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Despite the taboo against bringing foreign pests into Australia, I managed to get a nasty one past the sniffer dog.  It was a cold virus, and it seemed determined to hang on as long as possible.  I was into my second round of antibiotics when it struck me that this was never going away.  I simply had to get out of the house and stop letting it have the upper hand.

For a couple of weeks, I had been considering an invitation to join a group of cyclists intent on doing the High Country and Myrtleford Trails. Tempted but not committed, I booked a couple of cottages.  I would wait until the last minute to see if I would be well enough to do it.  My wife was not encouraging.   VICHPV rides are not  fast, but they can be long and taxing.  I finally decided that if my body wasn’t ready,  I could always hang out in the caravan park and read a book, swim or something.   At least it would be a change of scene.

The idea was to ride most of the length of two rail trails, both located in Victoria pretty much due north of Melbourne.  The High Country Trail begins 300 kms from here in the town of Wondonga (on the border with New South Wales along  the Murray River).  Its sister town across the river in NSW is called Albury.  The trail traverses farmland and forest and skirts a man-made lake called Lake Hume.  It is supposed to end at the town of Old Tallangatta, about 55 kms away.  There is the minor issue of a missing bridge.

Robert W. has been organizing rides for VICHPV (Victoria human powered vehicles– recumbent two wheelers and trikes) for awhile now.  He has recently taken on organizing some over 50’s rides for Bicycle Victoria.  For the week away, he extended an open invitation to both groups.  The Labour Day holiday provided for a long weekend, at least.

A group of seven assembled in Wodonga in the caravan park at the civilized hour of 10 AM, then rode several kilometers across town.  It would prove to be a long day.  A short section through the woods was lovely, but later, the trail deteriorated into something approaching a landslide.  We saw no one else on the trail and it was not hard to figure out why.  It was barely suitable for mountain bikes.  On a 60 km ride in the hot sun, riding on scree is not fun.  We came back along the highway.

Fortunately for the group, there was a good place to dine within walking distance of the Caravan Park.  With a little imagination, you can fool yourself into believing that you have worked off enough calories to eat just about anything.  The wine and beer nudged our tongues loose, and our evenings at the restaurant got longer and longer.

The next day another couple of riders joined the group.  This time we drove to our starting point, just the other side of Sandy Creek.  Our destination was Old Talangatta, a town that had been partially dismantled and moved in order to flood the valley. We biked across a bridge that is was still in place and there was water below in the Mitta River, but with the drought, Lake Hume itself is receding, almost disappearing.

A highlight stop on the return to Wodonga was a visit to Bonegilla Migrant Camp, Block 19, a heritage site.  Over 300,000 European migrants passed through this place between 1947 and 1971.  Conditions were pretty primitive, according to John, a Dutch-born volunteer guide who told us about his family’s stay in the camp.  Fortunately, his father knew how to milk cows, so the family was able to move after only six weeks in the camp.  They had mutton for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  No heat in winter and no fans in summer.  In the sixties, some Italian migrants got so frustrated they tried to burn down the place.

On Labour Day, the over 50’s couples returned to Melbourne to work.  The rest of us drove to Myrtleford, our home base for the Murray to the Mountains trail.  It is the best known (and maintained) rail trail in Victoria.  Most of its surface is covered with bitumen (pavement) and it rolls through some lovely country.  Michael had already suffered so many flats on the other trail that he had replaced both tires with Armadillos, tires that looked virtually impervious to punctures.

In the morning, Roger and I discovered flats before we started riding.  After fixing mine, I discovered that I had bunged up my derailleur.  This required a trip to the bike shop.  Fortunately, it was across the street from a very good, Italian coffee shop.  Almost as soon as got underway again, I picked up a thorn in the same tire.  I didn’t want to change it, so I nursed the slow leak by pumping up my rear tire every twenty minutes or so.  Right before our destination, Michael got two more punctures in his Armadillos.  It was another long day.  The evening made up for it with socializing, beer, wine and food.

During the Warm many Italian prisoners of war were off-loaded in Mytleford as there was a P.O.W. camp nearby.  They were used as forced farm labour.  After the war, some came back into the area as immigrants and brought their families.   They started farms, wineries and other businesses in the area.

Our last day was dedicated to a short,gradual uphill ride from Everton to Beechworth.  I had done this before with my wife on the tandem.  Despite the fact that it is all uphill (in one direction, anyway) it is one of my favourite rides.  Much of it through woods. It was spitting rain when we got to the top.  Curiously, we were met by one of our regular trike riders, who had come from Melbourne the previous night and ridden the trail before we were done eating breakfast.

