I am pretty sure I was woken at 1:45am
by the sound of rain hitting my roof; hard. Hence, $38 had not
transformed my tent into the Millennium Falcon. I had to rise early
for once to get the first ferry across to Yamba, but there was no
sign of old mate as I packed. Perhaps he gets to sleep in on all the
bank notes he plunders from unsuspecting travellers. I was in the
mood for being confrontational as I had woken up with my head stuck
on a 30 degree angle to my body. It was not his fault, but I reckon
he owed me a remedial massage at least.
So eager was I to put some miles
between me and this modern day bush-ranger that I arrived at the pier
an hour earlier than the ferry. Four people in a row then came up and
told me how envious they were of my endeavours. It made a pleasant
change from everyone questioning my sanity and I did all within my
limited scope to appear worthy of their praise. I don't know if they
fully grasped my Napoleon impersonation, but doing so must have
surely added an air of mystique to my persona.
The 30 minute ferry ride over to Yamba
was serene as it cut through nothing more than small ripples. Most
disturbing was the black sky it was taking me in the direction of.
That meant the day would require some pampering at the end so I
stopped of at K-mart and invested in a bed set and a pillow,
rationalising that minimal weight against maximum comfort was a good
trade off. Apparently the U-shaped travelling pillows do not make
good sleeping pillows even when you try to compensate with various
articles of clothing. The rain held off as I passed through Maclean
and travelled alongside the beautiful Clarence River. My destination
for the day was Grafton but I thought I would just keep riding if the
weather held out.
50Kms done for the day and it was time
for lunch and some decision making. I stopped in at a delightful
little café in Ulmarra to refuel and review. The lady had only
spring rolls to offer a vegetarian even though a sign behind her
boasted numerous veggie and lentil based options. I gave her plenty
of chances to reconsider but spring rolls she insisted it must be.
Perhaps she made them herself, in which case she would have been
pretty disappointed with what she did to them in the deep fryer.
Fortunately, she brought the cremated spring rolls out with enough
salad to almost balance out the artery corks she expected me to eat.
Google maps showed some back roads that
aren't on my Information Centre map, largely because the Rathdowney
pessimist ruled out 90% of the state to a subversive like me. To hide
the mortified look on my face when I saw what had become of my lunch,
I asked the lady to tell me which back roads would be best to avoid
Grafton. Looking dismissively at my chosen mode of transport, she
remained convinced that the Pacific Highway was still my best option.
Imagine for a moment I implore, that you don't want the quickest,
flattest route but perhaps something a little more risqué, and blog
worthy. The best option she could come up with involved 3 ferry trips
and took me right into the centre of Grafton. Hardly surprising
advice coming from someone who uses a deep-fryer like the Grim Reaper
uses his scythe.
“The sun is shining, the weather is
sweet. Makes you want to move your pedalling feet”. Bob
Marley convinced me that I should just keep going even though it will
guarantee a century in the saddle. There were scattered clouds around
but they seemed to lack the intention of ganging up and making
something significant. As well meaning as the café lady was, I
decided to take the back road, and not to take the advice of a local
over the age of 50 ever again.
Why you would not recommend this road
to a bicyclist is utterly beyond me. It was the most enjoyable
stretch of road I had ridden on. A single lane paved road with
nothing but fields filled with all manner of life just doing what
they do. I couldn't have loved it any more if I tried, and that was
my downfall.
Whenever you get too cocky, Mother
Nature feels compelled to remind you who is in charge. Ever so
subtly, a dense black cloud the size of a passing planet loomed over
the horizon. Before I had a chance to lament bringing this on myself,
it hit. Within 5 minutes, I was drenched through. What was the best
ride ever minutes ago, was now the worst place in the world to be
stuck in the rain. I was 20 kilometres from the nearest town in any
direction and thunder was rolling around like God was playing drum
'n' bass. All I could do was put my head down and keep on pedalling.
Slowly but surely the kilometres
clicked over and the skin on my groin got less and less. My ears felt
fine but. The only thing driving me on, beside the need to find
something other than a wombat hole to spend the night, was reaching
my first 100 for the trip. When I passed that magical mark, two
inspiring things happened. First was a sign symbolising a steep
descent ahead. News good enough to manually chafe a bit more skin
off. Second was an inspiring sms from a mate in Broome.
Richie, or Big Daddy, had quickly
become one of my best blow-out buddies and thoughts of him regularly
inspire me in different ways. Firstly was his enquiries as to how
much hill training I was doing in Broome. The look of concern on his
face when an affirmative response was not forthcoming almost
motivated me to do some. I thought about that a lot as I was pushing
my bike up 2 metre inclines at the end of Day 3.
Secondly, he gifted me an improved
version of the bracelet I had spent 5 years looking for, and found on
my last trip to Asia. Lacking the words of wisdom that Lance's yellow
band does to help you get over nut cancer, I derive strength from
remembering all the people who want to see me succeed, if only so I
can go back to Broome and blow it out with them again.
And while I am name dropping, I should
mention Ash, as his generosity made this whole trip possible; at
least in having enough savings not to brain someone who charges me
$38 for a 3 metre square strip of soil. Being run over by the golf
cart was paradoxically the best thing to happen this year, except of
course for the brownie I had in Ripples Cafe. I annexed Ash's room,
as well as Poland, and happily cleared my calendar whenever he was in
town looking to party.
These boys, amongst others, had gotten
me over the line and it was all down hill to Corindi Beach. It was
pissing rain still so it was more like a water slide, but who cares
when it is forward momentum that doesn't require effort. I pulled in
to the camp ground 3kms short of my personal best, but my balls
easily convinced me that further riding was not advisable.
I stood around shivering for 20 minutes
waiting for a break in the rain. When it eased slightly, I erected
the tent so quickly it was like I had shelved viagra. As soon as I
had gotten my bedding in, the clouds scattered as though the thunder
really was God farting. I threw all my wet stuff in a bag, including
the bed sheets and went off for a shower. Why is that after being wet
for half the day, all I wanted to do was get wetter? Other than
sounding like a quote from a porno, I think I had reached maximum
prunage and more water was not going to make any difference.
I then chatted to friends about my
exploits long enough for the one shop in town to close. Realising
that noodles were my only option didn't seem so daunting now I knew I
could actually cook them. As that minor oversight didn't ruin my
night, I tried to find something else that would. It came as soon as
it dawned on me that I was no longer able to get change for the
laundry. The bed set was now soaked through after being bundled in
the bag with clothes wet enough to fill a swimming pool. Why does
dumb stuff always happen in bunches? Possibly because as Mark said in
Broome, I am the dumbest smart person he has met. That was a comment
made after he found I had left the hot plate on when I was trying to
cook a pizza in the oven.
