Halfway Creek. Midway between Grafton and the northern New South Wales coast. Closed. The expected cafe shut. Lease available. Grounds now a rose garden. Fortunately a servo a few kilometres further on. Brief coffee. Then onwards before losing the light. Days getting shorter. Need to stop around four. Finding a site just off the Pacific Highway a little north of Woolgoolga. Greeted by Debbie. And a towel. Flannel. Shampoo. Conditioner. Bar of soap.
Different breeds. The long-haul touring cyclist. The road rider. Former often alone. But rarely solitary. Invariably relying on their sociability. Their ability to get on with those they encounter as essential a skill as fixing a puncture. Always stopping to greet fellow brethren. No matter where. Or when.
Contrast the typical road rider. Head down. Focused. At best a brief nod of acknowledgement as you pass in the other direction. Sometimes found in packs – pelletons. Statistics often more important than enjoying the scenery.
A niche popular with MAMIL’s – Middle Aged Men in Lycra. Spending huge sums to shave a few grammes off the weight of their bikes. When a few less pies might be the cheaper option. And finding drafting – that’s tail-gating another rider – irresistible. Risking serious injury if it all goes wrong.
Of course, there are exceptions. Those who ride sensibly on the roads. Or enjoy both road and touring disciplines. Niall. Paul. Quite a few others. But that still leaves a lot who do fit the stereotype. Right, time to pop on the shorts. Lycra. Says Ken. Aged forty something.
Grafton bound from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken takes a break from the Pacific Highway. Choosing to catch a small ferry to Lawrence. And then head for the town of Grafton along quieter roads. In time for a rancid cheese sandwich…
"Recreational activity" – even in one of the most regulated countries I’ve ever encountered – nothing ever left to common sense chance – this sign wins the prize for the greatest glimpse of the obvious. Or biggest cop-out. Anything from tiddly-winks to naked skydiving then.
I’d ended up in the small town of Maclean almost by accident. Quite literally. Pulling off the Pacific Highway south to report an instance of dangerous driving to the local New South Wales Police. Formalities complete, I’d needed a strong coffee. Small cafe on the main street. Telegraph poles along either side decorated with different tartans. Waitress Kylie explaining the place had a strong Scottish heritage. Large influx of immigrants from the Highlands.
His English name was Jason. Recently graduated in Hobart, Tasmania. Cycling home to Shanghai. I’d met him by chance in the small town of Maclean. His laden bicycle catching my eye as I’d wandered along the main street.
We chatted for a while in the quickly fading evening light. Jason was heading north. But presently searching for somewhere affordable to stop for the night. I explained that, unusually, the local caravan park didn’t permit tents. No room. Just a few reasonably priced units. I’d one. Could he share it? Alas, no, just one bed, I said apologetically. Besides, we’d only just met. And I knew there were other options. Had this not been the case I’d probably have offered him the sofa. He said he’d try a small hotel nearby.
A brief exchange of hints and tips for our respective roads ahead before parting company. Suggesting he visit the information centre in Ballina a day or two off. Ask for Katie. She’d found me a decent site for the night. And had been curious as to how I’d crossed Brisbane. Without sneaking onto the motorway. Or committing other misdemeanours. Often asked by other passing riders. So I’d left details of my route through the city. The V1 cycle route. Motorway service roads. The Logan Road.
Some of the many tartans adorning telegraph poles in Maclean, northern New South Wales. Bit of a Scottish heritage methinks. I’d visited almost by accident. Pulling off the highway. To pop into the local Police Station. But that’s quite another story…
Seems I might have being causing a bit of confusion. Especially if you’re followers of Facebook. Or regular viewers of the Gallery. Where exactly is Ken? I sometimes wonder myself. So, a quick clarification.
Having reached Sydney a few weeks ago, made an all too brief foray to New Zealand. Visiting friends. Back to Australia a couple of days ago. Eventually. Bit of a story in itself. Return to the road on Tuesday. Bound for Melbourne. The last leg of my third continent.
I generally run a few weeks ahead of the blog. So, journey into Sydney yet to unfold. Whilst I busy myself writing up my notes from a fantastic time in New Zealand. In the meantime, the photos are already in the Gallery.
Years of cycling commuting into central London. Ridden half way around the world. Seen some terrible driving. Double overtaking in Georgia. Chaos in China. But a first in Australia. A truck driver aiming for me. Deliberate act. Clear road. Few hundred metres behind me on the horn. Continuous. Heading straight for me. Be under no illusion. But for rapid avoiding action he’d have hit me. One day he will kill someone. Not himself. Regrettably.
Plain stupidity. Lack of anticipation. Poor judgement. Features often exercised by other road users. Including a few cyclists. But usually not truck drivers. Tolerable. For they lack intent to harm others. But not in this instance.
And no illusions as to the seriousness of the matter. Suspecting the law here is similar to that in the UK. Someone dying as a result of an intent to commit grievous bodily harm – really serious harm – is called murder. Good pub quiz question. Only reason charge normally brought is one of causing death by dangerous driving is a jury’s traditional reluctance to convict for murder in the context of motoring.
So. You’ll understand I’d want to pursue all lawful means to bring the offender to justice. In this instance, helped by some roadworks a few hundred metres ahead. Forcing the driver to stop. Allowing me to get his vehicle registration number. And I made sure he saw me note it down. Wanting him to know I’m on his case. As were the Police a short time later.
[With especial thanks to New South Wales and Queensland State Police for their assistance in bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion]
New South Wales. Cane toads on the wane. No sign of crocodiles. But not out of the woods. Funnel web spider territory. Deadly bite. Ground dweller. Just like yours truly.
Wondering what one actually looks like? Sorry. Absolutely no idea. Instead treating anything with eight legs as hostile. Tables excepted. After all, how sure would you be to dismiss a spider as harmless? In the confines of your tent? In the pale glow of a head torch? I’ll send flowers.
[And the spider in the photo? Like I said, no idea…]
