many classic and vintage vehicles including motorcyclists paraded the long path from Sandy Bay to Taroona.
Perhaps there were some odd people out, including your Bike Group.
As we headed for the 20 km ride from 'sea to peak' - Yacht club to the torture of Bonnet Hill, an attempt to merge with the traffic drew a blast of effusive agitation from an old fart in a Ford Fortuna, maroon in colour.
The Fart was headed into the Casino: "we went down to Havana, to have a gamble". But taking offence at one of our number's movement off the footpath into the very left lane of traffic, the horn (no not that one) blew (and not in that way) like a pissweak electronic buzzer, but shrill enough to disturb the peace.
As we perched precariously atop our bikes at the intersection the Maroon Fortuna drew up beside us and started a gobshite of abuse. Andre Gromyko, leading the pack, mistook the abuse as directed to him- but he knew he had, as usual, done 'nothing wrong'. So the mild invective was met, as is usual by tens of thousands of greater gravity and ferocity.
Old Fart drew his head in to his car, as he also withdrew his comments: "I wasn't talking to you" he extrapolated to Gromyko.
I think at that point everyone had better thought about diffusing the situation. Maybe let him go into the Wrest Point to prop up the Tasmanian economy and the Farrell Family deep pockets.
So the morning began.
The Nath joined us and regaled Fitz with stories of eating live snake on the train to Moscow - he and Peta will think twice. And the beef is horse, as we all know, and love.
Number 3 the Fitz revealed, as we alighted at bus stop number 10 at the top of the Bonnet, that his mild influenza of 2014 had left his eyesight damaged in the top right quadrant. Perhaps that had been the cause of his merging incident?
The other benefit of that, so he told us, was that as we pedalled past the Shot Tower, the Fitz didn't see it! And kept on pedalling, to find himself at the top of the Bonnet without knowing he'd gone that far. Sounds like the Bishop Pell defence.
A spirited 40 or so km/hr down the hill, and a glide to Mary's Grange and the township border, and up past the forever closed Riverview Inn, and coffee and travel tales were embelled at the Little Lola coffee shop at Maning Ravenue. They plan to expand into the area previously used to fix cars, so maybe a kitchen and more extensive menu - one wonders whether it will be better or just different
Just an hour in the saddle, and off home, the weather packed it in and became decidedly cold climate and overcast. We definately got the best of the day.
Average speed 19.4km/hr. I think nearly a record for this team.
So, another successful sucking in of the gut, leaving each of us ready, willing and able to attack another week, in the peak of great fitness and health.
Adios Amigos!
Perhaps there were some odd people out, including your Bike Group.
As we headed for the 20 km ride from 'sea to peak' - Yacht club to the torture of Bonnet Hill, an attempt to merge with the traffic drew a blast of effusive agitation from an old fart in a Ford Fortuna, maroon in colour.
The Fart was headed into the Casino: "we went down to Havana, to have a gamble". But taking offence at one of our number's movement off the footpath into the very left lane of traffic, the horn (no not that one) blew (and not in that way) like a pissweak electronic buzzer, but shrill enough to disturb the peace.
As we perched precariously atop our bikes at the intersection the Maroon Fortuna drew up beside us and started a gobshite of abuse. Andre Gromyko, leading the pack, mistook the abuse as directed to him- but he knew he had, as usual, done 'nothing wrong'. So the mild invective was met, as is usual by tens of thousands of greater gravity and ferocity.
Old Fart drew his head in to his car, as he also withdrew his comments: "I wasn't talking to you" he extrapolated to Gromyko.
I think at that point everyone had better thought about diffusing the situation. Maybe let him go into the Wrest Point to prop up the Tasmanian economy and the Farrell Family deep pockets.
So the morning began.
The Nath joined us and regaled Fitz with stories of eating live snake on the train to Moscow - he and Peta will think twice. And the beef is horse, as we all know, and love.
Number 3 the Fitz revealed, as we alighted at bus stop number 10 at the top of the Bonnet, that his mild influenza of 2014 had left his eyesight damaged in the top right quadrant. Perhaps that had been the cause of his merging incident?
The other benefit of that, so he told us, was that as we pedalled past the Shot Tower, the Fitz didn't see it! And kept on pedalling, to find himself at the top of the Bonnet without knowing he'd gone that far. Sounds like the Bishop Pell defence.
A spirited 40 or so km/hr down the hill, and a glide to Mary's Grange and the township border, and up past the forever closed Riverview Inn, and coffee and travel tales were embelled at the Little Lola coffee shop at Maning Ravenue. They plan to expand into the area previously used to fix cars, so maybe a kitchen and more extensive menu - one wonders whether it will be better or just different
Just an hour in the saddle, and off home, the weather packed it in and became decidedly cold climate and overcast. We definately got the best of the day.
Average speed 19.4km/hr. I think nearly a record for this team.
So, another successful sucking in of the gut, leaving each of us ready, willing and able to attack another week, in the peak of great fitness and health.
Adios Amigos!
Comments
Post a Comment