Tour Journal page 4

14 March/04

I awoke to another sombre, uninspiring morning. I slid out of my perspiration-soaked sleeping bag. I peered through the tent mesh. Low grey clouds hung overhead. A light rain was falling.

“Oh, more rain. What a surprise.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. It had rained six out of the last eight days.

“Sometime tomorrow I’ll be in Byron Bay, warm and dry in a motel room, and all this blasted nastiness will be over.” I said aloud, reassuring myself that I would not have to endure this hell much longer. “187km to Cape Byron. 187km. 187km. If bloody nothing else goes wrong I’ll be finished this trip in two days.”

“If nothing else goes wrong…” I said to myself.

I shoveled the warm rolled oats into my mouth. I squeezed into the cold, wet spandex cycling clothes. I put on the wet Bug Shirt. I ventured outside.

With all the gear packed and ready to go, the last order of business was to dismantle the tent. Trapped between the tent body and the rain fly were hundreds of mosquitos. I had spent my angry moments of the morning squishing dozens of these little vampires between the mesh and the rain fly. Small things amuse small minds. Now it was payback time. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Off came the rain fly.

“There he is! GET HIM!!!” they cried in shrilling unison.

The vicious flying vermin swarmed me.

“Bug Shirt, do your thing.” I said, sticking out my chest valiantly as they attempted to drill their proboscises into my tightly woven cotton armour.

I grabbed the tent, lifted it to shake out a small amount of accumulated debris through the open tent door, and heard a sickening “SNAP!” I immediately knew I had broken another tent pole. One more night of camping between here and Cape Byron and I had to go and break another tent pole. The timing was impeccable. What a friggin’ way to start the day. On closer inspection, I found that the pole had actually broken in two places, which made repairing it that much more difficult.

A little voice whispered, “Deep breath, Rod. Deeeep breeaaattthhh.”

I repeated The Inner Mantra: “Must remain calm. Must not freak out. Must continue trip. Must ride bike. Must find chocolate.”

The swarm continued to whine.

“Okay, Rod. Get it together, man. Get your wet ass on that wet seat and get the hell outta here.” I gave myself an imagined push from behind.

I disassembled the rest of the poles and packed the tent into a pannier. I made a resolution to fix the tent pole down the road in Grafton. Removing the Bug Shirt, and giving a few final swats at the mosquitos, I got on the bike and sped away.

Thirty minutes later a slow leak developed in the rear tire.

“Great. Well, at least the rain has stopped.”

Way back at the beginning of the trip, after the total number of flat tires became more than I was able to count on one hand, I decided to include “slow leaks” in the same category as “flat tires”. In doing so, I would eliminate one category so I would not confuse the total number of “slow leaks” with the total number of “flat tires”. Confused? Read on…

Technically, a “slow leak” is different than a “flat tire”. But, consider the following: Australians seem to prefer the term “puncture” over “flat tire”. I figure that a “slow leak” implies that the tire has been “punctured.” And if it has been “punctured”, then, technically, it is a “flat tire”, or at least on its way to becoming one. Whether the tire is flat or partially flat, one thing remains clear: it has to be dealt with.

So, with that in mind, I got down to work on flat tire No. 22.

Grafton, on the banks of the Clarence River, rolled into view.

Four things were on the priority list for this place: 1) find a grocery store, 2) buy a new tent pole, 3) buy a new tire, and 4) buy two spare tubes.

Finding the grocery store was the easy part.

I phoned two bike shops. Both were closed.

“Closed?!” I thought to myself. “Oh yeah, right, it’s Sunday.”

I went to an outdoors store across from the market to look for tubes, tires, and poles.

“Nope, sorry we don’t have any of that stuff,” said the clerk, “and the places that might have them are closed today. It’s Sunday, mate.”

“Right…” was all I could muster up to respond. I walked out dejected.

Well, at least the rain had stopped.

The tubes and tires were going to have to wait. I just had to hope that they would hold out long enough to get me to Byron Bay, 170km to the north.

