Riding Home LIVE

Canberra to Albury to Melbourne to Adelaide.

20-26 October 2008
Canberra to Albury, 345km
Approaching the turn-off to Wagga Wagga a spoke snapped. POP. With it, somehow, went my desire to keep pedalling. POP. Just like that. Instead of Adelaide I aimed for Albury. They both begin with the letter A, that's a good enough reason. Cairns to Albury by bicycle. THE END.

Granny (Hope) Hughes is half the name of my kayak (Hope and Grace). The other half being Granny Grace. Both are in their late eighties and living happily at home. Both continue to be my inspiration for independent and positive thought. I caught the train from Albury to Melbourne to stay a few days with Granny Hughes and visit Granny's sister, who we've always called Aunty Essie. For all of my memory Aunty Essie was like an extra Granny and lived right next door. Their houses were built on the same block of land and shared the same bricks and paint trims. A short walk along the garden path joined them like an umbilical cord. Last year Aunty Essie moved into a nursing home and now there's a fence separating the two houses. On the other side, old Mrs Watts died a few years ago and the house stands condemned and abandoned. I followed Granny over there carrying the telescopic secateurs. We'd already been through the garden trimming back the occasional tentacle overhanging the path. The grass at Mrs Watts was knee high. Granny wandered to the rear fence while I poked through the busted down backdoor to take a look inside. The uneven floorboards carried me through the house as if on a gentle ocean swell. Last time I was in there Mrs Watts was too, in the living room that now stood bare. Beside the papered over window that had once streamed light. It had seemed a lot bigger then. Painted crudely on the kitchen shelf were two small red swastikas in bored schoolboy script. Only a half hearted vandal. Opportunistic rather than offensive. Back in the garden Granny pointed out a wild rose that was sending suckers to her side of the fence. Soon enough there'll be three or fours units on the block and the wild rose will be ripped out and concreted over. I often end up in Granny's spare room for a few days on my way home from somewhere. It's a good place to mark the passage of a journey, or a year, and to get some perspective. Granny reminds me, without saying a word, that the little things matter more than the big ones. Saving the water that would run down the sink, remembering an old friends birthday with a phone call, welcoming the Phillipino man who moved in down the street last week, cutting flowers for the coffee table AND taking the time to appreciate them. These little things are what makes my Granny's (all three of them) special. So this final post in 2008 is for them, thanks for the little things. And thanks for letting me loose on the electric scooter. Even at 5km/h it deserves respect, and the little tooting horn. Today I flew into Adelaide to spend the week with James, Bec and chubby speck of a nephew, Oscar. Bec did a fabulous job while I was paddling in PNG by posting the daily updates to the website. Next week it's back to Tassie so the weekly reports end here. By January the site will be geared up to document the 8in8in8 expedition, so stay tuned.

Canberra is friendly.

13-19 October 2008
Sydney to Canberra, 250km

After three uneventful days I pulled off the Hume Highway into the Canberra Visitors Centre. Where should I stay, where do I find Canberra Grammar, how do the buses work? It had been a long and hot day. Instead of doing my own research I'd decided to drop it on the visitors centre and dump my problems in their publicly funded laps. That's what they're there for, I reasoned. So I marched up to Michelle, who I called by first name because she had a name tag on. After laying out my rough plan and explaining my limitations (travel by bike, not much money, bit on the smelly side etc.), Michelle drew the threads together using a large map and a telephone. Go to this caravan park, they're expecting you, catch this bus tomorrow at this time and place... and have a shower. All sorted. But wait, said Michelle, take a newspaper too, it's complimentary. Ooh, I exclaimed, free newspaper, thankyou. But wait again, said Michelle, have one of these chocolates while you're at it, hazelnut or fudge? Ooh, I exclaimed again, what a friendly place. Newspapers and chocolate for free. Next day I popped into ABC local radio for an interview. In the studio, Alex, the presenter, rolled her chair over the headphones cord and cut it clean in two. The producer rushed in to grab a guest microphone while another technician flapped in to replace the broken hardware. I watched on, thinking it was all very exciting for talk radio and pleased that I was there. The song finished and a veneer of control replaced the brief period of pandemonium. After that I went to catch the bus so I could speak to the grade 5's at Canberra Grammar. They're going on excursion soon and it was a chance scare them with stories of leeches, snakes, heatstroke and hypothermia. The bus pulled in right on time. I apologized to the driver as I explained I only had a $50 note. He then apologized to me and told me to get off his bus and walk. That's not the free newspaper and chocolate Canberra that I'd fallen in love with yesterday, I complained. All to avail. I grabbed a taxi. The Grade 5's turned out to quite like the idea of snakes, leeches and weren't at all scared. While talking about some of the risks they might encounter on their excursion it soon became clear that they had a better understanding of risk management than I did. We changed the topic. Saturday was free. Perhaps the War Memorial, Parliament House, National Museum? The list of delightful day trips abounded. Faced with so much choice I retreated to the familiar. Off to the cinema for back to back movies at the Dendy in the shopping centre. I forget the first movie but the second one about a Frenchman who walked a high-wire between the Twin Towers was superb. Later, while passing the Aboriginal Tent Embassy, I met Michael. He was homeless. He didn't ask for anything but I gave him a few dollars anyway. He told me he had a lot of investments but not much cash. I told him I didn't have any investments and not much cash, and perhaps he should give me the few dollars back in that case. We laughed and he shook my hand goodbye. Instead of releasing his grip he pulled my hand to his chest, about where his heart hid beneath his jumper. Then he said something very odd and a little frightening. I decided to be more discerning when talking to homeless people. Later, after some thought, I reversed my decision and, given the opportunity, will talk to just about anyone. This evening was the public presentation at Canberra Grammar which went well. Huge thanks go to Sue Donoghoe who runs the acclaimed outdoor ed program at the school, and organised everything. Tomorrow I'm back on the road in earnest. 1200km in 10 days... sounds grim. If I have to catch a bus to make it for the Adelaide presentation on the 30th October, so be it.

