Emergency procedures were instantly put
into play as the evening was turning into more of a farce than what
the day had been. Food calms me like valium so I pulled out my unused
Jet-boil stove system. The tap water was basically creek water with
only half the chunks so I threw a purification tablet in and started
counting to 10 over and over. 30 minutes the pills needed to
defunkify the water so I used the time to assemble the stove.
Now I don't have much experience with
gas other than what is self generated, but you would think that those
tiny little camp canisters have a universal fitting. Why just think
that when it takes two seconds to check? Right then was not the time
to find out the stove had a thread on the bottom but the canister was
a push and click. I really need the odds to be stacked in my favour
because 50/50 chances are a guarantee I will always get it wrong the
first time. I'd be a great partner at the casino. If I bet on red,
put your life savings on black. I was being tested for my patience
and preparation and I was failing so bad I should really go back to
primary school.
I tried to ram the stove on, partly
hoping to affix it, partly venting frustration. If gas canisters were
able to release gas after having something rammed on them, there
would be a lot less idiots in the world. I was not going to get the
stove on, nor end my misery with impromptu detonation, so it was cold
baked beans on a stale bun for dinner. That was the only way gas was
going to be associated with that meal.
The day was a write-off. Astral
travelling was my only hope of redemption, but I have not yet
mastered that skill. Or even attempted it. I know what it is in
theory, and the day's numerous fiascos seemed capable of changing me
from beginner to savant in one night. I had to be in Lismore by
tomorrow night as Adam was making the trip up from Port Macquarie to
see me. I had tried to sms to say that I either won't be making it
that far tomorrow, or making it out of the tent alive. Of course
there was no phone reception.
At least the bed was warm.
Fears about the hills that lay ahead
kept me awake longer than I could afford to be. The Rathdowney
Information Centre Boogey Monster told me that my only hope getting
over them was by hitch-hiking. If there was a way to get to the other
side without riding, growing wings and alien abductions included, it
was given due consideration that night. Eventually prolonged mental
tension got the better of me and I passed out asleep.
It was raining when I woke. It felt
like the day of execution. I had over 100kms to go and I had told
Adam that I would make Lismore around lunch time. Unless lunch is
around 2am for Adam, I was not going to be able to keep that promise.
For the first time ever, I wished I could eat my muesli bars heated
up. By the time I had packed up, I was already wet through.
I did 3kms of mild up and down riding
before my worst fears were realised. For my vantage point, the top of
the next hill was lost in the clouds. Given the crappy weather
conditions, that could have meant the hill was only 20 metres high. I
could have tackled it with a degree of optimism had an overly
informative sign not told me that the next kilometre of road rose at
a gradient of 19%. That sounded like a rather abstract number as I
had never encountered anything of that nature on a push bike before.
Realising it was too far to turn back,
I went at it like a rabid dog. I pumped my legs until I thought they
would spontaneously combust. My balls were so chaffed I could hear
them squeak. Sweat poured off me like I had sprung a leak. By the
time I quit, I was still not at the cloud line but could quite easily
see the 10 or so metres I had just ridden. It was a cold baked bean
sort of demoralisation where it was your own stupidity that comes
back to not only haunt you, but possess you.
I pushed my bike, and what I realised
then really was an anchor, all the way to the top and the QLD/NSW
border. It took me half an hour and so much effort that 5kms for the
day really did seem like a valiant effort. Reaching a peak
fortunately means descending the other side, but it wasn't long
before I was going up hill again.
Whether my prayers were answered, or
whether it never existed, the alleged second huge hill never
materialised. I had been riding through the lowlands for awhile
before allowing myself to believe it wasn't waiting around the next
corner for me. Hills don't normally just spring out of nowhere, but
anything was currently possible.
Even in the rain, the remainder of the
ride to Kyogle was pleasant as I felt like I had conquered a beast.
The last few billion kilometres I had to ride to Lismore didn't
matter as they could not possibly be as bad as the ones I had just
ridden. I even started to smile irrespective of the fact it meant my
breath was heaving through clenched teeth.
A brief stop at Ripples Cafe showed
that my fortunes were changing again. They were only open this day
for a lunch function and could happily squeeze me in for coffee and a
cake. The cake turned out to be the most divinely decadent chocolate
and beetroot brownie and I knew Lady Luck was lusting after me again.
Then I found out the quoted distance of
68kms for Lions Road included the 19kms of Summerland Highway into
Kyogle. Feeling zesty I checked the distance on to Lismore and found
it to be 44kms not the 59kms I had obviously exaggerated with my
fear. That instantly halved the distance I had left to go and not
burning muscles, not my skinless family jewels, not my soaked
clothes, and not even Adam calling every 30 minutes from the pub
could dampen the ecstasy I felt as I rode in to Lismore.
It was 4:30pm and the 90.98kms I had
ridden had taken 5 hours and 25 minutes of actual riding time. Or at
least time when the wheels were spinning as at least another 10 hills
through the day had required me to push my rig up them. First stop
was a pharmacy for Lanacane (Anti-chaff cream) amongst other things,
then the hotel for a shower then to the pub for a celebratory beer
that I was too exhausted to drink.
