Right about now I
would trade most things to stop sweating. Not even just now, but say,
the last 3 weeks when the 'build up' began. Sure awesome clouds have
started to crowd the horizon like a watery caricature of Mars' 24km
tall behemoth Olympus Mons. Soak up the sight of them with a glass of
wine and a few crackers for longer than 3 seconds and you're bound to
need to wipe a cascading bead of sweat from your eye before long.
Yeah hooray, this
'dry' stayed dry, but endless days of low 30's was only nice when the
air wasn't more humid than habitable. And to make matters worse, I
spend most of these sunny days riding around on a push bike;
dessication personified. “Why?” you ask. “I don't rightly
know!” I answer with the benefit of 6 years of consideration to aid
such a declaration. It is an opportunity for much personal growth I
can say, but not with much conviction.
Ever since moving
from Melbourne to Brisbane, I have wanted to ride my push bike
between the two cities. In a triumph of obsession over reason, I have
never been able to write such an endeavour off as simply too sadistic
and stupid to be feasible. So thinking that I'll just teach my brain
a lesson, I changed the goal of 2011 from South America, to the long
desired bike ride. It was in a rare moment of clarity in Vietnam,
probably aided by the general expansiveness of unemployment, that I
thought that I would regret not doing the bike ride more than not
doing South America. That is if I have the time and clarity to regret
anything on my death bed, a place either endeavour could bring me
closer to in truth.
The first 6 months
of the year consisted of merely paying lip service to the idea. I was
testing the waters on how people reacted to openly declaring my
intention to forgo a 4 hour flight for something that will cost 50
times more and take 360 times longer. Bike riding still seemed
preferable as the only thing I've learnt from plane flight is that
most people stink up close, babies don't like enclosed spaces and
caterers think unpalatable and indigestible are key factors in meal
preparation.
The duration of the
ride is appealing for two reasons. Firstly, the longer I have to do
it, the more leeway I have with the inevitable bike breakdowns,
fascinating natural phenomena, and general apathy that comes from not
being forced to get up in the morning. Secondly, if something is
good, fun, wholesome and once-in-a-lifetime-ish, why wouldn't you
want it to last as long as possible? Maybe because your bum will
never feel the same again, speeding cars will take on a new aura of
menace, and having to share an armrest will never seem like the
greatest travesty to befall you again.
Preparation, or at
least the reality of its necessity, really kicked in once the
government decided I was too insignificant to tax and bestowed a
$5.5k tax return upon me. That was enough spendings to live off while
on the road, but I still lacked a few key elements. Like a bike for
starters. Spending is one skill I perfected long ago, and I always
relish the opportunity to practice such a fine art.
Online shopping
became more addictive than crack. I rationalised the disappearance of
funds by seeing online transfers as merely the exchange of numbers
that resulted in me acquiring goods needed for my trip. Those numbers
were still a lot further away from zero than they had been in a long
time, so I paid little heed to how much they fluctuated. 4 months
later I still have roughly $5k to my name, and now have all the
things required for such an undertaking.
My bike fits me like
a glove for my ass, being used to riding bikes that should have been
put out to pasture about 3 owners before I got them. Small, subtle
adjustments are an on-going project because something that niggles
after 10kms, becomes highly annoying after 35kms and crippling after
70kms. I named her 'Miranda' in honour of my last 'new' Merida bike
that escorted me all around Brisbane before some light-fingered son
of a goat herder accosted her in the middle of the night. And yes, my
bike is always female as it doesn't sit well to rest my gnads on
anything of the male persuasion.
My Broome lifestyle
was set for a major overhaul once I had the bike to do the necessary
training on. Continuing to age my liver took precedence after
acquisition so I pencilled in the last 3 months to be the time when I
transform from alcoholic to athletic. Apparently, radical
transformations are harder than just wishful thinking and I currently
sit somewhere between the two extremes. I've done enough riding to
shed most of the excess kilos inertia and Mary-Jane had bestowed upon
me. Being built like a Praying Mantis on a hunger strike most of the
time, losing weight means I'm going to look like I'm fleeing from a
prison camp for the entire ride.
A large part of my
travels down the east coast will entail catching up with old friends
I haven't seen for years though. So a large part of my training has
been preparing my liver for said catch-ups. While acknowledging the
need for a concerted effort towards marathon level fitness, were I
not to counter balance that with some hardy 'piss-fitness', I'll be
too crook to even leave Brisbane.
After a large night
spent celebrating life in general, I shake off the worst of the
hangover by sleeping in. All that does is ensure that I have to ride
through the heat of the day. Yep, 36 degrees, 1 million percent
humidity and a 10 knot head wind is pretty standard. The first 20kms
is just recycling alcohol as it is sweated out and reabsorbed, but it
eventually loses its potency and I am able to enjoy maximum exertion
in sauna like conditions. Although I am carrying no luggage and the
biggest hill in Broome is a termite mound, it is still good practice.
With less than 3
weeks until I leave, the fact that I haven't ridden my bike in two
weeks may give people the impression that I'm rather blasé about the
effort involved. If you understand blasé to mean mild panic, you're
not far wrong. And while apportioning blame is a cop out, it's not
going to stop me from doing it. How inconsiderate of friends to get
married right in the middle of my training schedule.
The only Matsos man
with more time there to their name than me is the manager Chris, and
his recent nuptials resulted in Miranda going unloved for at least
the first week. Trev was up from Perth for the occasion and
collecting on the hospitality he showed me in Hobart. The bucks
party, wedding, recovery BBQ and a few ineffective and unproductive
stints at work raced me through the week like I had been online
shopping to buy crack. In the blink of an eye, Trev had gone and life
returned to normal. My flat mates understood normal to mean 'throwing
parties' and my first night of peace in a week became anything but.
And this week, two close friends left town requiring beach parties
that would have been far less enjoyable had I been there with my
bike.
A major goal for the
ride is to determine what aspects of my life need to change to ensure
I make it passed my 40th birthday. Working at Matsos is
the first casualty as 2.5 years is long enough in any job. Whether or
not I come back to Broome is something only extended consideration
will reveal. So for the next 3 weeks, I'll be living like I won't be
coming back, which isn't any different to how I've lived here all
along really. And serious training for the ride can start when I get
to Brisbane. There's nothing like procrastination to turn any
challenge into an ordeal.