I sorted through the groceries and ate all the “comfort food” I could find: chocolate cookies, chocolate bars, and chocolate soy beverage. With the caffeine rush kicking in, I decided to tackle that broken tent pole. After some brainstorming I came up with a plan.

I found a vacant parking lot (adjacent to the outdoors store) and laid out the seven pole sections that made up the 2.5 metre long pole. It was the fourth pole section that had broken, right in the middle. I had to cut the shock cord (an elastic that runs through the center of the hollow aluminum poles and holds the poles together) after the first three poles. I tied a knot in the shock cord so it would not snap back through the poles. These three poles would remain linked by the shock cord. The other four pole sections would be loose. The broken pole was irreparable. It went to the trash. I had a matching pole that had cracked fiercely earlier in the trip. I was saving it as a backup in an emergency. In order to use it, I had to affix an aluminum repair sleeve over the cracked section of this backup pole. The purpose of the sleeve is similar to that of a cast for a broken arm. (My other aluminum sleeve was being used in one of the other tent pole lengths. The tent uses three poles; each consisting of seven, nine, and eleven pole sections.)

I stuck a piece of yellow duct tape on each of the seven pole sections. Then I took a blue ballpoint pen and wrote the tent pole section number on each piece of tape. This way I would not get these loose pole sections mixed up with other pole sections that I had in the pole bag.

The entire pole was now composed of five black poles, two gold poles, eight pieces of yellow duct tape, and a silver aluminum pole sleeve. I had to manually insert the four loose pole sections together, and then join them to the three that were shock-corded together. Putting them together was easy. The hard part was keeping them together. Imagine sliding this mish-mash of parts through the fabric sleeve on the tent body; the sleeve itself exhibiting gaping holes and tears from past pole breakages. It couldn’t be done without something coming undone, usually me. But somehow it worked. And I only needed it to work for a couple more nights.

(After a few days, the ink rubbed off the tape and it became hard to discern which pole went where. More deep breathing ensued.)

Eager to make up for lost time, I packed up the tent poles and groceries and hit the road.

The highway ran adjacent to the Cochrane River, which made for a flat, pleasant ride. This area marked the beginning of sugarcane plantations and Queensland-style houses. These wooden homes, typically topped with gabled tin roofs, are built on stilts to allow air circulation during the hot summers.

Progress was satisfactory. The scenery was lovely, the river lazy, and my thoughts content despite the humidity. The sun was hidden behind the overcast sky and the rain was holding off.

Then, from out of nowhere - POW!!! It was the all-too-familiar sound of a blowout. Air came violently rushing out of the rear tire. I veered off the road onto the gravel shoulder.

Flat tire No. 23. Progress was no longer satisfactory.

I stood flat-footed, legs akimbo, straddling the bike frame. I hung my head and muttered,
“When does it end? So close…and now this.”

I looked down at the spent tire, its smooth black skin pinched and flattened under the metal rim.

“Bloody hell!” I closed my eyes and cursed a few more times. “This poor friggin’ tire. Man, I only need this thing to stay together for ONE…MORE…DAY! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!”

That little voice whispered to me again. I took a long, deep breath and repeated The Flat Tire Mantra: “Must remain calm. Must not freak out. Must not think that passing motorists are laughing at me. Must utilize duct tape to its full potential. Must eat more chocolate.”

I stripped the panniers off the bike and flipped it over on its seat and handlebars. I examined the tire.

The “City Slicker” tire had been my be-all and end-all commuting and touring tire for years. Made by a Japanese company, Tioga, these knob-less workhorses are quiet on the road, good in wet weather, and based on past experiences, enduringly well wearing.
For some reason, on this particular trip, they did not wear too well.

Endless stretches of searing bitumen, baked to a melting point in the Australian heat, had worn a hole in the City Slicker’s rubber soul. Weight from excessive gear had caused immense stress on the tire. What was once a near-invisible defect was now a shredded gash as long as my middle finger; the finger I always use to measure defective bike parts. (Holding the erect digit about an inch away from the offending part usually gives an accurate measurement, as well as a sense of control over the situation.)

