Adventures by Human Power Surfers Paradise to Byron Bay
Just the ring of the town’s name is enough to tell us that this place is not going to be quite like any other in Australia. “Surfer’s” rears it’s rectangular skyrise horizon high into the sky, and even from quite a distance we can discern the modern glass steel and concrete monstrosities that go to make up Australia’s most densely inhabited tourist esplanade. All planning constraints have literally gone up the wall here and as we ride towards the town centre the urban jungle envelops us. It’s not really clear whether this is a disastrous nineteen sixties experiment in tower block housing, or whether it’s a prosperous tourist haven. A beautiful wide open beach of golden sand stretches as far as the eye can see, and the misty spray form the breaking surf hangs in the air, giving a the scene a dreamy wash. The sun however at this, usually the most pleasant hour of the evening is nowhere to be seen. Here, at any time after three, the sun slides in behind the towering hotel complexes, and as a result the whole beach is in the shade. With the current scares about UV damage to the skin, of course this could be considered quite a benefit to the beach bound tourists. Please let’s hope that this urban planning disaster doesn’t spread to include the rest of the East Coast.
On our way out we ride just over twenty kilometres through built up beachfront development to reach Coolongatta, where we pause for a drink. In the Life Saving Club, the woman in the café tells us about her view and how she has seen the skyline change over the last thirty years. From here we have a perfect perspective on the Surfer’s Manhattan silhouette. “Back then there were only a couple, and now look at it…..”, “…..at least it’s only there though”. She confirms our prayers, that this is a confined area that is not intended to be repeated.
Indeed, the coastline changes dramatically as we head down through Tweed Heads and on towards Byron. Few settlements disturb the natural sand dunes and rolling headlands. We have wide open views here. The Pacific Highway finally allows us to check out the Pacific in all her glory. For the first time since crossing the Timor Sea, we have a wide open Ocean vista. The horizon gently curves down at the edges where the sky meets the sea. We ride on through beautiful countryside. The landscape has changed almost unnoticeably as we have travelled down the Eastern Seaboard. From tropical outback and rainforest we now find ourselves in cooler climes where evenings are pleasant and the land is carpetted with productive pastures grazed by distantly familiar fresian cows. Fences divide fields, trees are scattered liberally and the scene is vaguely like a place we used to call home. It won’t be too long now until we shall find ourselves looking upon similar scenes back in the English countryside.
Mid afternoon and we hit a stretch of rough pitted roads. We jangle up and down and various parts of the bikes rattle around. Just before rejoining the main road we bump up onto a narrow wooden bridge over a creek. Rich Scrivs rolls across, and then drops down into a pothole on the farside. Before I can really understand what is happening I’ve jammed on my brakes and am watching a horrible scene in slow motion as a nasty bang and metallic shearing noise tell me that all is not well. Rich’s front wheel has plunged below his bicycle and the rear end is rising up in a catapult motion. And then suddenly in fast forward Rich has been thrown through the air and landed in a crumpled heap of bicycle and person in a dusty mess of gravel. Stunned, we’re all frozen for a moment before we can help him to the roadside. “Yeah, it doesn’t hurt too much…..I’ll be fine…..how’s the bike?”. The bike’s front rack in truth is a write off. Spinning the front wheel reveals that gladly it’s not too badly buckled, and will be rideable. Over the next few minutes however, looking at Rich bending double and grasping his elbow in pain it becomes clear that it’s unlikely that he will be able to ride on. His face has taken on a nsty shade of green in the aftermath of the shock and we decide that we had better get him packed off to the doctors. Within just a couple of minutes a friendly Australian face has stopped and confirmed that he too is heading for Byron. We wish Rich well and arrange to see him later.
At the hospital we find Rich still being attended to by a Doctor. The X-Ray slides have just come back and confirmed worst. Rich has a compound facture of his Tibia and the espected time of recovery is going to be at least two weeks. That’s more than the length of time that we have to reach Sydney. Rich’s cycling is over. We all feel very sad, but also very stupid. Rich has succumbed to exactly the same failure that had put Tim out of action for six weeks a few months earlier back in China. How could we really have been so stupid? As the dust settles it becomes clear that Rich is gutted at not being able to finish the ride.
