Eden is a lovely town, but not quite in
the same league as its biblical counterpart. Quaint little shops, a
long history stretching back to early settlement days and 360 degree
views. That last fact was due to its location atop a wart in a field
of pimples. As the start of the 'hell' section, it certainly felt
like I was descending into Lucifers lounge room when I rode passed
Bellbird reserve. Thankfully I was going downwards, as going up would
have given Lions Road a run for its money in the sweating and
swearing stakes.
Up a few more huge hills and I was in
the town centre. “Been up Bellbird yet?” enquired the first local
I wobbled across. He was walking in the same direction and easily
keeping abreast due to my labouring in 'granny gear'. I would have
preferred to have sped away half smile, half snarl, all aloof, but
that would have required turning back down the way I came. I had to
do that later anyway to find a camp site but anyone telling me so at
the time would have suffered some non-specific organic damage.
I had only ridden 23kms but I needed to
figure out how best to tackle the next 200kms. There comes a time in
every man's life where he has to face up to the consequences of his
decisions and suffer through something really painful hoping to come
through the experience as a better person. This was not one of those
times. Suicide is not my idea of fun, although it would answer some
pretty intriguing questions I have about dirt naps. This was more
like the time you take the easy way out and at least survive to ride
another day.
I went straight to the bus office and
tried to book a ticket through to Orbost. The polite lady took one
look at my rig and said either myself or my bike could take the seat,
but not both. Knowing that my bike wasn't a great conversationalist,
hogged arm rests and generally ignored the requests of anyone near
it, I knew I couldn't put it on the bus without me. Nor could I hope
to ride from Orbost to Melbourne on memories, prayers and gratitude
for being alive.
Back down the hill I went and checked
into a camp ground. The lady at reception gave me a piece of
cardboard to fashion myself a hitch-hikers sign and charged me an
exorbitant price that implied the cardboard was a family heirloom. I
set up camp well away from everyone else as I had a lot to chew over.
“To ride or not to ride”, that was the question. Not as
philosophical as the original expression, but profound enough to
worry me senseless. Realising worry is wasted thought, I decided to
ride, as per the original intention of the trip, and stick a
figurative thumb out as soon as things got too risky.
It was a beautiful sunny day I woke to
and my spirits were immediately buoyed. “I can do this!” I goaded
myself, punching my chest hard to punctuate the point. Having two out
of the last three days finishing before really starting, I had the
leg strength to power me into town for a coffee without working up
much of a sweat. I was so adrenalised to smash these hills that I was
almost foaming at the mouth. Needless to say, custom at the cafe
dropped sharply for the 20 minutes I sat there snorting and swigging
coffee like it was straight scotch.
Half crazed and caffeine euphoric, I
charged through the first 5kms which involved three hills high enough
to invoke nose bleeds. Kilometre six and the game changed. I had been
warned there was no shoulders on the road and that was what made this
section so hellish. Big hills are a pain in the ass, in everything
from the waist down actually, but they're not life threatening in
themselves. Maintaining a straight line is hard enough when you're
just grinding along. Throw in a trailer bolt that's slowly winning
the war against Loktite's grip, a road I now had to share with
speeding motorists and my mortal coil was shortening quicker than a
truckies patience.
The white paint of the lane was sprayed
across gravel, leaving me about 30 centimetres to swerve into if
forcefully petitioned to do so. The road itself was in its twilight
years and the outer edges were undergoing severe seismic alteration.
I had admonished myself repeatedly about the key to success being
awareness of approaching traffic. If I saw anything big coming, I had
to blaze a trail into the scrub to avoid an instant red card from
life.
Struggling up a hill usually entails
putting my head down and focusing all energy into legs half the size
they need to be. That doesn't lend itself to sightseeing or using the
rear view mirror enough to avoid losing points on a driving test. Out
of nowhere roared a road train carrying goods that obviously needed
to be in Melbourne within the hour. The gush of swirling wind from
its slipstream slung me off the road like I'd been shot from a
slingshot. I saw it all in slow motion, strangely detached from
myself, and still the truck was nothing but a blur as it passed.
Miraculously everything remained vertical even with the trailer still
shaking like it had just shit itself too.
Right, that's it, I'm going home! But
not if I have another truck brush past me with more menace than
Medusa with PMS. I attached the sign to the back of my bike and
instructed the teddy to start waving at people with imploring eyes.
My fate was in the hands of the universe now, and the absence of
resistance brought a sense of calm with it. I imagine it is what
soldiers feel before entering a battle vastly outnumbered. You're
fucked anyway so why worry about the particulars.
Freed from my own mortal concerns, the
day had the potential to improve significantly. Until the next road
train went passed and blew me into the gutter again. I thought riding
backwards might help me see what's approaching but riding into
oncoming traffic removed all element of chance from the equation. The
wind doesn't really whistle in your ears when your travelling at
walking pace, so I decided to veer off any time I heard something
coming regardless of whether it was a truck rumbling like thunder or
a scooter whining like a mosquito.
The fact that I was still moving
obviously didn't incline people to take pity on me. More people than
usual honked and waved, but it was more like offering gold to cross
the River Styx rather than ferrying me themselves. The pity of some
extended far enough to try and run me over, as people must reason
that it won't ruin their day as much as it would mine. I didn't think
it would be so much of an issue to give something so unstable a wide
berth but not a day goes by without someone vocally asserting my
subservient road rights to their own.
The Victorian border was guarded by a
storm front that washed the last vestiges of gloss from the day that
I had been clinging to harder than the handlebars. I made a roadside
shelter just in time to avoid the worst of it and used the extended
break to fix the parts of my trailer that took every opportunity to
degenerate faster than table manners at a Bacchanalian banquet. More
Loktite applied here, more rubber shoved in there, more high yield
explosives dreamed of being attached everywhere. A lovely lady
offered me a ride in the opposite direction and had she been going as
far as Cairns, I would have accepted.
Instead, I soldiered on to Genoa,
getting rained on in fits and starts but never getting soaked. I
wanted to celebrate surviving the days out of body experience, but I
was still suffering from an out of money experience. It meant little
any way cause Genoa was virtually a ghost town and the only place
offering rooms was suffering from an out of business experience.
There was a 'by donation' way-stop which everyone used to camp for
free so I haggled with the sign for a hot shower before realising
it's sole purpose was to tell me it didn't even have drinking water
available.
I was lucky to find a site right next
to a shelter and had just finished setting up when the rains really
started in earnest. I was able to stay dry as lakes of water began to
build up around my tent. Emergency procedures were implemented and
the tent and its contents were dragged unceremoniously under the
shelter. As soon as I did, it stopped raining and the waters receded.
A lovely French couple I shared the shelter with even thanked me for
stopping the rain.
All I could do was chuckle away to
myself like I was privy to Mother Natures little jokes. I was a third
of the way through the shoulderless section of shit and simply
surviving it was amplifying my arrival euphoria to V-E Day levels. I
had my own Bacchanalian banquet with a double serving of two minute
noodles, an extra scoop of staminade in my drink and a chocolate
brownie flavoured protein bar to really let the good times roll. I
don't care what my first meal in Melbourne is, but it's going to be
deep fried and consumed with enough alcohol to make any nutrition
redundant.
