Personally, I enjoy the idea of surfing far more than I actually enjoy surfing.
In my mind, I'm carving effortlessly across six-foot peelers at sunrise before trotting back up the beach with a surfboard tucked under one arm, saltwater dripping from my frosted blonde tips as I peel off my wetsuit to reveal the sort of torso that convinces strangers to take up fitness.
Reality, however, is considerably less Puberty Blues.
The wetsuit generally reveals I've treated my body with all the nutritional discipline of a Labrador left unattended at an all you can eat buffet. I look like a seal that's swallowed a yoga ball and, whenever I face-plant, which is often, the ocean responds by firing enough saltwater up my nose it irrigates parts of my brain that I am certain were never intended to be waterproof. Watching me surf is about as graceful and attractive as watching a grown man sprint through Central Station wearing a backpack. Technically possible, but nobody has ever looked dignified doing it.
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The Great Ocean Road occupies exactly the same part of my brain.
I absolutely love the idea of it.
The reality? Not nearly as much.
Now, before the tourism board starts writing strongly worded emails, I should point out I reckon you'd struggle to find many people who've driven the Great Ocean Road more times than I have. Our farm sits beyond it, which means every trip home, every trip away and countless laps chasing stories, tracks, campsites and beers have involved that famous ribbon of bitumen. I've seen it in summer, winter, sideways rain, bushfire smoke, tourist season and the sort of wind that makes you develop towing trust-issues.
So I feel I've earned the right to say this.
It's a little overrated.
The name promises two things. Firstly, that it's great. Secondly, that it's an ocean road. In reality it's a road that's frequently reduced to one lane by roadworks that appear to have commenced sometime around the Holt Government, with the actual road working crew also nowhere to be seen. And the ocean itself spends a surprising amount of time hiding behind trees, embankments or the back window of a rental hybrid doing 42 km/h.
Then there's the marketing.
The Twelve Apostles? There are eight.
And if you want to talk numbers. The Gibson Steps? Eighty-six of them. Which means if you walk down and back, you're reminded 172 separate times that knees are apparently a consumable item.
“THE WETSUIT GENERALLY REVEALS I'VE TREATED MY BODY WITH ALL THE NUTRITIONAL DISCIPLINE OF A LABRADOR LEFT UNATTENDED AT AN ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET”
But none of that is what wears me down.
It's the traffic.
If you've never experienced the unique frustration of driving the Great Ocean Road on a long weekend, imagine being asked to tow three-and-a-half tonnes into a screaming headwind while someone periodically reaches over and lifts your right foot off the accelerator every time you build momentum or revs, while actively waterboarding you. That's about the emotional state you'll arrive in.
Cars stop on blind corners because someone spotted water. Vehicles park half on the road because apparently reversing another fifty centimetres would interfere with their spiritual connection to Instagram. Tour buses crawl along so slowly I'm entirely confident a naturally aspirated 2.8-litre diesel Hilux towing a caravan made of lead could overtake one uphill.
When it's busy, I'd rather do my taxes or spend the afternoon leaning over a hot engine bay trying to remove a seized exhaust manifold stud. At least when the ring spanner slips, your fist smashes into cast iron, your knuckles explode and you invent three new swear words, you know something productive happened.
Don't misunderstand me.
You absolutely should drive the Great Ocean Road.
Everyone should.
Just like everyone should try surfing.
They're iconic, they're uniquely Australian and, at least once in your life, they're experiences worth having.
I'd just rather not do either again if I can help it.
Because if you're anything like me, and if you're voluntarily reading a 4X4 article, there's every chance you are, I reckon your perfect road has a little less bitumen, a lot fewer people and enough dirt to make the bloke behind you wonder where the road went.
INTRODUCING THE OLD OCEAN ROAD
Once you've driven the Great Ocean Road once, or perhaps twice if you discovered you genuinely enjoy standing behind forty-seven other people all photographing the same limestone stacks while handing over your hard-earned for the privilege (seriously, whose idea was making the Twelve Apostles pay-per-view? This isn't the UFC, and last time I checked those rocks belonged to all of us)—I'd happily hand it back to the tour buses, rental cars and influencers armed with drones, activewear and an overwhelming desire to stand in the middle of the road.
They can keep the bitumen. In return, we'll quietly take the dirt. Frankly, I think it's the better deal.
“THEY'RE ICONIC, THEY'RE UNIQUELY AUSTRALIAN AND, AT LEAST ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, THEY'RE EXPERIENCES WORTH HAVING.”
Running roughly alongside sections of Australia's most famous coastal drive is something most people either don't know exists or simply drive straight past.
The Old Ocean Road.
Now, before you start lowering tyre pressures and reaching for the recovery boards, relax. This isn't a hardcore four-wheel-drive track. In fact, calling it a "track" is probably overselling it. It's a well-formed dirt road that almost any bog stocker could drive in dry conditions. You won't earn a sticker or bragging rights by driving it.
What you will get is something becoming increasingly rare in the East Coast of Australia. Space.
Within minutes, the traffic diminishes and the buses disappear. The constant procession of brake lights fade. You're suddenly driving through towering manna gums and fern-filled gullies where the only thing slowing you down is the occasional mob of kangaroos or a stubborn echidna with absolutely no regard for your schedule or a small water crossing.
It's the same coastline. In fact, it’s the same Southern Ocean. Just experienced at a pace that feels far more us.
Long before today's Great Ocean Road became one of Australia's most recognisable tourist drives, these roads connected isolated farming communities, timber mills and settlements carved out of impossibly thick forest. They weren't built to impress visitors.
They were built because people had cows to milk, timber to haul and supplies that needed delivering regardless of whether it had rained sideways for a week, which it probably had.
Ironically, that's exactly what makes them such wonderful touring roads today.
And because you're never far from civilisation, you can have your cake and eat it too. Literally.
“THEY CAN KEEP THE BITUMEN. IN RETURN, WE'LL QUIETLY TAKE THE DIRT. FRANKLY, I THINK IT'S THE BETTER DEAL.”
THINGS TO DO
Spend the morning wandering the dirt and exploring the Old Ocean Road before dropping into Port Campbell for lunch, detouring through the Timboon region for one of Australia's best country bakeries, artisan cheeses or the excellent Timboon Railway Shed Distillery, then head back towards the coast to explore places like Loch Ard Gorge, The Grotto, London Bridge or Gibson Steps once the tour buses have begun their slow migration back to Melbourne.
That's the beauty of this part of Victoria. You don't have to choose between adventure and comfort.
You can spend the morning covered in dust and the afternoon eating world-class ice cream before camping at the Timboon Recreation Reserve.
THE VERDICT
So yes, drive the Great Ocean Road.
Take the photo. Count the Apostles. Descend the Gibson Steps. Wave politely as someone parks in the middle of the road with their hazard lights on because apparently that's how parking works now.
It's iconic for a reason and, whether you love it or merely tolerate it, it's one of those Australian experiences everyone should have.
But once you've done it, wander inland. Do the Old Ocean Road. Take your time and soak it up.
Pull over because you want to, not because the traffic has forced you to. Try whiskey in Timboon. Have lunch in Port Campbell. Stop at a lookout that isn't surrounded by fifty other people and remember that touring was never supposed to be about ticking attractions off a list. It was supposed to be about the journey between them.
There’s just enough dust to make you feel like you've actually gone somewhere, I reckon you'll find yourself returning to the dirt long after you've forgotten where you parked to photograph those eight apostles pretending to be twelve.
The Great Ocean Road is the postcard. The Old Ocean Road is the story.
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