It was a beautiful day at Creswick...as long as you like lots of rain, occasional hail, howling winds, and maximum temperatures approaching 7 degrees. Although, every so often, the sky would clear entirely, the sun would come out, and for about 3 minutes you could forget that it was the last day of winter in the Victorian Central Highlands.

After acquiring and studying maps, changing our minds a few times, and eating pies[1], we reverted to Plan A. Plan A was for a ride along another section of the Great Dividing Trail [2], from St George's Lake on the edge of Creswick, heading in the general direction of Daylesford until it got boring, then returning the same way. I'd ridden the first bit, but wasn't sure what was in store thereafter. MTB-OZers Martin (Giant ATX-840), John (Trek Fuel) and Tim (Norco Torrent) were joined by Bikery listees Duncan (Giant alphabet flea-ride-style dually) and Lenore (Megabike hardtail).

The trail is, in the best parts, more of the goldrush-built water races (cum singletrack) that we've come to know and love from Lerderderg and Castlemaine. It's maintained as a walking track, with wooden bridges over some of the creeks and gullies, and trail markers to follow...if you're observant. Enough rockgardens and trail trash to keep the riding interesting, and a few muddy puddles. The first 4km of the track followed this enjoyable formula, through the Koala Park, until we got to Eaton's Dam picnic area which is as far as I'd been before.

A conspicuous lack of trail markers didn't stop us continuing on through a gap in the fence, and along a short singletrack to the dam itself. Lenore was pleased to ride through a few creeks, in preparation for the river crossings to be conquered at the Werribee 12-hour next weekend. Consulting the (already slightly damp) map at the dam, I worked out that we should have turned off somewhere near the picnic area. So we rode back through the creeks, and tried a promising looking singletrack heading in the appropriate direction. This led to a dead end at a bigger swift-flowing creek, with no obvious track re-starts on the other side. Further consultation of the map hinted that the turn-off may have been before the picnic area. This was confirmed by the clear and accurate trial marker, directing us down a dirt road a few hundred metres back.

A few km of dirt road gave Martin time to start getting annoyed at the grinding sound coming from the back end of his brand new drivetrain. Along the side of a clear-felled forest coupe, Lenore perfected her horizontal track-standing skills in the middle of a knee-deep puddle.

From here on, the ground really started to show the amount of moisture that had been dumped on it. The softer clay sections started to get really slippery. Rivers flowed along the steep sections of track and pooled on the flats. It was cold. There was sporadic discussion about turning around and heading for home, but insanity prevailed. Martin lubed up his dirty chain, which seemed to quieten it down a little. My front brake lever kept getting closer to the bar - although Duncan reassured me that Avids have a habit of slipping cable, especially in the wet.

We soon emerged from the forest and on to a dirt^Wmud farm road between potato fields. Martin streaked off into the distance, right about the time that I remembered from the map that there was about 15km of road before the next bush section - it was about here that would be a good place to invoke the "boring" clause and turn back. I called after Martin, to no avail, so took chase. I was closing the gap until I rounded the corner and was bailed up by the headwind. Called again, but he was off in his own masochistic schmoadie world. Duncan took up the chase, and eventually reigned him in. Lenore kept riding to keep warm, John and I stopped and waited.

Back down the road and into the bush was fast but very sketchy on the slick mud.

Suddenly a racket emanated from the hind quarters of Duncan's bike. The long skid mark in the leaf litter was left as a testament to the braking efficiency of an XT derailer entangled in the spokes of a fast moving bike.

The derailer seemed to escape unscathed, which is more than one can say for the hanger (intact but very mangled) and the spokes (now about 5 short of a full complement). Martin just so happened to have a spare Giant-standard derailer hanger in his pack (as you do...), and with a bit of careful truing of the few remaining spokes, Duncan had his bike in a tenuously rideable state. We once again consulted the (very soggy) map for the least demanding route back to the cars. Considering that it was firetrail for most of the way we'd come from Eaton's Dam, which was also the most direct route, we'd be best to ride there then re-evaluate.

Standing in the rain while Duncan demonstrated his wrenching skills was a good way to get really, really cold. My fingers in particular. Fingerless hands in fingerless gloves.

We hadn't been moving long before the rain turned white and bouncy. Riding in a bead blaster. Yay.

My rear brake gummed up to the point that I had to manually release it by pushing the lever out with the backs of my (numb) fingers. Chainsuck set in. Martin's rear disc ran out of cable adjustment. Cleats filled up with yellow clay. Lenore horizontal track-standed in the same puddle as she did on the way out.

Back at the picnic area, I gingerly unfolded the soggy wad of paper-pulp that I had purchased as a map earlier that morning. The singletrack we'd ridden in on was just as direct as the road, but Duncan didn't trust himself to ride gently on the rough stuff. "It's not in my nature", he claimed, "It wouldn't take much to fold the wheel and bend the rim".

Then the sun peeped through a hole in the clouds, and in a classic "ah fuggit" moment, we all set off back along the singletrack.

There were some A-grade clay pits to be negotiated, but the ride back was otherwise fairly uneventful. Duncan had to walk up a steep pinch because the torque loads in his half-demolished wheel was causing chainstay rub. Martin got grumpy about his lack of rear brakes and his rear derailer cable loop full of mud. My front disc started making tell-tale pinging sounds at rotor spoke frequency, indicating that my cable adjustment problem was in fact, as originally feared, a completely knackered pad.

Pad wear aside, the fadbrake [3] performed admirably. Want brake? Squeeze, brake happens. No fuss, no waiting for the pad to squeegee the slurry off the rim, no BS. I think they might be on to something here.

Down the last rocky descent into the car park, and a quick wash-down in various puddles and creeks. Five riders, five bundles of soggy muddy riding kit, five bikes in need of serious attention before the 12hour next weekend.

Creswick looks like being a good place to ride - in the dry.

[1] Mmmmmm, pie [4]
[2] Signposted Ballarat - Castlemaine walking track, extension to Bendigo in progress
[3] "Disc brakes are a fad" - Stevenson, J., c.2001
[4] http://www.weebl.jolt.co.uk

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