The Bicyclists

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 h...

The Group includes wankers who are overseas most of the time, flying first class, and putting up photos of their leather couches in the plane, and others renting bikes to cycle around Vancouver. For example, Porter is floating around Stanley Park with NO LYCRA AT ALL! Just the clothes he was brung into the place in! The Porter sans lycra, at Stanley Park - Vancouver Now that is tortured. But back to the ride. Saturday weather reports said she was going to rain mercilessly. As the 6am Sunday grey sky and light drizzle was going on against my window pane, a quick revolving resolution was unanimously agreed "No ride today". But by 8.30am the sun was out and Tasmania, typically Hobart, was telling us "18 degrees, calm breeze, lovely day". So Jeff and I pulled on the gear, and invited Merv to join us, and off we headed. Against the stream of City to Casino 'fun' runners, we made the bike track at the Cenotaph, and headed off north, at about 15km/h (...

Last Sunday, 23rd April 2017 Bicyclists: Kimber, Porter, Larkey, Fitzgibbon The autumn leaves on the grape vines at Moorilla, crushing and extracting going on in the shed. Wine soon. The plan: Introduce Larkey to a bike weighing less than 1 kiloton, and see if that helps his striding out. Secondly, all for a calm journey in good weather. We started away from RYCT at a little after 9am. Overcast but warmish, and once up Napoleon Street Hill, there were no complaints. We drifted down the Battery Point and agreed that there was no need for a bike track around the front of the houses, from our perspective, as the journey was quite interesting on the road built for it. Around the waterfront, through the milling people, and up to the Cenotaph - shortly thereafter to be the scene of wild cavorting on ANZAC day. A pleasant and not difficult or fast trip out on the bike track had us arrive at Glenorchy and 'why not go on' - so we determined on MONA for coffee. Arriving only...

The bridge is a bastard. Whoever built the little bits on the side for punters to walk on and ride their bikes needs to be shot with a ball of their own. The world outside your own bedroom is an amazing place. At 9am on Sunday morning, there are no fat bastards around. Even the triumvirate of bicyclists who leapt away from the Yacht Club were looking decidedly trim. "Only one souvlaki please Jim, and the medium chips" - Kimber had ordered from the Mykonos on Saturday evening. The cask of wine was reduced through constant attention (like a good gravy reduction, ready to paste). So; Fitz can't find the internet: "It's everywhere" Larkey said, but not near the Gibbons's housing. So he went for a walk up Hartz Peak with Mo (remember the Australian comedian 'Mo'? During the 1930s I suspect - further report on that later): full report expected from Fitz and Mo on the travails to the Peak. But your correspondent and company: Who wrote th...

'WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin, Westmorland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his pur...

Sunday 19th March 2017. Larks, Fitzs, Porter (who should be portering our bikes) and El Kimbros - RYCT 9am. Fivecast: 30 degrees. Blue sunny sky. Windy as the gates of hell. Initial plan was conquer the Tasman Bridge - over the Lake Illawarra - establish whether Captain Pelk was pissed. But the wind was deemed too strong. Group decision making: democracy: but laced with courtesy: Porter recommends the Queens Domain. Very fitting. So we aim for the start of the bike track then to divert past the Tattersalls or some bloody marketing story Swimming Pool. When we get there, more democratic last minute adjustments to the agenda, and instead, take to the right, and ride the lower grade (in once sense) path past Government House. The gates we shut, to give Her Majesty some peace on Sunday morning (all those canapes, all those gins and tonix).  Past also, unnoticed almost, the Beaumaris Zoo. Where the last Tasmanian Tiger in captivity resided. If an animal in a zoo resides anywhere....