Roll, roll, roll your boat.

6-12 October 2008
Sydney, R&R

Sunbathers lie on the coarse golden sand quietly reading and browning skin that was never meant to see the light of day. A sleek, shiny motor boat anchored 100 meters away floats with afternoon friends sharing sleek, shiny conversations. Saltwater blasted out my sinuses leaves a residue of burning pain somewhere behind my eyes. One more blow to chase the phantom drops that seem to hide behind my throat. The serene inner harbour setting near Watson's Bay doesn't deserve a clumsy intrusion like this. But Rob Mercer (Balanced Boater), a renowned instructor, had offered to teach me to roll a kayak. He bobs chest deep beside the kayak while I recompose myself. "This time pretend the paddle is made of eggshell, very fragile eggshell." Nodding and leaning forward I flip over, upside down, disorientated, reaching for the paddle that Rob holds on the surface, finding it, remembering that it's now made of egg, flicking my hips and surfacing. Progress through the exercises is going well. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle- paddle movement, hip and knee, head like this, bend and arc. Purging a salty cocktail once again from my nasal cavity I'm feeling confident. Too confident. "Time to go for the big one Rob, save me if I'm drowning but otherwise I'm flying free." I asserted too boldly. Rob's no doubt seen it all before, and knew the likely result, but he graciously stepped back anyway. Grip the paddle, set it, stretch through the wetsuit, get that head forward and down, take a breath, and I'm over. The jigsaw puzzle scatters, it doesn't make sense after all, I'm lost. Rob pulls me back to reality and fresh air. Retiring to the beach I let sand sift through my fingers as the conversation drifts with the dipping sun. Rob thinks I'm recovering some energy for another crack but my rolling mojo has drifted into a future day. Something to look forward to on a warm summer afternoon on the Derwent River perhaps? Earlier in the week Chris James generously provided a venue at Neilson Park for the Sydney presentation of Liklik Kanu. Below I've pasted in a report from the 2006 east coast expedition when I pulled into Sydney Harbour after paddling up from Hobart. It's a blast form the past and where it says "Through Watson's Bay I spy a phone box..." is actually at Neilson Park. When I recognized the phone box and kiosk this week I had an 'aha!' moment. Wonderful coincidence and a wonderful oasis to share some PNG stories in Sydney. Thanks Chris, Rob, Ken and NSWSKC for all your help.
23 May 2006, The Pandozer Issue 8
"My eyes are hungry for Sydney Harbour. They wolf down the crackling spinnakers of racing maxi's, and gobble up the Manly ferry as it blazes unflinchingly through the traffic. People dot the shores in various states of undress. The white bearded man in a lycra body-suit fishing from the rocks, the nudists draped over the rocks at Lady Bay, the tourists, the dog walkers and the young couples. I see you Sydney, and I stare because I'm anonymous, no-one sees me. Through Watson's Bay I spy a phone box behind the strip of sand and paddle until the boat grinds to a stop. I need to ring Matt but I've lost his phone number. Blue speedo's approach. Do I always carry a spare paddle? Yes I always carry one. I paddle on to his suburb and look up at his apartment block wondering if he's looking out the window. He's not. A hire dinghy with four young blokes is puttering ahead of me. They stop to heckle a sunbather five floors above the ground. Their movements are unpredictable so I call out and raft up. Do I want a beer? Yes I do. Just ask for the boys at Grassy Head when you come through. Maybe. Where is this park I'm supposed to pull it at? Private water frontage and six foot breakwalls is all I can see. There are stone steps near the ferry wharf and I can unload in the water. Nothing better springs to mind so get on with it. Give us a hand can you? What's your name? Rob, good one, grab the battery. Won't be long, just go and buzz Matt's apartment. Silverstein, Wilson, Darcy... no, no and no. Wrong unit number. Trot back in the afternoon sun. Thanks Amanda, I will use your phone after all. Matt. Five minutes away. Yep, I'll give you fifteen. I've got plenty of time for you Sydney." The Australian Geographic awards were held on Thursday at the Powerhouse Museum. A highlight was meeting Dr George Bornemissza who was awarded a lifetime conservation award for his work with dung beetles. George is a fellow Tasmanian and worked for decades to find the right beetle to chew through cow poo. It's good to be reminded of a successful biological intervention at times. Think cane toad for a good example of an unsuccessful example. Congratulations to all the award winners, all fantastic examples of the inspiring stuff you can accomplish with a bit of adventure and determination. Next day I snuck into the AG office in the city. Ian Connellan, the editor, showed me to a delightful little room where I bagged a bunch of maps. I'll use them next year to guide me around Oz on the 8in8in8 expedition. So it's the end of my week in Sydney with Matt and Cathy and now it's time to leave. Tomorrow I'll make a start towards Canberra.

