Northern lass from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Few close shaves with the traffic on the Bruce Highway south towards Sydney. The odd truck. But mostly long distance coach drivers. I’ll be subtle. Think dogs. The US of A. Hence a few modifications for riding my trusty steed. A good northern lass. Which I can say. As I hail from Lancashire.
Good ideas from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken shares a couple of good ideas for those venturing into tropical Queensland. Especially in the wet season. Get the impression he’s very fond of his free-standing tent…
Up the Gumlu from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Continuing south along the Bruce Highway, Ken reaches the very small settlement of Gumlu. With a campsite that had seen better days. Or at least the facilities had. Still worked mind. And, to be fair, there were some redeeming features. It was cheap. Very cheap. For Australia. Just eight bucks. About five pounds. For a pitch under an awning. On a concrete slab. Seemingly little details worth their weight in gold in the wet season.
"Crotch pot cooking" was, I think, the expression used by Robin Williams in the film "Good Morning Vietnam". No khaki. Just cycling shorts. Black Lycra. And I mean ’just’. Going "Commando" to fend off fungal skin infections. Toyed with ditching my underwear altogether. But decided I might be glad of it in Alaska. Besides, this expedition’s not exactly a night out in Newcastle…
Truth is, in the wet season in the tropics everything flourishes. Mould. Council workers pressure washing the pavements. Householders regularly obliged to spring clean their homes. Damp. Almost tacky to the touch. And, for my part, trying to keep infections at bay. Nothing that my First Aid kit can’t contend with. So far at least.
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.
Ok. Not actual racing. And it was dark. So no footage I’m afraid. Just a quarter of a tonne of two adults, two young boys. And a chariot [on the left in the photo below]. Towed by yours truly on a tricycle. Up hill. Quite slowly.
Still wedded to the traditional touring bicycle – panniers rather towing a trailer – of course. But I’d found myself being rather impressed by Kent’s collection of recumbent cycles. His being the tricycle variety. Comfortable. Surprisingly agile. Nippy. Beautifully engineered. But, being so low to the ground, probably best suited to sealed roads. Quieter ones at that.
Seemed I’d stumbled over something of recumbent community. Introduced to Charles, a short ride a way. Inventive type. English. Offered me tea. Built his own machines. For himself and others. Introducing some novel features of he’d conceived himself. When not making telescopes. Inquisitive mind. Almost child-like curiosity. But with practicalities of experience.
School run in the morning. With Fon and young boys Sharif and Maurice. The day spent with Dad Kent. Later lessons at the local pool. Then off with the whole family for ice creams. My treat for hosting me. Putting me up. Or putting up with me. Always get confused with that one. First stay with an Aussie family.
Continuing my journey south towards Sydney and beyond, I’d reached Townsville late the previous evening. Struggling in the excessive humidity. Perils of sodden ground and a sunny day. Picking up the pace as dusk approached. Still some twenty miles to cover. But content in the knowledge I’d arranged to stay with Kent and his family. No need to hunt down a campsite. Never fun in the dark.
I’d thought Townsville an improbably dull sounding place. As unoriginal as it could get. Only to discover it was named after one Captain Robert Towns. Found a small plaque. Garrison town. Not that you’d guess. Very ordered. Pleasant. The largest place I’d encountered so far in Australia.
Driver Reviver from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Continuing the push south along the Bruce Highway towards Sydney, Ken pulls into a "Driver Reviver" stop. Seeking shade. And a chance to cool down. Sunny day. Saturated ground. Sky high humidity.
Claire was very clear on this point. They weren’t backpackers. Found myself in whole-hearted agreement. Proper long-haul cyclists. Circumnavigating Australia. The first serious riders I’d encountered. Well equipped, pulling their kit in trailers, they’d started from Sydney. Riding anti-clockwise.
Chance encounter on the road. Chatting for twenty minutes or so before the oppressive heat forced us to part company. In search of even the lightest of airs.
Found myself seriously struggling. Bright sunny day. Sodden ground. Air quickly saturated. Tough. Draining. Struggling to keep the body cool. Perspiration beading rather than evaporating. Compounded by, foolishly, skimping a bit on breakfast.
Parting company with fellow long-haul cyclists Claire and Wayne a little earlier, I’d soon begun to fade. Spirits lifted a little by a sign. Eighteen kilometres to the "Frosty Mango". And respite. Nothing on the road south before then.
Another sign at five kilometres. I’d secretly hoped it said turn right five hundred metres. But it didn’t. That was later. Pressed on. Hard work. Brief rest stops becoming more frequent. Less brief.
Finally the "Frosty Mango". Smart cafe. Too smart. Bit of a tourist trap. Ice cold mango smoothies. Divine. And cheese toasties. Restoration. At a price. I wept. And not tears of joy.