For weeks I had been keeping a close eye on the ever-widening rift, inspecting it as I would a bulbous pimple. Each day I probed and prodded it wondering when its collapse would come.

Somewhere in South Australia, when the gash was still young and puny, I had fashioned a patch using a rectangular-shaped piece of inner tube cut from a spare tube. I placed this piece on the Slicker’s inner wall, covering the gash, and used duct tape to hold it securely in place. I had been sure that the contraption would hold until Brisbane. (The same thing had happened to the other Slicker back on the Nullarbor Plain. That tire is now resting peacefully in the Ceduna landfill.)

As The Tour neared its end, everything’s skin was wearing thin. Time has a way of breaking everything down. Somehow, Time had managed to wear through a layer of outer tire, a layer of yellow duct tape, a layer of inner-tube-patch, and the inner tube itself! The road had found its way in. The inner tube had found its way out. The City Slicker’s days were severely limited. “Lookout landfill, here it comes!”
(For those of you wondering: No, I was not carrying a spare tire amongst my kit. I never do. Besides, that’s what duct tape is for, right?)
I started the trip with two tire patch kits. Each kit contained six patches. Out of those twelve patches, two remained. And after this patch job, I’d have one left.

I stripped away the old inner-tube-patch. I fashioned another and used the remaining duct tape to adhere it to the inner wall of the Slicker.

I smiled at my work and took a quick inventory: No duct tape, no spare tubes, one patch, and one City Slicker that looked like it had been through a knife fight and a trip to the hospital. It had to mean that the trip was almost over, right? Right…

Gone was the lush river delta. It had been replaced with soggy, forested lowlands. A feeling of claustrophobia came over me as the skeletal trees crept closer to the roadside. I peered up at a sickly white sky. It looked like it had seen a ghost. In the middle of this gloom sat the tiny settlement of New Italy.

The story goes that 50 families from the Veneto region of Northern Italy had been swindled by the Marquis de Rays into buying land and homes on a phantom island in the Southern Pacific. In 1880, following a disastrous voyage, they arrived at their “promised land”; the New Guinea island of New Ireland. There they spent five months battling hardship, sickness, and death before sailing to Sydney. The tattered survivors eventually settled here and the area became known as New Italy. A museum pays tribute to those original settlers, the present residents, and heaps of family and friends back home in Italy.

To come upon this place after riding for days in rain was a surreal thing. First off: its location. Attached to a rest stop, the museum seemed to take advantage of the fact that weary drivers, eager for a break from the dreariness of the day, might want to stop, stretch their legs, use the loo, and maybe check out some Italian history. It is quite a clever location for a tourist trap. I managed to show up at closing time. (Just my luck.) I thought it might be a good place to load up on water and possibly some junk food. I got neither. I thought that I might find a place to camp close by, but the surrounding land was all privately owned.

Following a brief self-guided tour of the premises (peering through hands cupped against the windows), and acknowledging the fact that this place was strictly a strange curio, I plodded back across the squishy turf, mounted my steed, and moved on.

Half an hour later I came to a vacant graveled truck turnaround. It seemed like a good place to set up camp. A gated driveway led to a small house at the rear of a wooded lot. The scene was bereft of human activity, save for the speeding rumble of the nearby highway. It wasn’t the prettiest of campsites, but it was flat and dry. The time was 6:30pm. Woodburn was 8km to the north and I was in need of some serious downtime.

If there were two million mosquitos at the previous night’s camp, then there were four million at this one!! Hands down, this place took The Melted Helmet Pest Prize for the most mosquito sightings while in a bush campsite. I made sure to stake off the tent, for fear that the whole kit might up and fly away during the night!

The moist, hot air hung motionless like a sodden blanket over the tent, smothering me under its dense weight. Having no desire to fire up the stove, I dined on a Ziploc bag full of pasta and rice leftovers from the previous night.

Plump, blood-filled mosquitos searched for exits from the tent’s interior. The hungry ones outside looked for a way in. I was the warm-blooded mammal messiah of their dreams. Their incessant whine had long ago reached a feverish pitch.

