Tour Journal page 4

18 March/04

The streets of Tweed Heads were quiet in the early morning sunshine. I was up and on the road at 8am, intent on riding the 35km to the Robina railway station before the droves of holiday-makers and headache-inducing motorists made the narrow service roads a navigational nightmare. The town of Robina was to be the place where I would catch the CityTrain to Brisbane.

In terms of layout, the Gold Coast is basically one long urban rash of development that has spread north and south of the oozing abscess that is Surfers Paradise. High-rise hotels and colonies of retirees elbow each other for the prized beachfront property. The motels are stuffed with bathing suit-wearing families, eager to start their day of beach frolic and racking up daddy’s Visa card.

I wound my way through the streets of Coolangatta and passed silently through the community of Kirra. The Pacific Hwy came into view as it merged to cut a swath through the community of Billinga. On the other side of a tall chain link fence, the rushing mass of vehicles rumbled by. Fortunately, this strip of highway only runs for 5km until the city of Tugun, where it splits in two; the Pacific Hwy swings inland and north-west on its way to Brisbane, and the Gold Coast highway continues north to Surfers Paradise. With the Pacific Hwy off limits to me as a cyclist, I was forced to stick with the Gold Coast Hwy.

On the plus side, I had a pretty decent view of the ocean as I rode along. Beach access was plentiful and the idea of taking one, last, refreshing dip in the surf was lip-bitingly tempting. With a full day still ahead, I passed on the swim and pressed on through the town of Currumbin. At 9am I stopped for a quick snack on the sand in the community of Palm Beach. Dripping seniors filed past, fresh from their morning swim. A few pails, shovels, and beach balls were starting to appear. The day was already heating up. I passed over Tallebudgera Creek and climbed up and over a ridge and into the town of Burleigh Heads.

Burleigh Heads was to be the last stop along the Gold Coast Hwy. From here I needed to ride west for 10km to the town of Robina.

I turned left off the highway onto Christine Avenue. I stopped to consult my maps. One map (the free one from the tourist booth woman) showed that Christine Ave ran a winding course through an area called Varsity Waters and ended at Robina station. The other map (the map I purchased from the irate servo clerk) showed Christine Ave as ending in a dead-end far before Robina station.

“Shit.” I muttered, “Bloody maps! I need directions from a professional. Somebody who knows the ins and outs of Robina. Somebody I can trust!”

Right in front of me was a small building painted a lovely burnt yellow and topped with a red tiled roof. I smiled to myself as I opened the front door and strolled in.

“Hello!” I said cheerfully.

“G’day. Uh, do you have an appointment sir?” the woman queried, looking me up and down from head to toe.

“Um, nope. I just need some help.” I replied.

The receptionist looked quite dumbfounded, maybe even a little scared.
“Uh, well, how can I help you?” she asked.

“I need some directions.” I said matter-of-factly, as I unfolded my maps.

“Sir”, she said as she raised one eyebrow, “you are aware this is a dentist’s office, aren’t you?”

Well, I didn’t get any x-rays taken or any cavities filled, or even a free toothbrush for that matter, but I did get some damn fine directions on how to get to Robina station.

Fifteen bloody roundabouts later I was sitting under the elevated CityTrain rail line at Robina station. En route I had passed by newly built homes laid out in geometric order with street names like Illinois Crescent and Pennsylvania Avenue. I couldn’t tell if I was homesick or just feeling sick to my stomach. Suburbs are strange, when you’re a stranger. Places look ugly when you’re alone. (For the record, that’s the first time that I’ve ever semi-quoted Jim Morrison. I promise not to do it again.)

I paid my $10 ticket and wheeled my bike onto the train. I found a seat at the rear of the last car and prepared myself for the 80km journey to Eagle Junction station, situated 7km north of Brisbane’s downtown. I had chosen the station because of its proximity to the Brisbane airport.

The train rattled along in a deafening din. I had no trouble discerning the fact that I was racing along in a big steel box on steel wheels on a steel track. I squirmed on the less-than-padded vinyl seats, thankful only for the blasting air conditioning.

The scene out the window was equally uninspiring. Backyards were littered with disused automobiles. The backsides of buildings were splattered with graffiti. The tired farms and rotting rural villages quickly changed to ugly urban sprawl. I gazed around the interior of the train. A bored, punky teenager sat staring at nothing in particular, her shellac black hair hung lifelessly over her flattering facial piercings. Beside me a man in a kilt was reading a fashion magazine. I wondered what Brisbane held in store for me.

The train rumbled through the downtown core, emerging out of the underground tunnels and into the northern suburbs. After disembarking at Eagle Junction, I slipped into a bakery for a treat or two and got directions to a nearby motel.

The motel was located in an area of Brisbane known as Clayfield. It wasn’t the nicest part of town, but it was close to the airport, which would make the commute to my departing flight a lot easier.

I humped the bike up the stairs to the second floor room and headed straight for the shower. Once cleansed and satiated, I drew the blinds, peeled back the bedsheets, and hunkered down for a two hour snooze.

At about 3pm, I packed up a pannier and cycled into the core.

“Nice shorts…”

I looked around to see where the comment came from.

Two female clerks were standing outside their shop smoking cigarettes. I wasn’t completely convinced that the comment had actually been directed at me. It had come to my ear with a ring of distaste; more of a put-down than a compliment.

I looked at them. They looked away.

“Yup.” I said to myself, “It was directed at me.” I looked behind me. There was no one else around. “Now, why would they make fun of my shorts? Surely they see some sexy cyclists cruising through this neighbourhood from time to time.”