When a Broken Bridge Leads to a Quarry

29 September to 5 October 2008
Croki to Sydney, 320km

'Cyclists use Old Pacific Hwy' said the sign on the freeway past Gosford. I thought that was reasonable, I'd been allowed to use the generous shoulder of the F3 from Newcastle until then. As usual I was looking for the fastest 'karate chop' route to reach Sydney. The Old Pacific Highway detour wouldn't add much extra to the super direct route. Swooping down the off ramp like a cranky magpie, ducking under the overpass, a flashing sign caught my attention. That's why it was flashing. 'Old Pacific Highway Closed To All Traffic, Use Freeway'. But I can't use the freeway I thought, it just told me to use the Old Pacific Highway. Now the Old Pacific Highway is telling me to use the freeway. This was very confusing. I turned down the road anyway, why would a while road be closed? Ooh, that's why... it's disappeared. The road had collapsed a year ago, tragically killing 5 people. A truck driver was pulling out of the roadwork pit as I arrived. I flagged him down to ask if I might be able to sneak through. "There's no road there mate, of course you can't." he replied, shaking his head at the silly cyclist. "Well it seems I'm in a bit of a pickle then, can't go forwards, can't go backwards." I reasoned. "You can take the long way up to Wisemans Ferry if you've got time, adds a few extra k's but there's no other way around." indicated the truck driver. He looked thoughtful as I explained my 'karate chop' theory of getting from A to B in the most direct fashion. Detouring to Wisemans Ferry would be a very, very bitter pill to swallow. "Well, I shouldn't be tellin' ya this..." he started. "Do it anyway." I prompted, desperate for a solution. "Ya might get shot, it's private property, I didn't tell ya this... but there's a quarry down there that might get ya on the old road further down." Enough said, my raised salute said, it's on my head and thankyou. The slight downhill veered right and became rough rocks and gravel. The ruts became deeper as it took me uphill through the sparse scrubby bush. A water filled pit, long abandoned to tadpoles and little lizards showed where sandstone blocks were once cut from. Walking by now, I saw movement behind a grimy, stumped caravan. "Hello" I called, approaching with the attitude that I was unfortunately lost and sorry if I'm trespassing but can you show me how to get to the road anyway. All the while wondering if the truck driver knew more than he said about who lived in the eerie old quarry? "Hello" I called loudly again, parking the bike and wandering up the track to the dwelling. A grizzled old man poked his head around the corner, brow furrowed, eyes questioning. I smiled. So did he. Phew! Alfred lives amongst the rocks and scrub on his own. His brother lives a few hundred metres away in his own cave-like compound and his cousin is tucked away nearby as well. A banana and an orange tree shade a small vegetable patch. As we talked a kookaburra landed on the dead branch of a gum tree. "Ah, there Crank... wonder where his little mate is?" commented Alfred. "He'll be along shortly I s'pose... say have a look at this." he continued, producing an exquisite opalised rock from his pocket. He'd fossicked it up in central Queensland somewhere. He wouldn't say exactly where! The noise from the freeway drifted up the hill. Alfred said apart from that, it was like a little piece of paradise. "Quite unexpected" I agreed, before asking about the road through the quarry to the road. Alfred explained and I bid goodbye. It was narrow before it was rough before it disappeared completely. Luckily I heard a motorbike just ahead and knew the road wasn't far away. That was a neat karate chop, I thought, pulling sticks and leaves from the running gear and continuing towards Sydney. After a night out the back of The Road Warriors Cafe, I took a deep breath and headed for the bright lights. It was not as hectic as expected, and by comandeering the entire third lane I had plenty of space. Up and over the bridge, walking through Darling Harbour and eventually to Matt and Cathy's in Pyrmont. Matt makes an excellent Buffalo Mozzarella pizza so I'm in no rush to leave.

