2024-08-18 -37 145
| Sun 18 Aug 2024 in -37,145: -37.6560965, 145.0165447 geohashing.info google osm bing/os kml crox |
Contents
Location
In a shopping centre carpark in Epping.
Participants
Expedition 1
- Tom
- Max
Expedition 2
Expedition 1
Tom and associate achieved this hash with bike at 10:46am.
Tom etc. at the hash
Expedition 2
We met up along the Upflied Bike Path, pretty much right at the pre-arranged time together, and then rode along some excellent creek-adjacent (and, briefly, freeway adjacent) bike paths and got the hash in the car park at Epping.
We danced around a bit to get to the point, then cracked open a couple of tinnies Felix had graciously brought with him. Then, inspired by the beery taste, we decided to ride 1.5kms to a nearby brewpub and had some tasty Irish stouts there.
I (Felix) needed to get to my friends' house to fix their bikes as pre-organised, so I left the crew to their raucous afternoon.
Google told me it would take 1 hour and 13 minutes to get to the house in Thornbury, where I was due in 28 minutes, plus I had a headwind, so I rode hard. By taking High Street rather than the more circuitous bike path I shaved off some time. Letting loose on my fixy also helped.
I was also helped by getting accosted by two young men in a beaten up old sedan who pulled up next to me soon after I'd set off and told me to "Get off the road, fuckhead" or words to that effect (I was in the bike lane). They then sped off only to get caught in the next traffic light queue. So of course that took me right up next to them in said bike lane, so I leaned in towards their open window and asked them to repeat what they said. They repeated their remarks, but added even more colourful language, so I gave them an appropriate gesture, and used the red light to speed off through the shopping centre carpark and therefore somewhere difficult for a car to chase me (which they actually tried to do). This was a motivational aid in getting away from the area fast. I made it to my friends' place only 8 minutes late - half Google's time.
And after that, I was at a 78th birthday party at another pub, this time in Brunswick, and then home for my daughter's bath time.
Expedition 2 (extended edition)
After Felix sped off, leaving us to our raucous afternoon, the rest of us settled into the brewpub, savoring the day’s victories. The brewpub was warm and dimly lit, with the murmur of patrons creating a comforting backdrop as we raised our glasses. We were in high spirits, reveling in the sense of adventure that had carried us through the day.
Then, the barman approached.
It wasn’t the usual casual stroll to check on customers; this was different. His steps were deliberate, his gaze locked onto our table like a predator sizing up prey. The chatter around us faded, leaving only the sound of his footsteps and the sudden thudding in our chests. He stopped short, eyes narrowing on the two empty tinnies Felix had left behind. They sat there like incriminating evidence, gleaming in the low light, their presence a silent accusation.
“Where did these come from?” he asked, his voice low and hard as steel. We froze, the question hanging in the air like a noose. No one spoke. We didn’t need to. The truth was as plain as day, and the barman wasn’t interested in hearing excuses. His expression was unreadable, a mask of barely contained disdain. The warmth in the room seemed to drain away, replaced by a cold tension that seeped into our bones.
“We don’t allow outside drinks here,” he continued, his tone sharp enough to cut. The jovial atmosphere we’d been enjoying moments ago evaporated, replaced by an oppressive silence. It felt like the whole pub had gone quiet, as if everyone was waiting to see how this would unfold. The barman’s stare was unyielding, daring us to challenge him, to offer some feeble excuse.
One of us finally managed to stammer, “They’re not ours,” but the words felt hollow, falling flat in the heavy silence. The barman didn’t move, didn’t blink, just kept staring, his eyes dark with a barely concealed contempt. For a moment, it felt like we were about to be thrown out, humiliated, exposed for breaking the unspoken rules of this place.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, the barman sighed, a slow, deliberate exhale that sent a shiver down my spine. “Don’t let it happen again,” he said, his voice softening just enough to let us know we’d been given a second chance, though not without a price. With that, he turned and walked away, leaving us in a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife.
We quickly swept the cans off the table, hiding them as if by doing so we could erase the barman’s judgmental gaze from our minds. But the damage was done. The thrill of the day had curdled into something dark and uneasy. The pub’s warm glow now felt distant, the shadows deeper and more menacing. The laughter and light-hearted banter that had filled the space just moments before were gone, replaced by an uncomfortable stillness.
As we raised our glasses in a muted toast, it wasn’t in celebration but in uneasy truce. The night stretched on, but the shadow of that encounter lingered, casting a long, cold pall over the rest of our evening.
Tracklog
Photos
GPS proof!
At the hash!
Stout time!