The interior of the tent was soaked in perspiration from my sweating body. Drops of moisture fell on my up-turned face. It was officially raining in my tent. I had created my own weather system! I began to sense that my tan was fading.

I teased myself with fantasies of air-conditioned motel rooms, dry bed sheets, and hot showers. I thought I felt my lower lip tremble.

I curled up in my saturated sleeping bag (the once fluffy goose down now resembled wet lettuce), and using new combinations of creative profanities, cursed myself to sleep.

Trip distance to date: 8167km

Pictures shown at right (top to bottom) include:

Blood Feast - Mosquitos Swarm the Tent, Near Woodburn, NSW
Duct Tape and Mosquitos, Near Woodburn, NSW
A Waking Nightmare, Near Woodburn, NSW

15 March/04 - Day 99

Clouds streaked the early morning sky. Light blue was in view, and even the sun peeked through. The day showed some promise. Summer wasn’t over just yet.

To balance out the delightfully burgeoning weather situation, I ventured outside to find the rear tire dead flat. Uh oh.

“I don’t need a repeat of yesterday, thank you very friggin’ much. C’mon. 24 FLATS?! That’s just bloody ridiculous!” I said aloud, speaking to whoever listens to those little outbursts of mine.

Working within a giant brown cloud of mosquitos, I glued the last remaining patch to the inner tube, gave the bike pump its usual two hundred life-giving strokes, saddled the steed, and began Day 99.

Minutes later, I entered the sleepy small-town of Woodburn. At the first petrol station I came to I went in and asked the clerk if there was a place in town that sold bike tires.

“You can find those things at the news agency.” she replied.

“The news agency?” I queried.
In Australia, a “news agency” is a store that sells office supplies, newspapers, magazines, and occasionally, they even sell bike tires.

I picked out a cheap tire, two inner tubes, and a patch kit.

Back at the servo I pitched the Wounded City Slicker and its patched-up inner tube partner, Ol’ Hobo Trousers, into an empty garbage dumpster. I fitted the new wheel, knowing that this new set-up would see me through to Brisbane. I laughed at the irony of it all: 70km from Cape Byron and there I was buying a new tire and tube just so I could ride to the finish line.

With the bike tire situation solved, I made the decision to make a final valiant push to the Cape. After days of rain and bike defects the thought of spending any more time on the road was enough to make me retch. It had been 99 days since leaving Steep Point in Western Australia. I was determined to not run that total into triple digits. More than anything, I needed a break. I had spent 99 days pedaling with only one day off. I was in desperate need of some downtime.

The road out of Woodburn was mostly flat, with a few rolling hills thrown in to keep things interesting. I passed through the small town of Broadwater and rode inland for 20km before swinging east, arriving back at the ocean at Ballina.

The road into Ballina ran the usual coastal-town gauntlet of used car lots and seaside motels. Standing out amongst the bore was the monstrously ludicrous “Big Prawn”, an 8 metre high red-orange replica of the aforementioned crustacean. Apparently it used to be a lot cooler when you could get inside the thing to look out through its eyes. The adjacent building houses Ballina’s tourist info centre. I ventured into the downtown area to fill up on water and chocolate. Nothing in Ballina seemed to hold my attention, so I continued north. My plan was to take the coastal route to Byron Bay via Lennox Head.

Following a steep climb out of Ballina on the appropriately named Hill Street, I was rewarded with a stunning view of the Richmond River mouth and the Pacific Ocean beaches to the south. At the Hwy 30 junction, a road sign signaled the end: “Byron Bay – 26km”. The finish line was almost in sight! I was closing in on the most easterly point on the continent. What a relief it was to see that sign! Finally, it seemed as though all the effort of the last 99 days had been worth it.

Although hilly for the first 10 km of this route, a fantastic view from atop Lennox Head made all the climbing worthwhile. The blue-green ocean swelled beneath me and white sandy beaches stretched north as far as I could see. For a long while I had the lookout all to myself. But alas, a dreaded Oz Experience tour bus full of young holiday-makers arrived on the scene, dampening the mood. How anyone can claim to have “experienced Australia” from the window seat of an air conditioned bus, punctuated with a series of 20 minute tourist stops, is beyond me. Then again, I guess that was their “Oz Experience”. Man, that’s just sad. I avoided the bus, as I had been doing for the past three months, and vacated the scene.