Signs of the Time

22-28 September 2008
Gold Coast to Croki, 587km

Isn't it great that any old person can pitch a roadside sign like this. It doesn't matter in least that it makes no sense. Whoever's work this is can speak (or write) to an estimated 20 000 Pacific Highway commuters every day. If they couldn't get this cryptic nonsense off their chest in such a public manner, who knows what they might resort to? Without this forum they might feel the need to run for local council and make life confusing for the entire shire. They might even start a Wednesday night group and begin a massive, spreading bewilderment campaign in the public at large. And besides, it made me stop. Not stop and think, but stop and take a photo. Not many of the hundreds of roadside signs I pass every day do that. A bit like those clever advertisements that use blank space or silence to get your attention. You look and listen... why is this ad not trying to tell me anything??... and just as your mind is opening up a crack to question what this might be... smack, they jam their product message in. Sneaky. I've pulled in just short of Taree at Croki. Helen and Jim are the caretakers at the caravan park. There's no shop in town so I'm down to a muesli bar for dinner. Not very well planned. Helen took pity and gave me two cans of Pub Squash from her fridge and asked where I was headed. When I mentioned Canberra in my plans she looked up with concern and warned, "You be careful there in Canberra. Hmmm, there's a lot of those politicians down there you know." I assured Helen that I'd stay alert. Silently I was pleased that it wasn't another joke along the lines of, "Oh well, at least it's all down hill." which refers to the way we describe anywhere south as 'down' and anywhere north as 'up'. Ie. You should go down to Hobart, the politicians are often in flower this time of year. Or, They went up to Darwin to escape the winter politicians. Yesterday I stopped at a Motel in Kempsey to watch the AFL grand final between the Hawks and the Cats. The main game up here is rugby league which made me homesick for the traditional GF festivities down south. And then for some reason I kept thinking about going bushwalking in Tassie. Draping myself over a warm dolerite boulder and staring down some thickly forested valley. All lichen encrusted rock, scrubby bush and blue sky. No place like home. The scenery along the road in Northern NSW is a mixture of green paddlocks with cows and horses and sheep. I always say hello to the cows. "Hello cows, how's it going today?" Sometimes they charge along the fenceline beside the bike. They really are very stupid animals. Then there's a few handkerchief patches of scrub and forest reserves, small and large towns, and more frequent hills. The balance and rythmn of the bike feels good now, I can stand up on the pedals for the steepest hills. Swaying in time with the rotations at just the right angle usually sees me to the top without too much grunting. Mind you, the range out the back of Byron Bay was devastating. The view was sensational but I still wouldn't recommend it. Even the trucks were puffing near the top. Getting closer to Sydney (only 4 days) means I've been thinking about how to handle the entry. I'll take the old highway from Newcastle and then make a mad dash across the Coathanger and into the beating heart of the CBD. From there it's anyone's guess, but I promise to be absolutely fearless with the taxis and buses and not let them push me around. It probably means I will be struck and possibly injured. Luckily my sister-in-law, Cathy, is a doctor and will be able to put me back together again.

