Harry was the inventive type. Now in his eighties, he’d bolted a small electric motor to his bicycle to drive the chain. Couple of meaty batteries and he was away. And a keen exponent of mirrors for riding on the Bruce Highway. Not so much to allow you to wave to those who’d given you some road room. Rather, to spot those that hadn’t. Had already encountered a few. Quickly sold on the idea.
I’d reached Ayr late the previous evening. Long-haul south on the highway. Smaller than its Scottish namesake. Campsite on the outskirts of town. Pretty much the run of the place. Plumping for slab thirteen. Lucky choice. Directly opposite the kitchen and washrooms. Not quite en suite. But close enough.
Ian had wandered over as I was striking camp. He’d ridden some way south himself before being forced – quite literally – off the road by a truck. Shared some hints and tips for days ahead. Places to stop. Watering holes. Campsites. Welcome stuff. And he’d introduced me to fellow resident Harry.
Tags: Ayr, Queensland
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