While we lunched at Beechworth’s famous bakery, the rain began in earnest.  Our lightweight rain gear was not going to do it in this downpour.  Roger and I headed for an “op shop” (a second-hand charity clothing place) in search of rain gear.  The owner took one look at me and said:  “Dearie, I haven’t seen this kinda rain in five months.”  Luckily, I found a plastic poncho at a chemist (drug store.)

It was a short, wet ride downhill to Everton and a long drive home.  And a good week.  Thanks to Robert and Jana, Roger and Michael, the rest of my fellow cyclists,  two bike shops and my trusty recumbent.  The cold is gone.  Miracolo. My recipe for getting rid of a bad bug and bronchitis– take a week off, go cycling under a blistering sun between the hours of 10 and 4 PM.  Use plenty of sunscreen.  Eat large amounts of fried food for dinner and wash it down with lots of beer, wine, or both.  Let me know how it goes.

Check back in a week or so for a post about the trains that led to these trails.


I got the bicycling bug after a week-long trip with my son in California. We rode from San Francisco to Mendocino, camping along the way. Until I got the hang of riding very, very slowly, I would often have to stop and push my bike up the longer hills. He wasn’t at all sure I was going to make it.

At the campsites we ran into many long-distance riders, people who had ridden across the U.S. or Canada. A few were planning rides all the way to South America. We took an entire week to ride the 150 miles, so it wasn’t a quick trip, but it was invigorating to be under pedal power, spinning slowly enough to appreciate the spectacular scenery and able to enjoy the benefit of churning up calories.

When I returned to Gainesville I bought a second-hand Trek. I would head out for a twenty-mile ride every other day on Millhopper Road, a lovely, tree-lined highway. Weekends I would usually ride with a group who went at a moderate pace on various country roads around Gainesville. I learned the trick of riding in a pack, what the French call a “peloton.”

Then I succumbed to the siren song of recumbent bikes. We invested in a tandem so my wife could accompany me. Shortly before moving here I bought a single. Now, I’ve found a pack of recumbent and trike riders, many who have built their own bikes (see the post on cycle recyclers.) Someone in the group usually organizes a “spontaneous” Sunday ride.

For my regular exercise fix, I’m dependent on the Moonee Creek Bike Path. It is not one of the most attractive paths in Melbourne. The first part of it looks very much like a shrunken version of the Los Angeles River. And there is graffiti, lots of it. For reasons I have yet to determine, Melbourne and its many suburbs are addictive to people with cans of paint.

But it is extremely accessible from where I live, and parts of it are beautiful. It goes north, following the meandering path of Moonee Creek. It ducks under a spectacular trestle bridge and rolls through a newly-reclaimed wetland area. A few kilometers from where I turn around is Tullamarine airport.

The WestMeadows coffee shop is my usual stop, offering cappuccino and pain au chocolat. Reason enough to stretch out and enjoy the sunshine, stoke the body’s engine with sweet tasting fuel, turn the bike around and fly south, fly towards home.


Melbourne is a cycling city. That was one of the many things that attracted me to moving here. I am a born-again enthusiast of two wheel flight. About a year and a half ago, I split from the cycling church of my youth into a splinter group of of heretics–recumbent and trike riders. Why? Well, aches and pains had a lot to do with it. It made a lot of sense to me to look at the sky instead of the ground. I toyed with the idea of a trike, but I wanted to ride on roads as well as bike paths and trikes seemed to take up too much room. We bought a tandem first. I invested in my own recumbent about six months before the move.

The weekend before last I found a group of fellow heretics. They are part of the OZHPV group (Australian Human Powered Vehicle). They have social rides every Sunday. Last night they met downtown in front of the State Library in an attempt to drum up interest for an upcoming event– this weekend’s cycling challenge at Casey Fields in Cranbourne. There will be a concours d’elegance, a drag race, sprint, timetrial, a one hour roadrace, a twin slalom and a “shopping race.”

The British are tinkerers. It is hard to imagine the industrial revolution without the inventions that came out of Great Britain. In this corner of the commonwealth, one of the spin offs of that sensibility has been the creation of self-propelled machines the likes of which I have never seen before. Tandems, recumbents, ingenious folding trikes. Most of the members of the group build their own two, three and four wheelers.

Last night I looked down at one little grasshopper-colored bike and asked the owner where it came from. He said it was a Japanese design, made in Taiwan, but he had changed almost everything from the steering to the seat. The leader of Sunday’s spontaneous rides took one look at my bike and suggested I switch to underseat steering. He would help me, he said. No problem. They are cycle recyclers, inventive and fun. They are not the lycra set, determined to huff and puff their way to the front of the pack. They are laid back and relaxed, taking in the scenery, chatting and dreaming up new and better designs for the most efficient vehicle ever built.

Maybe it is time the heretics took over the church.

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