Bakeries: Why they matter

15-21 September 2008
Brisbane to Gold Coast,80km

Aunty Marg's worried about my diet. Apparently meat pies, vanilla slice, iced coffee, oranges and strawberries does not amount to a 'pyramid' and is certainly not 'balanced'. If it helps, I eat the green leaves of the strawberries. Would they be herbs? Or vegetable matter? Or poisonous??
The week flew by in a kaleidoscope of movies, newspapers, train rides, and pastries. It's just over 900km from Brisbane to Sydney and I'm giving myself a casual 2 weeks to cover the ground. The plan today was to hit the Motorway and ride the wide shoulder all the way down to the Gold Coast. Sure there'd be less traffic on some snotty little side road, but Brisbane to the Gold Coast is best dealt with by a swift karate chop. Hwooooya! Straight down the guts of it and leave it behind ASAP. Navigating the back streets of Yeronga proved no problem, I found the graveyard where it was supposed to be, made a zig zag across the dual lanes, swooped down the hill and there it was. A huge sign, much too large to pretend I didn't see if the cops pulled me over, that clearly said NO BIKES on the Motorway. You have GOT to be kidding! The best road, the only road to execute my karate chop and I'd been barred. More like discriminated against I decided. And no mopeds allowed either. No bikes, no mopeds, may as well just put up a big sign at the entrance to Brisbane that says NO FUN ALLOWED. Jokers. The alternative was not clear but I stumbled upon Logan Road and made the best of it. In case it was a mistake I checked at each Motorway on-ramp I could find. Each time the same sign appeared. Big bully. Somewhere just outside the Gold Coast I magically found myself on the Motorway anyway. A police car passed in the outside lane, boxed in by a few cars. The brake lights flicked on but they must have decided it was too much hassle. The first sensible thing I'd associated with the Motorway all day. Coming in near Broadwater I watched in fascination and horror as a 4WD rear-ended a sedan, both were travelling slowly, no injuries but a holiday nightmare for the drivers no doubt. Right now I'm bunkering down in the same caravan park that I stayed in 2006 with the sea kayak. The main difference is the 47 brown tents from Upton High School that have coralled around the camp kitchen. The caterers have just arrived and the students are due back any minute. It's about to get loud. Time to go. An especially large thanks to Tess and Hayley Dodd and the Queensland Sea Kayak Club for hosting the presentation this week, it was great fun. A reminder that the Sydney talk is not far away and Canberra on the 19th October at Canberra Grammar. The new plan after that is to sneak across to Adelaide before flying back to Tassie. Looks like Melbourne will have to wait until mid January.

