Tears welled up in my eyes as I sat on the promenade bench gazing out towards the sea, seagulls waiting expectantly. It could have been home.
We were like kids in a candy store picking out lunch as old favorites competed for our attention – coleslaw, hummus, fresh rolls, all there ready and waiting.
Our fabulous warm showers host, Nick, eased us back into civilization with his bachelor pad where his no clutter policy didn’t extend to the workshop.
Following on from bike servicing, back servicing and a fantastic Barrier Reef dive trip we finally made a move where the sunshine state once again propelled us back home with three days of grey skies and drizzle. Our must see list dwindled: tree kangaroos that come out in the sunshine, cassowaries in the car park “just” 4 km away down a now mud track and platypus where we arrived at the camping book-in point four minutes too late. Rules is rules, I just apply them was the retort from the proprietor who showed no compassionate interpretation of them on this dismal day. Even the omnipresent kangaroos were nowhere to be seen. But the trail of unfortunate road kill victims enticed a splendid assortment of birds of prey down to the bitumen as we pedalled our way along. Low density woodland and grass scrub providing grazing for beef cattle and a few horses too.
Grassy verges need a ‘keep off’ warning sign as we learnt the hard way. A 12 metre shortcut across a grassy verge resulted in 20 min removing thorns from my tyres together with the rather predictable two slow punctures I fixed later. Down the road we became aware of another local hazard. Thankfully it is our helmets that testify to the magpies’ dive bombing habits. It also explains a local fashion of alien looking bike helmets with tie-wraps poking out of the top.
Having spent several days cycling through the Atherton Tablelands we headed back down to the coastal road. Not so remote as we cycle down south, we hope, but towns and roadhouses are still few and far between. As you’d expect the major highway is generally flatter but the traffic has increased considerably. You get used to the traffic, one blog article states.
At one campsite Gid came back from the shower with a spring in his step to declare that John, a grey nomad from a couple of vans down the park, had offered to show us on the map where we could get onto smaller roads by the coast. We tried in vain to find the place starting with Bene… something on our Queensland map. John joined us a little later spreading his ancient torn maps on the table where his accumulated notes told of adventures past. There he said, pointing to a town on the map just above Sydney. That’s the town; there’s the road. That’s good too, he enthused moving his finger down a bit. A little hilly though, helpfully writing hilly on the map. He added a few more notes as he continued down the coast explains the features as he went. Very kindly, he left his maps with us but we couldn’t help giggling that our hoped for escape from the main highways was six or seven weeks away and in a different state.
Wind lifted the shirts off our backs as we sailed past the Whitsunday Islands, pedal pushing all the way. A stab of regret shot through me as I visualized the tall ship, Solway Lass, that had been highly recommended as the perfect way to cruise between the National Park islands. Reality struck home. Firstly, it was stunningly expensive for budget conscious cyclists. Secondly, we’d only just got going and were very aware of time constraints. Thirdly, should we need another reason, I’d been extremely nauseous on our one day reef trip despite having taken sea sick pills.
Hotels with the occasional 3* luxury are a thing of the past. Now we’re scouting the electronic devices for camp sites, free if possible, with the latest ‘3* luxury’ being paid for sites with a shower. Aged backs grumble at our crawl-in tent. Ground level cooking, eating and packing all take their toll at the end of a day in the saddle. Campsite camaraderie, where spare food and water are readily offered and simple exchanges of a few words, are now deeper conversations. Another factor eating away at our time constraints as the grey nomads are only too happy to wile away a bit of time and keen to share adventures.
We’ve taken a while to get our heads round distances and the endless kilometers of nothing. Towns sprawl out with scrub land between single storey homes, dead-end roads lead out back, well worn wooden buildings and old Queenslander homes adding a touch of history along the way.
It’s around 3,700km from Cairns to Melbourne, by the coastal route. Let’s hope we don’t find it too tiring…