The road flattened out considerably. The sky was a nice mix of sun and clouds. The temperature hovered around 25C. The lush coastal rainforest was dotted with roadside cottages. These dwellings began to appear more frequently as I approached the town site of Byron Bay.

I bypassed the downtown area in favour of taking the most direct route to the Cape Byron lighthouse. The road switchbacked severely and I quickly realized that the ride was going to be a challenge right up to the very end. How fitting! My thighs burned as I cranked the pedals.

The Cape’s peninsular setting jutted out into the ocean with authority. The views commanded attention. Long sweeping beaches arced south. Bright green hang gliders soared high in the late afternoon sun. Surfers danced on the waves, while others carrying boards ventured out into the surf. Steep cliffs plummeted down to the blue saltwater below. Surrounded by lush green forest, Byron Bay lay glistening to the west, its beaches curiously absent of vacationing crowds.

The picturesque Cape Byron lighthouse, built in 1901, formed the backdrop as I stripped the panniers from the bike. A paved trail and a series of staircases led down to the actual “most easterly point”, so I decided to take only the bike and the cameras. I left the rest of the gear with the park workers at their headquarters next to the lighthouse.

The time had finally arrived! I wheeled the bike along and sported a huge smile. Gaily bounding down the staircases with the bike over my shoulder I was almost wetting myself with anticipation of seeing the “Most Easterly” sign. Then suddenly, right in front me, there it was!! Quite smaller than I had imagined, but authentic none the less, the sign read: “The most easterly point of the Australian Mainland”. I was standing on the edge of the continent. Where I had once faced west toward Madagascar, I now looked due east toward Chile. I had come half-circle, and I was a fuller man for having done so.

The cycling computer read 8043km; the distance from Steep Point, WA. A Finnish couple used my camera to take a few pictures. A woman from Brisbane was nice enough to film the events with my camcorder. Thank you anonymous people! (Miraculously, both the still camera and the camcorder had survived the tropical storm in Sydney as well as the rain and humidity of the past two weeks.)

Downtown Byron Bay was a hive of hippy bohemia. Drum-toting longhairs and sari-wrapped vegans littered the beachfront park. Yuppies, future yuppies, and yuppie-wannabes wandered the streets in search of something to spend their money on. The overflowing restaurant patios made me cringe. The twenty minutes that I spent in the busy Woolworths grocery store almost made me gag. I longed to be anywhere else. I longed for the bush campsites of Western Australia or the unpopulated expanse of the Nullarbor Plain. I did not go to Byron Bay to dance, discuss didgeridoos, or drink my face off. I went there to finish a journey. Too bad its ending was bittersweet.

A decision was made not to stay at a motel in Byron Bay. I would have to spend another night in the tent. In the dwindling daylight I made my way out of town. At one point I ventured down a dirt path branching off the south side of the road and came to a stop in a clearing surrounded by trees and swamp. I was immediately swarmed by mosquitos. I scrambled to turn the bike around and with arms and legs a-flailing, shot back onto the main road.

Squinting through the dusk, I finally found a nice little spot at the end of a farmer’s road, next to a pasture, 7km west of Byron Bay at the junction of the Pacific Highway. With a jubilant sense of relief at having accomplished a monumental goal, I effortlessly slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Trip distance to date: 8262km

Pictures shown at right (top to bottom) include:

Byron Bay Road Sign, Ballina, NSW
Cape Byron Headland Reserve Sign, Byron Bay, NSW
Tallow Beach, Byron Bay, NSW
Tallow Beach and Hang Glider, Byron Bay, NSW
Bike at Cape Byron, NSW
Rod at Cape Byron, NSW
Rod and Bike at Cape Byron, NSW
Cape Byron Lighthouse, NSW
Cape Byron Coastline, NSW
The Most Easterly Point on the Australian Mainland - Cape Byron, NSW
Trip Distance - Point To Point, Cape Byron, NSW