Sounds of a Suburban Sunday Afternoon in Brisbane

8-14 September 2008
Colosseum Creek to Brisbane, 450km

He's at it again. Walking methodically around his backyard with a machine that blows air and sounds like a blender chewing up marbles. From Aunty Marg's balcony I watch him repeating the ritual cleansing, already performed once before today. Up and down the driveway, hrrm...hrrrm, evicting tiny innocent leaves from the concrete and onto the neatly trimmed grass, presumably where they rightly belong. It's lucky I have the balcony to watch from, or I wouldn't see over the eight foot high, cream painted brick wall. From street level I doubt I'd even be able to admire the manicured hedge that rises up to, but not an inch over, the bevelled, levelled, oh-so-tidy wall. I know I shouldn't snoop, but eight foot high walls and obsessive compulsive blower-vac behaviours are irresistible to a suburban snoop like me.
In fact, I find nearly everything about settling into Brisbane irresistible. Hot and cold drinks at the flick of a kettle or opening of a fridge. Televised sport and Sunday political programs (I've missed you Barry Cassidy). Cinema tickets for less than ten dollars and a bus that zooms me anywhere I wish to go for the change rattling in my bag. It's magical, it's brilliant, it's the city.
Aunty Marg's place is on the south side of the city centre in a suburb called Yeronga. For the last hundred kilometres down the Bruce, it's called a motorway instead of a highway. The difference being that two lanes morph into a divided four, and agricultural machinery and animals are not permitted access. I was pleased about that because cows are even worse drivers than the tourists in the hired campervans. You know the ones, they float and weave like a giant, disorientated marshmallow. Very unpredictable. Anyway, the approach to Brisbane was incident free (apart from another flat tyre and bent rear derailler), until reaching the Storey Bridge, near the heart of the city. Pausing at a red light I noticed a pedestrian wearing a Queensland Roads jumper. "Are bikes allowed across the Storey Bridge mate?" I asked while waiting for the green. He looked at me with a hint of wariness. When changing the punctured tube I'd mangaged to spread grease from my hands and shirt to cheeks and forehead while wiping sweat away. He probably thought I was an oddball urban bike warrior, about to wreak some sort of turmoil by way of street protest. Perhaps a bike sit-in on the bridge during rush hour to highlight the plight of the endangered Grayling Cabbage Moth (spp. Mothius munchus). "Yep, bike's are okay on the bridge I think, but there's a path on the side which would be safer." he replied cheerily, dashing my rampaging imagination. The light turned green and I struggled from a standing start up the steepish, but smallish, hill and towards the bridge. Cars and trucks are as thick as thieves this deep into the city and a constant stream washed past my right shoulder. Suddenly they were coming from my left side as well. The curb was quickly running out and the shock additional lane hummed with traffic at the entrance to the bridge. Right where I wanted to get off the road and onto the pedestrian crossing. Oh dear. I pulled to stop tight against the last centimetres of the curbing, put my foot down and looked behind. The two lanes that I now sat precariously between showed no signs of breaking. There was nothing I could do except wait and hope that the trailer wasn't clipped. I dared not look at drivers faces to see their annoyance at this additional road hazard on their Friday exit from the city. "What's this joker up to, you see, this is why bikes shouldn't be allowed on the road." I imagined people's thoughts as they swerved around me. For five minutes I sat frozen in place, with each passing moment convincing me that I'd need police assistance to stem the traffic flow and allow me to walk across to safety. So close to Aunty Marg's, yet helplessly trapped, hemmed in by thousands of kilograms of moving metal and impatient end-of-week commuters. Then a gap, not a big one, but boldness mixed with rising anxiety propelled me the few metres to safety.
Today we went to Sophia's school fiesta. Sophia is Aunty Marg's modern family equivalent of a grandaughter. It was exhausting, and fun... but mainly exhausting. The coming week won't see much action. I have a few repairs for the bike, the presentation on Thursday, and a few movies to catch at the cinema. The Sydney presentation has been confirmed for the 8th October thanks to Rob Mercer and his mate, who have lined up a great venue down on the harbour at Neilson Park. Check out the New South Wales Sea Kayak Club website for all the details. Let your Sydney friends know about it too, grassroots promotion is how we get the word out.

On Burgers, Backpackers and Fighting Turkey

1-7 September 2008

Proserpine to Colosseum Creek, 650km (inc. 125km by caravan- cheers Ray)
"Are ya sure mate, ya won't feel like riding if ya have one of 'em, I'm tellin ya." Geoffrey explained from behind the roadhouse counter. With a black AC/DC t-shirt and matching shoulder length hair, parted like an afterthought, I decided that the name was all wrong. You can't step out of an 80's stadium rock concert and into an outback Queensland truck stop with a name like Geoffrey. In my head I called him Shane.

"Well in that case I reckon I'll just put the tent up down the road. Any suggestions (Shane- but only in my head)?" I was accentuating every syllable to match Geoffrey's laconic pace, and it wasn't to mock. Speaking slowly is relaxing, and what comes out of your mouth tends to be more thoughtful. Normally you can't get away with slow-speak because someone rides in roughshod with fast-speak. To have any meaningful input into a conversation you have to match the fast-speak or risk being obliterated into muteness. Go to Sydney and you'll see my point.
"Well, you can camp over the bridge I suppose, few hundred metres and you'll see a dam. Plenty of wood... actually, maybe don't light a fire... and if anyone says anything, tell 'em to bugger off, you've got the okay from the owners... that's us." And with that Geoffrey departed to prepare a Hawaiian burger with the lot. I settled on the lime green vinyl bench seat and slugged down half a litre of iced coffee, saving the remainder to wash down the burger. The drips that spread into dark blue spots on my grubby riding shirt mattered not at all.
Storm clouds brewed that night and it rained for the next two days towards Rockhampton. The bright yellow jacket kept me warm rather than dry. Water crept in from the clouds above, the tyres below, and the vehicles alongside. The soggy brim of the modified helmet sun visor (which I should patent) drooped down just enough so I didn't have to look at the mocking stares of passing motorists.
Further south three trucks and a car collided in the appalling conditions, killing three, including an expecting mother. The stark white crosses, often in pairs or clusters of three, all to regular, are a daily reminder of personal tragedy. A moment of indecision, sleepiness or just bad luck- but there's no taking it back at 100km/hour. Poor buggers.
Oded is an Israeli backpacker. His Australian travels began in Canberra, which I found odd, and have propelled him north for no particular reason. We met at Mt Larcom where he is a guest in the on-site van in return for doing odd jobs in the caravan park. As we set off for the shop together he remarked that his bones felt brittle. All I could suggest was to drink more milk. Conversations with lone backpackers often take the most unexpected turns. Oded mentioned that he wasn't a particularly religious Jew while we talked about his city of Jerusalem being a focus for Islam, Christianity and Judaism. "What's it like living amongst all that... that history." I struggled to comprehend even as I asked. "Hard to explain," replied Oded, "It's high on the hills, the evening breeze comes in to cool even the hottest day. The air, the atmosphere, it has a special feel to it, but it's hard to explain."
Everyone in Israel must do military service. Three years for young men and two for women. Oded is 22 and was recently discharged from the infantry. His time included a war with Lebanon where he saw two of his friends shot while patrolling on foot. "I fired my gun," he explained, "but I don't know if I hit anyone... I hope I didn't anyway." It's fair to say Oded is not the type of soldier that Sylvester Stallone studied in his much acclaimed portrayal of John Rambo. Which leads me to suspect that wars are probably nothing like I can imagine either. We did agree that the world is certainly and completely mad. Drive safely and don't go to war.

