The Bicyclists

It's actually quite nice when you get there. As long as you don't stray from the main streets. It reminded me of Lima. Armed guards surrounding the Presidential Palace, warnings not to go a block away from the centre city. Hide your luggage deep inside your zoot suit. Brown's River this morning. A beautiful day. The feminisation of Australian men? Does 'recognising' or 'supporting' - so called 'marriage equality' mean we must become feminised? My Dad used to say "I don't mind homosexuality, as long as you don't thrust it down my [his] throat". And that is a fair comment for the time. We have had sooo much political correctness and 'social change' advanced upon us, that we no longer can have easy resort to a concept of who we are. That's not a bad thing, in a time of change. Don't mysogynise me: this isn't my opinion. Time of change? We will look back on this if we are permitted, if President Tro

Facts and figures: Larkey, Fitz and Kimber - no Porter. Others, sporadicism. A very good average speed of 18.7km/hr. We normally find that difficult. I think the mid week rides for those without daytime jobs is proving very beneficial to the overall stamina and drive. Discussion about how best to set the gears to keep the legs moving, as opposed to how to get the feet back in the clips after stopping for a rest - very positive developments. Maximum speed 48km/hr - down from the top of the Bonnet. Still wet patches in the inside corners, threatening to spill a rider should the tread slip away underneath. Discussion of ice, a realistic concern, even by 1030hrs. Time from Nixon St to Bonnet and back, ignoring the stopping - 1hr 13min. Good. Everything over 40 minutes is worth twice the time before it. Tell that to Dr Who. Distance: 22.9 km.  I don't know if that is a lot or a little. I guess 30km would be desirable and under and hour and half. As I understand the mid-week

Cascades ride – also a personal journey, with literary allusions, like a wanker So we beat [ride] on, boats [bikes] against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. With a confused notion of the route to take from the RYCT – was it to be via King Street, Churchill Road, Derwent Boulevard, or some other road of Porter’s dissolving memory? – we four lit out for Cascades territory on what, for me, was to be a ride in remembrance of things past. Contemplating the gradient, endpoint and main road traffic ahead, I comforted myself with a corruption of Emma’s words: ‘Distance [and heart strain] is nothing if one has a motive’. I think she meant from Hartfield to Box Hill; can’t see her on a Malvern Star. So, with Porter ready to go (pret a porter?), Larkey astride the bluebird of happiness, Phil’s legs aKimbo and unpunnable me, we headed up King Street. First memory blast: 98 King Street, where my flatmate hurled drunken racist abuse from the garden to the Chin