16 March/04

A look of disgust gripped my face as I gazed down at my feet. A severe case of athlete’s foot had eaten away the flesh from between my toes. The reddish, wrinkled soles were more sore than itchy. They hadn’t seen a bar of soap since Sydney, way back on the 6th of March. Days of riding in the rain, and the impossibility of drying them out, had taken its toll. I took a tube of anti-fungal cream out of my first-aid kit and squeezed a big glob onto each foot. I said a little prayer to the good angel of podiatry as I rubbed the ointment into the skin.

Equally foul smelling was my Gore-Tex cycling jacket. It too had started to grow fungus. A vile mixture of sweat, dirt, and suntan lotion had combined to create an unwashed, putrid, ammonia-like stench. I had to leave the jacket outside the tent the previous night because the toxic fumes were overpowering. I desperately needed to find some dry weather and a good washing machine.

From my strategically placed campsite I was able to jump straight onto the Pacific Hwy and head north. At the exit to the town Mullumbimby, I stopped at a petrol station to get snacks and directions. Long ago I had come to the conclusion that average petrol station clerks have not a clue on how to provide road condition information to a cyclist. Two-wheeler issues like time, distance, hills, and traffic do not enter into their vehicular realm of thought. With hesitation, I asked the clerk for her humble opinion on which route to take to Tweed Heads, assuming she was riding a bike. What I received was a generous helping of I-don’t-knows and I’m-not-sures. I paid for my chocolate and left none the wiser.

I had two options: 1) Take the coastal route from Moobal to Kingscliffe, or 2) Stay on the highway and press inland to Murwillumbah.

The previous day’s ride out of Ballina had convinced me that taking the coastal route, although it provided stunning views, ended up being one big, long, undulating bitumen rollercoaster ride. And when you’re powering the rollercoaster, terms like “big”, “long” and “undulating” are about as repugnant as a bad case of foot fungus. At this stage of the game I needed “easy”. I was looking for the easiest, most direct route to a hot shower and a dry bed.

I had been having good luck with the highway and its long sweeping gradients. Although a longer distance than the coastal route, I guessed that it would prove to be less of a challenge. Plus, it’s always more fun to head in the direction of a town you can’t pronounce. With the decision made, I headed off toward Murwillumbah.

The highway climbed steeply at times, and after tackling more than a fair share of “undulating”, I eventually arrived at the Murwillumbah exit. Having stocked my panniers with food the previous day in Byron Bay, I decided to bypass the small town of Murwillumbah. The road leveled out considerably as it wound its way through the Tweed River Valley. Green hills rose away from the highway in this area of sugarcane fields and banana plantations.

As the morning wore on, the clouds gave way to blazing sunshine. The mercury shot up past 30C. With the heat came a rise in the humidity. The good old sticky tropical weather was making a raging comeback. Feeling my skin burn, I found myself thankful for the rain and overcast skies of the previous week. When the sun shines here my friends, one is vividly aware of its intensity.

I careened down the highway, out of the hills and into the outlying suburbs of Tweed Heads. As I rounded the long curve at Banora Point, I could see the city of Tweed Heads below. In the distance, some 40km north as the crow flies, was the skyscraper skyline of Surfers Paradise. It looked incredibly out of place. I had been debating whether I might ride through Surfers on the way to Brisbane. What I saw from atop that hill confirmed that I would definitely not be riding to Surfers Paradise. If Byron Bay was the zoo, then Surfers Paradise was most likely the jungle.

I needed to find out if it was possible for me to cycle the remaining 115km on the highway into Brisbane. Cycling is banned on major highways, called motorways, entering and exiting the larger Australian cities. I had run into this dilemma in both Adelaide and Melbourne. The alternate cycling routes that had been set up to bypass these motorways ended up being full of arduous climbs and additional kilometres. I took the Tweed Heads exit and pulled into a petrol station. It was time to test the dimwit clerk theory again.