Deflated Dreams, Dopey Drivers, and Dastardly Double Throat Drought

25-31 August 2008
Cardwell to Proserpine, 428km
Travelling by bike requires a certain level of preparation. It might be 20 or 120 kilometres between towns up here, help might not be easy to find or flag down on a busy highway. I know that. Some years ago I pedalled, popped tyres, ground bearings, and just plain fell off right around Australia. The lessons learned back then should be enough to steer me safely south of Cairns... or maybe not.

The radio jiggled up and down in the basket, making reception change from static to radiant. I glanced in the rear view mirror to prepare for the passing chain of trucks and cars. They tend to travel in impatient packs, caught behind a doddering caravan or a stubborn tractor. If there's a bridge approaching, or a corresponding file of traffic from the other direction I might pull over to make more room. Not because I'm a polite rider, but caution on the 'Big Bad Bruce' is recommended. The radio discussion of why cows tend to face the same direction while chewing grass was mercifully drowned out by the throom...throom...throoom of engines and clattering trailers. As the last car zipped past with the shadow of an inquisitive passenger turning to catch a glimpse, a new noise and strange vibration travelled up my spine. Without looking down I knew it was a flat tyre and quickly pulled to a stop. The verge dropped steeply into a gutter so I walked 30 metres to a dirt driveway that disappeared over the train tracks and into the lightly forested paddock.

At the bike shop in Cairns I'd bought a spare tube, repair kit AND a bottle of green slime that you pump into the flat tube. It magically finds the hole and slimes it better. I pulled it out and read the instructions. Shove the extension tube over the valve and squeeze. Simple, but one problem. For the first time I realised my new bike has French style valves. These have a smaller diameter. Big problem. Not only did the extension tube not fit snugly over the valve, but my spare tube (with the American style valve) would not fit through the wheel rim either. No slime fix, and no spare tube fix. Oh well, it'd have to be the old fashioned repair patch. A large nail poking from the tyre guided me to the hole. On closer inspection, the nail had made lots of small punctures on the inside of the tube as well as the larger entry hole. The patch(es) didn't hold for long with that much air muscling out. With only 12 kms to Proserpine I decided to walk.

Earlier in the day I'd passed by Clement and Matthieu from France. They'd had a flat tyre also. Their racks are made from refashioned bread trays, wire and string. They've been travelling around Australia by van for a year. In Cairns they decided to make a dash for Brisbane, or maybe Sydney, by bike. The wind, we decided, was our shared curse. That, and rubber piercing roadside debris! They caught up and offered to help. No point, I insisted, and it wasn't far to walk anyway. But as they disappeared over the crest I decided it was actually a long way to push a bike and trailer. Although I couldn't get the valve of my spare tube through the wheel rim, I could partially inflate it, tuck the vlave on the inside, and lever the tyre back into place. So with just enough air in the wheel to avoid damaging the rims, I rolled slowly into Proserpine. That's where I am now.

The toy shop stocks a surprising amount of bike gear, and does have French style tubes. But not the right size. Ray is driving south tomorrow and has offered to take me as far as Mackay. The bike and trailer will fit in the caravan no problem. Yep, I'm joining the caravanning crowd, albeit briefly. The bike shops in Mackay will see me sorted out and ready to continue on Tuesday. In other news, I've been eating most varieties of Paddle Pops, and udderly enjoying flavoured milk, especially lime. The extreme thigh stiffness makes me walk like an uppity cowboy and no amount of stretching is helping. An email from the champions at Express Freight Management brought news that the Hope and Grace (kayak) is on the way to Brisbane. Plans for the Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne talks are unfolding well and there should be more news in the next few weeks. Teachers, the Mercury has produced a colour learning page from the expedition which you can view HERE, or go to Media Resources for the link.

