The wind. It’s your invisible companion out here—and often, not a friendly one at all.
I cycled the Great Ocean Road in late January, during the height of the Australian summer. The route is coastal for much of its length, and early on, the breeze coming off the Southern Ocean can feel like a blessing. The air is cool, bracing even. When I rolled out of Port Campbell at around nine in the morning, the temperature lingered in the low fifties Fahrenheit—about 10 to 12°C. Cold for a summer morning by most standards, but typical for this coast.
Up until London Bridge, the breeze was still southerly—clean, saline, invigorating. Past the Grotto, things began to change. The wind shifted. Subtly at first, then decisively. Within 30 minutes, the wind swung northwest, pouring in from the arid interior like a furnace door had been flung open. The temperature didn’t just rise—it surged. From cool and manageable to 97°F (around 37°C) in what felt like minutes. Suddenly, I was riding through heat haze, the road ahead shimmering. My water, which had been almost too cold to drink that morning, now tasted like weak tea. Shade was rare. So was relief.
There’s a stretch inland before Nullawarre that is particularly bare—no settlements, no trees to speak of, just a solitary roadside shack and the long stretch of road running through bleached farmland. It was punishing. When I finally rolled into Nullawarre, the gas station fridge door opened like a portal to another universe. The cold Gatorade? Absolutely nectar.
This kind of temperature swing isn’t rare. In fact, it’s almost a feature of late January riding in Victoria. This is a land of climatic contradictions—icy mornings, searing afternoons, and sometimes fire warnings posted in towns not far from flood alerts in another state. That year, there were bushfires raging inland while northern Queensland was underwater from historic floods. You don’t ride through Australia without remembering the extremes.
As for traffic, yes, there are moments of magic before the caravans and rental sedans hit the road. Leaving camp before first light, pedaling into fog still lifting from the forest canopy—it can feel like you have the whole world to yourself. But by mid-morning, the road fills. The GOR isn’t built with cyclists in mind. In many places, it lacks a shoulder entirely. You’ll be riding tight along the line, sometimes with nothing separating you from the ocean but a guardrail and a prayer. That said, most of the tourists here are Australians. They know how to drive left. They understand the rhythm of the road better than international tourists sometimes do.
New Zealand, by contrast, was more hair-raising. There, cycling around the South Island, I had a woman—likely Chinese, based on a close look at her—who turned directly onto the road heading the wrong way, straight into me. She realized her mistake just in time to veer wildly across the lanes, nearly causing a pile-up. Australia has signs reminding foreign drivers: “Keep Left in Australia.” I’ve seen them in multiple languages. You learn to appreciate such small details.
Then there’s the wildlife.
People love to ask about kookaburras and magpies, and yes, they’re present—especially the kookaburras with that absurd, laughing call that breaks the silence just when you least expect it. But what I remember most vividly wasn’t birdsong. It was kangaroos. More precisely, kangaroos jumping over my tent. Literally.
I’d climbed from Apollo Bay to Lavers Hill—a decent slog—and kept going toward Princetown. That section isn’t quick, and after the climbing and the quiet, I was ready for sleep. I pitched the tent in a spot that seemed quiet enough. And then the thumping started. Not footsteps—thumps. The younger kangaroos were fine. They cleared the tent like athletes—fluid, confident, light on their feet. No problem.
But the adults? The older, heavier ones? They didn’t look like they’d be quite as graceful. Some of them must’ve weighed close to a ton, or at least that’s how it felt when they landed nearby. I lay there, trying not to visualize what would happen if one misjudged its jump and landed square on top of my tent. I failed, of course. The images were vivid—and not exactly conducive to restful sleep.
But that’s the Great Ocean Road for you. The guidebooks might show you a tidy line from Geelong to Port Fairy, but the reality is messier, richer, more alive. It’s wind that changes direction without warning. It’s temperature swings that punch you in the gut. It’s sharing the road—and your campsite—with creatures capable of both elegance and destruction. You don’t just see the Great Ocean Road. You experience it. And if you’re on a bike, you feel every bit of it—wind, heat, fear, joy, and all.