If luck does come in strokes, this one
was particularly well lubricated. I could not have imagined a better
start to the trip, except perhaps for it coming at the start of the
day, rather than the end. While not being epic compared to the day
that followed, it was epic in one sense for being the first day of my
bike ride to Melbourne.
I slept pretty well considering I felt
like a kid the night before Christmas. Being on holiday for the next
three months means I don't intend to use an alarm for anything not
related to catching a plane. I was awoken by a friend in Broome who
had considerately called up to wish me luck; at 4am W.A. time. Excess
partying had left them unaware where they were though, or whether
they even existed. Suspecting a rambling, inconclusive conversation
of incoherence, I made enough polite silence to be hung up on
eventually.
Everything had been packed and prepared
the day before so I hopped on my bike and tried not to think about
the fact that I had 2,500kms ahead of me. Rolling down the road away
from Matty's house, the bike wobbled almost uncontrollably. “That's
interesting; and rather shit” I pondered aloud to Brisbanites
making their way to church. Uneven packing was the most likely cause,
but I was more concerned with the anchor I appeared to be dragging
behind me.
Carting around a few tins of paint in
Broome had given me an indication of what lugging the trailer might
feel like, in the same way that drinking pond water might closely
approximate eating caviar. It felt like I was towing a two-tonne
pendulum. Too many people knew of my trip to turn back at that point,
so I continued on staring at the horizon to counter the sea-sickness.
Unfortunately for me, and anyone else
who might find cause to rely on a map, the bike maps supplied by
Brisbane City Council don't have many road names on them. No problem
when you have a rough idea of the city's layout and don't mind the
occasional detour. A big fucking problem when you have 80 odd
kilometres to do that day and dead weight capriciously dragging you
backwards, left and wrong-ways.
And the maps are at least 5 years old
meaning the council probably printed up 10 billion of them thinking
cyclists would just take them by the bundle. Obviously not, cause
every route is so well sign posted; for inner city sight-seeing.
'Bulimba Creek – 500m'. 'Arts Centre – 2.5kms'. 'Next sign –
20m'. Unsurprisingly I never saw a sign saying 'Beaudesert – 85kms.
Don't forget anti-nausea pills'.
Once I found the road I wanted, I
sincerely wished I hadn't. I've been on flatter roller coasters.
These 'rolling hills' didn't undulate, they erupted. It was like
board riding in the middle of the ocean during a perfect storm. My
legs had gotten better since Mt. Coot-tha set them on fire with
lactic acid and it wasn't long before I was out of town and cruising
along like I had always dreamed, minus the drool.
The first thing of interest to come
along was a small taste of what it would like to be run over by a
car. Beaudesert road has some ongoing issues related to last years
floods ie. it's still a bit pissed off with temporarily being a river
when it thought it was a road all its life. Pot holes are not a
problem, as there are more of them than there are flat spots. Cars
going past in either direction is an inconvenience, but to be
expected at least all of the way. The trailer feeling like it is
doing barrel rolls behind me is growing exponentially into a game
changing concern. All three things came at a place where helpful road
maintenance people had erected barricades over what's normally the
shoulder. Thanks to the prayers I uttered in the form of a shart, the
ute behind me recognised the signs of a sea-sick sailor and slowed
down until he was able to give me a very wide birth.
The remaining kilometres I did until
reaching Beaudesert were ridden on DEFCON 1. Such a heightened state
of readiness meant I knew the size and colour of a car before it got
within 300 metres of me, but it also used up a lot of mental energy.
Signs of glycogen depletion comes over you when you are are about
10kms away from your destination or a convenient place to stop. You
push yourself through those last few kilometres by flaying your
flanks like the Melbourne Cup is on the line. A wave of exhaustion
and stupidity washes over you and your IQ suddenly quarters. That bad
news if you happens not start off with big IQ in beginning ie.
instant Encino Man.
I rolled into the Information Centre in
full zombie mode and the ladies automatically assume I am on crack,
looking for my cousin/wife, or my second head, or that I am a lovely
young man undertaking an interesting adventure and just happened to
have momentarily mistaken myself for a horse. Unbelievably they agree
on the latter, then begin to take a shine on me like I am homecoming
prodigal son, even though I looked more like Ash as he readies
himself for work. I inhaled a banana like ventolin as soon as the
bike slowed down to 5kms/hr and once it kicked in I could see that I
wasn't really Phar Lap.
“What does beautiful Beaudesert have
to offer me in the way of fine camping establishments, I politely ask
of you attractive young lady”, I politely asked of a lady who
wasn't really either of those attributes. “None” came her long
considered and under-whelmingly disappointing reply. “Great fucking
start!” laments I, thankfully inaudibly. The second lady, long a
mute witness to what I fear was going to be the first of many
probing, but pointless inquiries, then offered an even longer
considered and overwhelmingly redeeming rejoinder. “You are welcome
to just throw your tent up somewhere on my ten acres?”
“Piss off! And have you rape me, cut
me up and feed me to your pigs?” my mind yells out without my vocal
chords being stupid enough to follow through, opting to just neigh
instead. This was met with bewildered looks that accurately portrayed
the quickest change of heart a human has ever experienced. There was
no other choice, even if I hadn't have thought it was an amazingly
generous offer and far too good to turn down. Fortunately my vocal
chords responded quick enough to accept the offer before it was
rescinded and transformed into shouts for help.
Neralie, now introduced and quickly
becoming my new best friend, drew up a map that would ensure any
hidden treasures would never be found. Roads didn't verge in any
direction when they were specifically told they would. Road names
were wrong when they were included, but then again who really needs
road names on a map? No one of merit that I can think of. From the
average person on the street, this could be expected, especially if
the person giving directions was holidaying from another country.
From someone who works in an information centre sending people around
to see the many highlights that Beaudesert has to offer, it was
concerning. Not in the rape and mutilate sort of way, but still
slightly worrying.
I did end up finding Neralie's place
and was warmly welcomed in by Jack, her white American Bull-terrier
pup. Momentarily suspicious of a stranger, his obligations to protect
were quickly forgotten when he realised I was someone to play with.
Charging at me as he prepared to rip me apart with his tongue, I
readied myself for attack, but hoped for a hug. It came in waves of
slobber and I felt like I had come back to my own home.
Neralie came home soon after struggling
to follow her own directions and laid out the red carpet for me. A
bed inside was offered and quickly accepted. Dinner was turned down
fearing explaining a carb and protein loading vegetarian was not the
easiest person to cater for. Neralie was a vegetarian and probably
enjoyed a meal far surpassing the dehydrated curry I had planned to
fry in front of my tent. We watched a documentary on Egypt and
chatted cordially into the night. I retired to a room I never
expected to be enjoying and tried to accept that not every day of
this trip could end so well.
