"This is a phenomenal challenge that Ken has undertaken – full credit to him – and I wish him every success on the long road and over such a long period of time. He certainly is an inspiration and it should encourage everyone to get out there and undertake their own challenge. It is a great cause that Ken is supporting which makes it all the more worthwhile so good luck Ken and don’t stop pedalling."
James Cracknell, Double Olympic Gold medallist rower, athlete and adventurer
I’d replied to the e-mail. Unable to resist inserting "Obeying zee orders" into the subject line. Well, so far at least, the Germans had been a regular feature of my travels. Hadn’t seen any for a little admittedly. But there’d been some suspicious looking beach towels around Surfers Paradise.
Emma, my trusty steed, and I aren’t exactly in anyone’s Frequent Flyer programme. But we do rely on my parents for advice on the best airline deals. Mum and Dad now experts in excess baggage and the byzantine rules of putting a bicycle on a plane. They do the research. I just make the booking. And cough up.
Latest effort my flights to and from New Zealand. Alas, without my bicycle. Far too expensive. My steed obliged to spend some time with friends in Australia. Few weeks there before a return to the road and the run down to Melbourne. Following my parents recommendation to the letter. As always.
Of course, there have been moments. The hop across the Caspian Sea. A small Lufthansa subsidiary my Dad said. Not quite. An old Russian Tupulov. Probably a cast off from Aeroflot. But it worked. Got me to Kazakhstan. And gave me a new-found interest in metallurgy. Metal fatigue and failure mechanics. Of rivets.
But never any hesitation to follow their considered advice. For an adult I may be, the odd grey hair – tell myself people pay good money for such mature highlights – but my relationship with my Mum and Dad is hugely important to me. Something this venture has really brought home to me.
Their opinion, their counsel, matters. Always has. True, as a teenager, I might have been a bit reluctant to follow their advice. Just once or twice. The odd moment when the only angelic thing in the house came in a packet. Add milk, whisk and serve.
Heritage Village from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken makes a brief stop at a reconstructed heritage village…
Mount Larcom from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his night’s stop at Mount Larcom. At the end of a swift day’s riding out of Rockingham. Unrelenting headwinds giving way to a cooling breeze. A gentle, steady downhill gradient much of the way.
Rockingham. Last town before finally parting company with the tropics. Tropic of Capricorn a few miles to the south. Close now on one third of my way along Australia’s east coast. But still a long way to go to Melbourne.
The tropics had been a challenge, doubly so in the wet season. Exhausting humidity. Cyclone Yasi. Flooded roads. Plethora of unfamiliar fauna. Crocodiles. Suicidal wallabies. I’d joked it was a laugh a minute. But secretly I was pleased. Mastered the environment. Sad to leave.
In truth, there’d been a marked improvement in the weather over the last few hundred miles. South of Mackay the rainfall had tapered off. You still got wet. But not as often. Stifling humidity replaced by headwinds coming up from the south. Continuing to cool. Pleasant. Australian autumn. Bit like an English summer.
Splash of mediocrity from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his stop at a less than inspiring van park in Rockingham, central Queensland. Never a good sign when the facilities, and the entrance gate, require a key or combination. And value for money usually inversely proportional to the number of "Do not" signs. Of which there were quite a few.
Face for radio from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken encounters a green tree frog. Quite harmless. One or two in Queensland apparently.
Camping at the Caves from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken describes his pitch at Capricorn Caves, a little north of Rockingham, central Queensland.
Guessed they weren’t German. Most firm on this point. Swiss. Curiosity aroused. Did they still all have nuclear fallout shelters? Kept large arsenals of weapons in their homes? Ate Toblerone?
But instead enquired only after their language. All of them. Was it true that, depending on where you lived, you spoke a different language? Was there a single, unifying official one?
There were four languages, Simon and Tania explained. Swiss-German, French, Italian, and another dialect – something I didn’t quite understand. But too embarrassed to probe further. Most spoke just one. Choice depended on where you lived. You could see why the Germans stayed away.
Don’t exactly expect maps in tourist brochures to be to scale. Just a small modicum of accuracy. Proportionate. But the one I’d picked up for a van park north of Rockhampton? Positively logarithmic. Showed a pub. Local school. Just off the highway. The site pretty well adjacent. Actually a couple of miles further on. Steep climbs. Arriving at dusk. But worth the effort. Peaceful. Pitch amongst the trees. Just two fellow campers. Couple of wallabies. Numerous green tree frogs.