“Hi there. I was wondering if you might know whether cycling is permitted on the highway heading into Brisbane.” I said.

“Oh love, now why would you want to ride a pushie all the way to Brisbane? And on the highway??” came her questioned response.

Uh oh. This was not a good start.

“Um, well, I’m riding up from Byron Bay, and I’m flying out of Brisbane in a couple days, and I thought that I’d like to ride into Brisbane on the highway.” I left it at that. I figured that if I told her I had just ridden across the entire continent she might think I was completely mad.

“Byron Bay, eh? Hmmm. I see.” she stuttered. I could see she must have mistaken me for one of those pot-smoking hippies from down south. “Well love, the highway changes to a motorway at Tugun. After Tugun you can’t ride a pushie on it. Bicycles are absolutely prohibited. I remember reading it on the sign, love.”

I was stunned.

“Bloody hell,” I said to myself, “now she’s a wealth of information!!” Still, I had my doubts.
“You don’t believe me, do you love?” she asked, with a slight annoyance in her voice.

“Uh, well…” I reached for a road map of the area.

“That thing won’t tell ya what ya wanna know!” Now she was getting angry. I continued to look at the map. She turned to deal with a growing line of customers.

“I’m telling you the honest God truth here, love. Believe me!” she insisted.

“Yikes!” I thought to myself, “I think it’s time to leave.”

I calmly purchased a Brisbane city map, as well as one for the Gold Coast. I thanked her and hastily headed for the exit.

“Don’t try riding that highway, love! The police will find ya and wisk ya off to jail! I know!! I know they will!!! NO CYCLING ALLOWED! I saw it on the sign, love!!!” she cried behind me.

Safely away from the service station, I pondered the situation at hand.

“Geez, maybe she’s right. That would suck if I couldn’t ride into Brisbane.”

I wandered into the adjacent mall and stumbled upon a tourist info booth. They had free maps that were more detailed than the ones I had just purchased! I talked to the woman seated in the booth. She repeated the same information as the woman at the service station, minus the manic delivery. She also told me that a commuter train ran between the town of Robina, 35km north, and the Brisbane airport. She suggested that taking the train would be the “easiest and most direct route to Brisbane.” I liked those words, sort of.

Reluctantly, I reached the conclusion that I would not be riding into Brisbane. It was as if the decision had been made for me. I came to the realization that the trip was now winding down. The Tour was just about over. Sadly, I admitted defeat. I would not go to Brisbane under my own power. I would instead take the train, in vain.

I called my partner Sara in Vancouver and my parents in Chatham, Ontario to let them know that I had finally arrived at Cape Byron and that the trip was nearing its end. They were happy to hear from me. Joyous rounds of congratulations came cascading over the phone line. We talked for what seemed like hours. At 5pm I set out looking for a vacant motel room.

$60 later I was lying on a queen-sized bed with the air conditioner blasting on the coldest setting. Ahhh, luxury. Frigid air and a hot shower. I washed the rancid Gore-Tex coat under the pulsating water, scrubbing it with hand soap, and then hung it up to drip-dry. With gear uncaringly scattered around the room, and the wet tent stuffed under the writing table, I laid back on the bed and passed into a peaceful sleep. It was the first paid accommodation since leaving Perth on the 7th of December.

Trip distance to date: 8324km

17 March/04

“What’s your best price on a tent site for one night?”

I handed the bloke behind the counter $14 cash and he handed me a map of the caravan park. He pointed to an open space on the map.

“See that big field, mate? It’s all yours. Set up wherever you want.”

At 10am I found myself around the corner from the motel at Boyd’s Holiday Park, a bastion of bad taste for boring, budgeting holiday-makers everywhere. Earlier in the morning I had taken an inventory of my finances. Things were getting tight. I had enough money for three nights in a motel room in Brisbane, and maybe a little bit of spending money, but as for the time being, it was back to the tent.

The day was heating up quickly, which was good because it gave me a chance to dry out every piece of soggy gear I had. I even did a load of laundry! Unprecedented!

