Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25238
heavy rains had not washed them out to sea, linked several of the settlements that dotted the coast. During the early 1900s, as the settlements grew to vi ll ages, Victoria needed a reliable transportation route to increase trade and create employment opportun it ies for her remote southwest residents. Linking the vi llages with a road seemed the most sensible way to develop the region's infrastructure. Constructed in 1931 as a memorial to Australian soldiers who died in World War I, the Great Ocean Road offers inspiring coastal scenery, open, empty and serene. Having ridden from Adelaide, my Great Ocean Road "Sl.OW OUTBACK DEATHS ·ARE COMMON OCCURRENCES " journey began at its terminus in the west. Mesmerized, I gazed for miles on end at ten-foot waves crash ing violently into the ocean- and time-eroded shore. The whitewater created raced confused between the frigid teal ocean and the warm gold sand. To the north lush green mountains rol led and rose into the electric-blue sky. Beyond the southern horizon was Antarctica. I pedaled past no homes, people, pubs or petrol stations. Vehicles were scarce. A cool and salty ocean mist wet my dry lips. On my way to Port Campbell a week earlier, I had ridden into the quaint farm ing town of Ararat (population 7,500) and stepped into the Kookaburra Cafe for dinner. Patiently awaiting my order of a medium rare emu burger and garden salad, I selected four capital of Australia's surfing industry, to Warrnambool, where it meets the Pri nces Highway. The Road hugs the southwest coast of Victoria , the small est and most geographically diverse of Australia's six mainland states. In the late 1870s, most of Victoria west of Melbourne was accessi ble on Iy via the rough Southern Ocean. Rudimentary and rugged paths, if the high tides and Doors tracks from the tabletop jukebox at my elbow and leafed through a pamphlet detailing the unfortunate demise of some of Australia's early residents housed in the historic austere J Ward prison. Two oldtimers sat in the booth in front of me. Gumming mashed potatoes smothered in chicken gravy, they discussed local happenings. An apparent friend, with a complement of fewer teeth than fingers, sauntered in, removed his wide-brim hat and slid in with the other two. Their quiet yet audible conversation gradually slowed to a whisper, then abruptly stopped. "G'day, mate," the Bald Oldtimer smi led at me, leaning over the back of the padded booth. "How's your tucker?" "Tasty, thank you ." "That your push bike?" the Scanti ly Toothed Man questioned .