THE DIRTY 420 PILGRIMAGE
Aboard 3 of the finest hand-made bikes Australia can offer, we set off into the flat, dusty unknown on our way to the Gears + Beers festival. Who knew of the things we would see...
SECTIONS
I: TRUE NORTH
II: ALL WE COULD MUSTER
III: HEADED EAST
IV: GOATS ON PARADE
V: ARRIVÉE
This story of adventure was made possible by the crew behind the Gears + Beers Festival.
This story begins in the twin towns of Echuca Moama, around 11.30 am on a Friday. Parked up outside Dan Murphy's in Echuca was a rented Kia SUV surrounded by bikes, with all four doors and the boot slung open. On one side of the car was the first of the three riders – Okky, perched over a vibrant green Prova and fiddled with the connectivity of his pocket-sized Bluetooth speaker. Around the other side was a second rider – Aaron, who was busy adjusting the seat post of his borrowed Baum. Towards the front of the Kia was a lonesome Bastion, its jockey nowhere to be found because that said jockey – Adrian, had left his helmet at home and was scouring the main street of Echuca for a bike shop.
I: TRUE NORTH
Beats started, seat post torqued and helmet sourced, the three riders clipped in and rolled across the Murray River – out of Echuca and Victoria, and into Moama and New South Wales. The bike path across the river turned into typical streets of regional Australia, then made way for a wide gravel (for lack of a better word) airstrip – such was its width and straight, lengthy stretch. Our 2-day, 420km pilgrimage to the Gears & Beers Festival in Wagga had officially kicked off.
DIRTY 420 PILGRIMAGE: DAY ONE – ECHUCA TO DENILIQUIN
Distance: 85km / Elevation Gain: +125m
DIRTY 420 PILGRIMAGE: DAY ONE – JERILDERIE TO NARRANDERA
Distance: 155km / Elevation Gain: +361m
Soon, civilisation would be left behind as that same long, straight stretch of wide gravel road extended us further north into New South Wales. There were no climbs, no descents, and no wind for the time being. The opening kilometres allowed us to familiarise ourselves with our weekend lender bikes – courtesy of Australia's finest bike builders; Bastion, Baum and Prova.
We'd continue north for the best part of the next 2 hours, just a few dots upon a hazy horizon. The body and mind go through an incredible journey when asked to ride a bike along a single straight bit of road for 30km, without a single adjustment required. By the time it was, we were pulling into Mathoura – home of the big (not giant) Murray Cod and neighbour to the Gulpa Creek, providing us with enough twists and turns around billabongs and bushland that the past 2 hours were quickly forgotten.
As soon as we departed the bushland surrounding Gulpa Creek, we were back on familiar ground – flat, wide, dusty and straight. Given that the name for Mathoura came from a local indigenous word for "windy", we were glad the region wasn't living up to its namesake.
Flat farmland and the afternoon sun to our left, the inland rail line to our right, we moved north through at least a dozen different varieties of gravel underfoot. From the sandy variety made familiar to us on the Mornington Peninsula to the scorched and pulverised earth which was new to us – but something we'd become close friends with over the weekend.
The final interruption to our straight-lining north would come as we hit a T-intersection with the rare sighting of a pure tarmac road that would take us into our destination: Deniliquin.
THE DAY ONE DON’T:
It was the weekend of the Deniliquin Ute Muster. For those unfamiliar with ANY of those words, it's an event that gets a proper introduction in the next chapter, but to summarise: it's an event that leaves the town swarming with police, SWAT teams included.
We hadn't been in "Deni" for more than 5 minutes, and we'd already come face to face with local law enforcement. Stopping short of sending the SWAT team in on us, the local constable spotted us hop the kerb, ride across a footpath, and park up at the local chicken shop – an incident that required utmost attention. Our licences also weren't on our person, attention increased.
It wouldn't be like us to go as far as say the "don't" for the day is simply "don't ride your bike in New South Wales", but we know that is a little too hyperbolic. Instead, we'll leave it at "don't argue", as our complete bemusement at the rules being recited to us must have done enough to have us left alone.
THE DAY ONE DO:
Fortunately, we were able to pass GO, collect $200 and venture inside the chicken shop, quickly learning that the owners were just about to step outside and jump to our defence, providing a brief insight into local attitudes towards the boys in blue.
This initial introduction to the main street chicken shop blossomed into a beautiful but short-lived friendship over our late lunch. We shared the story of our day so far. They told us about their recent purchase of said chicken shop. We both revelled in the bemusement that yes, once we finished with our chips and drinks we were hopping back on the bikes, and heading to the Deni Ute Muster.
While ice-cold cans of coke chilled us, interacting with the locals in their shop warmed our hearts, redeeming Deniliquin tenfold from our 5-minute first impressions. We couldn't recommend finding the best local charcoal chicken spot, general store or typical takeaway on your travels through regional Australia, they just might be your get out of jail free card.
II: ALL WE COULD MUSTER
For some, the Deni Ute Muster requires no introduction. If you aren't part of that "some" – let us quickly break it down for you beyond the context of a SWAT team parking outside the local Coles.
FOR FANS OF: THE SMELL OF BURNING RUBBER AND RUM & COKES.