I was in a good position in terms of proximity to Brisbane. I didn’t have to rush anymore. That was a bloody relief! I had four days to kill before my plane left to Canada. I figured that a day of rest in Tweed Heads would do me good.

On the downside, I was camped in a caravan park. Sure, it had its merits. But there I was, hangin’ out with the “Old Farts in the Caravan Parks”.

An important element during the planning and execution of this trip was my desire to retain a sense of “wildness”. I wanted to create a remote, “expedition” feel to the trip. I wanted to tap into the imagined “wildness” of the country. To do this I needed to be self-supportive and (almost) devoid of everyday luxuries. I needed to be intuitive, creative, and innovative. Out on the road I had gone to any length to avoid paying for accommodation. I camped in the forest, in hidden inner-city nooks and crannies, on private property, behind bushes, and under bridges. I didn’t build fires and used no lights after dark. A lot of the time I was hiding, for fear of being discovered and booted back onto the road. I had to conceal myself as much as possible. It was stressful, but I usually tried to make a game of it. Spending more nights in motels and caravan parks would have made things much less stressful, but it also would’ve taken away from the “wildness” of the trip. I’m glad I did it the way I did.

I was now crossing over into a sterile land of white fluorescent lights and numbered parking stalls. Letting go of the “wildness” game was really tough. I guess I needed a break from the stress. I may have bowed to the great god of eco-tourism, but in my heart remained the wild spark of adventure.

I had witnessed a country fuelled by greed in pursuit of the almighty tourist dollar. The catchphrase is “eco-tourism”, but I took to calling it “eco-capitalism”; the exploitation of all things “natural”. I wanted no part of it, and I did just about anything to avoid playing into it. I didn’t rent scuba gear or a surfboard. I didn’t go on a “tree top walk” or stand around gazing at a big, red rock. None of those things interested me. I went where I wanted to when I wanted to. Unguided. Unsupported. Under my own power. I did it the way people used to do it. Back when things were simpler. Back before all the greedy whiteboys got their fingers into the cracker box. I longed for a simpler way of life; a freedom uninhibited by hucksters and shysters. As I rode along in my own dreamtime - watching, observing - it became apparent that this wide brown land is indeed ruled with a greedy white fist. I can’t say I was surprised. After all, I also come from a country with a very similar history of exploitation; a country who is also seemingly content to carry on its exploitive ways. Racism and exploitation run deep in the foundation of countries the world over. After scratching the dusty surface here in Australia, I was left feeling sad and soiled.

On a brighter note:

I stood tall on the rocks of Point Danger, an aptly named protuberance of rough coastline abruptly west of the Tweed River mouth in the city of Coolangatta. I had crossed over the border into Queensland, which is a pretty easy thing to do here. Tweed Heads and Coolangatta are twin cities, squished together and separated only by an imaginary border running down the main street.

I had come to Point Danger to deposit a small vial full of Indian Ocean water which I had carried all the way from Steep Point in Western Australia. I hoped not to inadvertently introduce some bacterial plague into the east coast ecosystem. Waves lapped at the black boulders. The skyscrapers of Surfers Paradise loomed like a giant bar graph rising out the ocean. Wakeboarders bobbed in the surging surf. I sported a kilometre-wide grin as I squatted beside the rising tide. With the camcorder running, I slowly poured the contents of the vial into the Pacific Ocean. I turned to the camera and said,

“Well, I feel good. I feel strong. I feel like goin’ on. But, uh, there’s nowhere else to go. Except to go home. It’s pretty tempting to stay, though. But, family and friends are calling, and I’ve finished what I came here to do. It’s a good feeling. A feeling of empowerment. A feeling of confidence. To set a goal, and to achieve it; that’s what this trip is all about. And that goal has been accomplished. The tide has come in. (Pause) Wooo-hooo!!!!”

Trip distance to date: 8344km

Pictures shown at right (top to bottom) include:

The Vial Is Emptied - Journey Completed, Point Danger, Coolangatta, Queensland
Shrouded Sun, Point Danger, Coolangatta, Queensland

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