Thankfully we have just the comic antidote to ease Rich’s pain as we make for our evening’s accommodation. We have had a recommendation for Backpacker accommodation in Byron by the name of ‘The Arts Factory’. Sounds a little unusual we think as we head down a backstreet into the residential outskirts. A handpainted sign guides us in, as we twist and turn through shaded lanes. And then there it is in front of us - ‘The Arts Factory’. A crumbling barn of corrugated iron and rough wooden beams smattered with handpainted multicoloured daisies, antiwar symbols and allusions to free living and promotion of Cannabis as a legalised recreational pursuit. “Hey Brother, yeah….right….cycling from the UK….whoah that’s like …….so cooool”, “Yeah brother you’ll be sleeping in the Bus, your brother will be in the Wreck and the other two will be in the Tee-Pee”. I feel like asking if I’m actually in the right place. I mean, I was sure we were looking for a place to sleep for the night. I wasn’t expecting a nineteen-sixties Hippy Museum! “Right…well… you’ll have to put down a fifteen dollar key deposit, and that will just be fifty two dollars MAN!”. Just fifty two dollars man? To kip in a bus? What on earth is going on here. My head is spinning and I’m not sure whether I should be laughing out loud and asking someone to come out and stop filming. This beggars belief! I really think I have been framed. We wander over through the candlelight vigil where scores of longhaired spiritually connected and doubtless vegetarian and non-polluting backpackers are sitting on logs, smoking roll up cigarettes (well, I think they’re probably cigarettes). My new ‘Brother’ (funny – after twenty eight years I was sure I only had one of those!) unlocks the chain and padlock and pushes back the doors on the ‘Love Bus’. “Here you are – you’ll have to get a picture of this in the morning….we’re neighbours – I sleep on the top deck man! It’s cool isn’t it?” I nod in wonderment at the purple and green paintwork and the beds along the inwards facing passenger seats. Pointing towards the where the drivers seat used to be he suggests that I can keep my bags just beneath the big round steering wheel. I just can’t begin to wonder what Dean is going to say when she sees this amazing spectacle. After scattering my stuff around I close up the doors and remember to turn the light off. Now where the hell is the light switch? I try everything that resembles a switch ( everything on the dashboard, the ‘please let me off at the next stop’ bell) and I even try turning the steering wheel. You never know.
Next door life in the high pitched Indian teepee is not much better. Mosquitoes buzz around in and out of the flapping curtain doors, and Tim is already ready to tell the next person who calls him ‘brother’ exactly what he thinks of him. Outside the talent show is just beginning and one of the camp leaders is just giving a run down on tomorrow’s events. “Yeah guys, you really must come down to our very own ‘Didge Workshop’ to make and play your very own instrument. And of course don’t forget about starting your day with an hour of Yoga”. As the first guitar strumming and slaughtering of a Bob Dylan classic begins we head out into the night – chattering about quite where we have landed. The strangest experiences and most memorable ones always seem to arrive unexpectedly. The Art’s Factory, although we can’t quite figure it out is certainly a place that we shan’t forget in a long time!
The beach at Byron Bay is a beautiful golden splash of colour on a bright blue canvas. The white crested waves crash in, bringing the screaming and laughing surfers and boogie boarders into the shallows. The town itself is certainly a refreshing change from the endless chain of towering unashamed fast food advertising plaques and logos in most of the towns down the East Coast. The town prides itself on it’s alternative lifestyle. Vegans and Eco-Warriors throng in the clusters of cafes that line the streets. Westerners fully clad in Indian loose fitting Hindu and Buddhist attire can be spotted floating gracefully from shop to shop and speaking in hushed tones to friends. A fresh perspective that Byron brings is great, and it’s a refreshing change from the norm. But the price of this right-on new age haven from globalisation – well it’s certainly not cheap!
Rich’s left arm is now plastered in an awkward right angle pose. As we set out towards Grafton he swings his bent arm downwards and gives us a cheeky thumbs up. We feel terrible leaving him here but we don’t have time to spare – Sydney is just a few days away.
Byron Bay to Coff’s Harbour
Two long days bring us down through Grafton and into Coff’s Harbour. Still at this late hour in the expedition we find ourselves hurrying on through the day. ‘A man’s day’ is in store and we click just over a hundred miles. Somehow though my legs cease to feel tired. My backside has stopped hurting and I have a refreshed outlook on the expedition. My mind is racing forward. I’m visualising the end/ I’m imagining our triumphant completion of our journey. And I’m thinking how it will never be the same again. London to Sydney is no longer a romantic notion for us – it’s all coming to an end – and it’s reality – it’s job done – in fact it’s J.W.D.! With Andrew, Tim and myself riding as a three once again and with further once again than we had anticipated and chasing a firm deadline – I feel echos of rushing down Malaysia to Singapore to meet Gary and Rich coming out with the kayaks. Then we rode solidly for eight days and covered a glorious thousand kilometres of furious South East Asian tarmac.
Now we’re rushing headlong towards the end of the journey. Just around now my recent longing for the end starts to wane a little – and it becomes clear that the journey after over five hundred days is not a piece of string without an end. We can see the end very clearly – and it’s coming very close.
Coff’s Harbour is our last rest day before Sydney. We relax for the last time in the hospitality of the Novotel hotel chain. A rapid fire Press Conference including a couple of quick TV news slots is enough to keep the PR team happy – and we have time to chill out by the pool.