I uttered a little “Hmphh.” and strolled away. I turned at the next side street and looked down at my shorts.

“Oh…my…god…!” The words tumbled onto the sidewalk. I rolled my eyes heavenward.

I had forgotten that my black spandex shorts had been worn down to a pantyhose-like sheerness over the course of the last four months. They were almost completely see-through! Every curve and crevice was evident. To save myself from an embarrassing scenario, I had taken to wearing a pair of swimming trunks over them when I wasn’t riding the bike. This time, however, the trunks were back at the motel room.

“Crikey! That explains their comment.” I said aloud.

Carefully positioning the bike between myself and any sideways glances directed my way, I roamed around Fortitude Valley, a lively area full of cafés, shops, restaurants, and nightclubs. Most of the stores were closing so I put off shopping until the next day.

In the gathering dusk, I stopped at a bike shop and picked up a cardboard bike box that I would need to use for the flight home. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I awkwardly secured the box to the bike with a bunch of bungee cords.

“You better ride fast, mate. There’s a big storm comin’ in off the ocean. It sounds like a vicious one.” said the owner of the bike shop as he locked the shop door.

The oversized box stuck out half a metre on either side of the bike, narrowly missing the cars whizzing by in the curb lane. After too many close calls, I took to the sidewalk, weaving around pedestrians and dodging telephone poles. I made it to the motel just as the first drops of rain started to fall. Minutes later the ensuing downpour pounded the pavement.

I cooked up some beans and macaroni and slipped into some journal writing. A song by an American rock band, the Goo Goo Dolls, played on the radio. I remembered seeing them in concert at a London, Ontario nightclub fourteen years previous. I was twenty-three years old at the time. I never would have guessed that fourteen years later I would be sitting in a Brisbane motel room contemplating the fact that I had just ridden a bicycle halfway around Australia. A lyric from one of their old songs came to mind:

“She said, ‘Hello. Where the hell you been?’
I said ‘I feel like I’ve been off to war, and I may never be the same again.’”

The Melted Helmet Tour had been a war; a war waged between dueling personalities. I had pitted the many parts of Rod against each other. And now I had returned from the battle bloodied, but unbowed. The rank and file was about to change. Who would go? And who would stay?

What roles had I assigned myself?

Had I been a warrior? If so, who, or what, did I fight against, and why? Had there been a victor? Did there need to be a victor?

Had I been a conqueror? If so, what had I conquered? Fear, perhaps?

Had I been an explorer? If so, what did I explore? Had I taken the time to look inside myself? Or had I been too occupied with the ever changing landscape surrounding me?

My retched psyche had been spread thin across the dirt and dust. But had I noticed it? Had I paid attention to it? Had I been aware that, as I rode along in utter solitude, I secretly craved the company of others, yet, at the same time, loathed passersby who posed innocent inquiries and bandied well wishes? Had I been aware of the whole web-site/documentary ego-caress that I was giving myself? Was I celebrity? Or was all that in my head? There were certainly times where I had acted like a celebrity. And there had been times when I sat in the audience, watching the manic movie spin almost out of control. One Rod dreams it up. The other Rod acts it out. The movie always grinds to a halt when they meet face to face. A mirror of truth is a hard thing to turn away from.

An excerpt from my journal:

"It feels as though someone else did the trip. Not me. Now the personality separation has occurred. I have resigned the role of performer. The performer exited stage left while I napped this afternoon. I have now relegated myself to documentarian and “planner-of-the-next-adventure”. Older, wiser, and a little more hollow, I move on, continuing the journey east, in the direction of my home."

Trip distance to date: 8394km

19, 20, 21 March/04

Brisbane is just another big Australian city; beautiful enough in its own right to be unique, yet it possesses all the nuances and annoyances that any big city has. You know what I mean.

Thursday’s big rainstorm had left a hazy humidity hanging over the city, but it wasn’t overbearing. The temperature hovered at a comfortable 25C. I spent time wandering the city centre checking out the architecture and shops. The streets were busy and I found myself merging with the crowds, content to travel by foot instead of bike. The nights were mild, making walking through the South Bank Parklands a wonderful thing.

Located across the Brisbane River, opposite the core, The Parklands had originally been crafted for the city’s Expo ’88, but have been extensively redeveloped over the years. Impressive, especially at night, was Pauls Breaka Beach. This swimming lagoon looked like it had been transplanted from a remote tropical island. Lush ferns and palm trees were bathed in a warm, ambient glow thanks to the strategically hidden lighting. Kids played on the sandy beach, while adults lounged in the shallows. It was hard to believe I was standing in the middle of a city of 1.6 million people.

A beautifully crafted metal arbour, woven with colourful flowers, climbing vines, and strings of tiny lights, formed an archway over a snaking brick walkway. I strolled along with my camera buried deep in my daypack, content to savour the moment. I was committing the scene to memory, not to Memory Stick.

I felt sad that I would soon be departing this beautiful country. There was so much more to see, but so little time; the traveller’s lament. Then, a smile crept over my face.

I had roamed the black bands of blistering bitumen a bedraggled and babbling bicyclist. I had been burned, bruised, bitten, bandaged, bunged-up, and blown-out. I had been besieged by barrages of beastly bugs, and bogged down by barrelfuls of blasted rain. Bloody hell! But, from “back of beyond” to the ‘burbs of Brisbane, I had been befriended and back-patted by the best blokes and sheilas that this big brown land had to boast.

As the plane left the tarmac, I made a little promise to myself to someday return. In the meantime, I would have to dream up a new adventure.

Total trip distance: 8430km

To everyone who made The Melted Helmet Tour possible, I impart a hearty “Cheers!”

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