The main theme of next years 8in8in8 expedition is Australian geography. The plan is to have a selection of lesson plans focussing on each state and territory- if you have any good ideas, let me know. Plotting the route and gathering information is under way in earnest. I'll definitely be well prepared... at least, I'll probably be better prepared... honestly, I'm rarely at all prepared.

Wobbling Ways, Trailer Trouble, and a Granny Basket

21-24 August 2008
Cairns to Cardwell, 184km
Remember the plan? Cairns to Melbourne by bike with a 5.5m kayak trailing behind. A plea to find a trailer that could do this unlikely job. Hours of distant, tropical dreams while I floated through the last delightful weeks of paddling around PNG. It was not only a way of getting home to Tasmania, but a gesture to reinforce the climate change theme behind the learning program. There are alternatives to our dependence on motorised transport, and by golly, it may well be tokenistic, but I'll do it! The east coast with the Hope and Grace, high, dry and rolling down the bitumen. There were doubters... and they were right... again! But it wasn't for lack of trying.

The box on the palette was stuffed with scrunched up paper. Carefully hidden inside were bits and pieces of bike and trailer. I loaded them into Tim's ute and left the mess at the truck depot. James and Ben had clearly put a lot of care into their construction and I treated it with due respect. For the next day and a half I screwed things together, added a mirror, flag, stand and lock. Standing back to admire the solid unit, the only thing left to do was give it a test run. Up the hill it rattled noisily, down the hill it wiggled worryingly from side to side. "I'll just have to take it easy." I told myself. Poddle along at about 10km/h and it should be okay. I'd been occupying the bottom floor of the Trehearn house for nearly a week, and was beginning to feel at home. But to make Brisbane by the 18th September for the talk, I'd have to hit the road.

The spacious bike lanes of Cairns main roads gave a false sense of security. Reality hit on the big, bad, and narrow Bruce Highway. At more than a metre wide and with little or no shoulder on the road, the trucks and caravans whizzed by in a steady stream. At the caravan park that night I met Brian, an Irish-Australian cyclist. Brian managed to have an strong opinion on everything while professing that nothing in the whole wide world mattered even one little bit. After one too many fizzy drinks he stumbled off into the dark not to be seen until morning. I set off reluctantly to Innisfail with the growing sense that I might die at any moment. The movement in the joints meant the bike would lurch around at the delayed whim of the trailer. The tail was wagging the dog! Of most concern were the grey nomads, many of whom do not seem to realise the true width of their 24 foot long caravans.

Passing the Innisfail bike shop I spotted a trailer in the window. A new plan was hatched. I went to the caravan park, rang Pozzebon Transport, rode out to their depot, unscrewed the trailer, packed it back on a palette, gave D.J $50, and farewelled it to Melbourne with a load of bananas. At this point I was feeling horribly guilty. I knew how much work James and Ben had put into it, and I'd only ridden it for two days! I've promised them that we'll have a kayak on it one day soon. The kayak trailer must realise it's true glory. But back to the bike shop for the new trailer I went. With huge relief I pedalled smoothly back to my tent and knew the rest of the ride would be much less stressful. Last night I stopped at Tully and met a German cyclist who is working on a banana farm to save up for his upcoming adventure. While I agree with the sentiment of his sign, I wonder if it might unnecessarily aggravate the 4WD loving folk of outback Australia. Today trundled down to Cardwell as I continue to punch out small days in the hope that I will achieve some degree of bottom conditioning. It's very sore!

Have been researching and crunching numbers on the upcoming 8in8in8 expedition. Wow, who would have thought the highest peaks would be so far apart! I really should've put more thought into it, but nevertheless I am VERY excited. Especially when I realised you can walk from Mt Bogong (Vic) to Mt Bimberi (ACT) via Mt Koscioscuo along the Alpine Walking Track. And before you email me about spelling Mt Kossiuscoo incorrectly, it's okay, I plan to spell it differently every time. It's too hard to remember. Well I'm off to the beach to peer across to the distant Hinchinbrook Island. Next report in a week from somewhere in central Queensland. Mt Kozzyosco.