I was a little taken aback by the loud succession of wolf whistles. Although I have come to expect admiring and envious glances from those watching along the trail as we ride by, the onslaught of frenzied cat calls from passing cars did catch me by surprise and (almost) caused me to drop my cherry slice. It did not take long to solve the mystery.
Ever since leaving Mt Evelyn Russell had been suffering from a proverbial “wardrobe malfunction” of quite catastrophic proportions – the elastic leg bands in his knicks had obviously given way, converting his stretch knicks into something resembling a sailor’s bell bottom trousers. No matter how hard he fought with the elastic it was clear that the knicks were beyond repair. In desperation he resorted to rolling the offending saggy baggy legs right up into his groin. While this look might have been very attractive had Russell been of the feminine gender, it was not a sight that I could bear to look at on an empty stomach. He was not only revealing a side of his nature that we never knew existed but was also revealing parts of his anatomy that really should never see the bright light of day. I announced that the ride was ready to start and tried to put all thoughts of Russell and his amazing disappearing knicks out of my mind.
It was only while we were gathered at Milgrove that the piercing wolf whistle from a couple of local lads served to remind me that Russell’s legs were still exposed in a most unseemly and unsightly fashion. Heaven knows what would have happened if we had ridden past a couple of octogenarian female walkers along the trail. Such a shock could easily have caused the blood pressure to rise in ancient arteries in a most dangerous fashion.
While I was shaking my head in disbelief at Russell’s flamboyant display of naked flesh, my attention was seized by yet another spectacle. Tom Partel came staggering across the road with his face as white as a sheet and blood streaming down his arm. I could only assume that he must have been accosted by a group of violent, cyclist hating bogans from Warburton East, but he went on to explain the real reason for his bloodied countenance.
Apparently he had been cycling down the trail between Warburton and Milgrove (something he does about 20 times a week) when he did not notice a huge fallen tree across the path. At the last possible moment he swerved to avoid a collision and managed to go head over heels off his bike in the process. Apart from the skin missing from his arm and a few other cuts and abrasions he was not seriously hurt but he did look a little the worse for wear.
On a rare positive note it was encouraging to see that Crasher Lewis was actually decked out like a true sportsman. Gone was his disgraceful old 1921 DULUX KALSOMINE shirt (see last week for details) and back was his coveted yellow Ghostriders jersey. He actually looked like a serious cyclist for once. Perhaps the reason for his rare display of conformity was the hilarity with which his arrival was treated last week.
One thing is certain, there is never a dull moment with this mob.