Every year around the start of October, tens of thousands of people travel to Deniliquin from all-over Australia, gathering in the name of celebrating their utes. It's an often misunderstood event, labelled as a piss up in a paddock – which a big part of it certainly is, but on our debut appearance that Friday evening, we discovered that it is so much more. Beyond camping, drinking, circle work, and occasionally blowing things up are a series of competitions that cover anything from your typical show and shine, whip cracking and wood chopping. What caught our eye was the main stage, one to rival most major city-based music festivals. Flanked by food trucks to one side, and a sideshow on the other, it was a visual and sonic feast as speakers blasted out over the plains.
Unfortunately, our time at the Deni Ute Muster was cut short, but we'd managed to tick a big one off the bucket list. We would stick around longer, but we needed to make it to our accommodation down the road before closing. Half an hour up the road was Jerilderie, the bright lights and almost tangible smells and sounds of the Ute Muster now in our rear-view.
The culinary delights we had experienced throughout the day had been mostly successful. Road-side Allen's Party Mix, the Deni chicken shop, various fried foods from the Ute Muster. The streak came to an end at the Royal Mail Hotel in Jerilderie, falling flat with a round of parma's that were most definitely cooked but only recently thawed. But we were tired and had arrived mere minutes before the kitchen, doubling as our reception for accommodation upstairs closed for the nights. We had made our beds.
III: HEADED EAST
The next day involved a slow start, a symptom of the cultural effects of the Ute Muster and the mattresses in our accommodation. A classic fry up at the bakery across the street warmed souls, got the culinary scorecard back in the green and had us ready to take on the day.
How naive we were.
The day before was kind – flat and still. Early signs pointed to this new day not being so kind. The terrain and profile remained the same, but the wind had been turned up a notch and pointed directly into our faces as we left Jerilderie and set course northeast towards Narrandera.
Facing a somewhat serious headwind as we moved towards the township of Urana meant that we had a little more time to study our surroundings than we had expected or hoped. The horizons were barer than the day before, and the gravel roads had taken on a much more fertile and volcanic quality, despite there being no chance of historic volcanic activity in the region.
We're not geologists.
That was the rhythm of the morning, a day that seemed straightforward and flat on paper, only reinvented thanks to the wind. Every day is a blessing.
Eventually, we got back on the tarmac, rolling a little faster. By that time the damage had been done, the ghost-town presence of Urana on a Saturday afternoon not doing much to help, but Narrandera was soon in our sights.
THE DAY ONE DO:
If Urana was a ghost town, Narrandera was anything but – there was a 50s festival on. This brings us to our "DO" for day two.
If you're going to randomly visit a regional town on a whim, ensure you do it on a day that a town-wide festival is being held. The more blocks along the main street that are closed off the better. Of course, the only way to achieve this "DO" is to do it by showing up unannounced like we did, accidentally joining the convoy of vintage cars giving the throttle a little nudge down the main street as the local journos guest judged the 50s outfit competition.
THE DAY ONE DON’T:
If we should have been taught anything from the day before it should have been that food trucks, and local tuck shops are the Michelin starred joints around these parts. Of course, we're never so smart – steer clear.
We started our wait for lunch by trying to get a table at a number of local cafés, surprising to us there was a 50's festival going on at the same time, why weren't we consulted? We were all on the cusp of bonking, so after a few minutes of posturing on the main street, we settled for the burger van wedged in a laneway between two homewares stores. The smartest thing we had done all day.
IV: GOATS ON PARADE
Burgers eaten on the stairs of aforementioned homewares stores brought us back to life, as did the purchase of a cube of coke from the local Coles. We stuck around for enough time to see the winner of best outfit crowned, and the start of what seemed to be a dancing competition we knew we couldn't win.
We took a less conventional route out of Narrandera, steering clear of any tarmac or gravel roads, and for the first time in a while surrounding ourselves with water and trees. It began with a zig-zag through the streets, then a dismount and climb over one gate before dropping onto a beautiful stretch of gravel bike path that followed the Bundigerry Creek.
Eight kilometres and a few gates to climb over later we arrived at a local farm, ready for a shower and come face to face with an army of freshly birthed baby goats.
There is nothing that could possibly prepare you for the experience of hearing, then seeing over one hundred week-old baby goats come galloping over the hill. What we can share is that it comes pretty close to what we imagine pure, uncut joy feels like. What we can also share is that this is shortly followed by heartbreak when they realised you are in fact a human, not their mother, and they turn and run in any direction which takes them away from you. Fortunately for us, some of the more daring, curious, and possibly confused stuck around to chill.
The combined aromas of goat, dust, sweat and the fifties were starting to take a toll, and thanks to our friend old man headwind from earlier in the day, our schedule was wearing thin, meaning we were hopping in the car for a bit. Wanting to keep the atmosphere as zen as possible, we thought it best to take a quick dip under the centre pivot irrigation to cleanse ourselves of the day's efforts, and ensure that we would be arriving into Wagga looking mush fresher than two days of decent enough riding would allow.
V: ARRIVÉE
After a bit of a drive, we'd get back on the bikes on the outskirts of Wagga Wagga, rolling out our weary muscles and rolling into the Victory Gardens in the middle of town. Goodie bags over the shoulder we were amped for the Dirty 130 in the morning, but first, we desperately needed a lie-down.