Adventures by Human Power

We have encountered more rain lately almost seemingly than anywhere throughout our journey. Even more than in the monsoon seasons of South East Asia. The weather here in the South of Australia is incredibly unpredictable at this time of year. One day the weather can be a blissfully relaxing twenty to twenty four degrees, and then within twenty four hours it can be reaching a blistering forty. Humidity generally in this part of the world is not such an issue. That is not to say that the air is always dry. Above ninety percent is known even at this southerly latitude.

Whilst we had planned that we would not leave ourselves a mad dash to the end of our ride, it turns out that the distances south of Coff’s are a little further than we had hoped. From here we have solid riding to bring us in to Sydney. We have no more rest days. To Port Macquarie turns out to be a hard hundred and seventy kilometre ride that takes us once again into night time riding. Although the road is busy, and we’re being buffetted by dangerously close heavy goods vehicles, I find the ride exciting. The feeling of reaching somewhere after dark is a feeling that probably won’t be repeated again on the trip. We make the last seventy kilometres in a record three hours, chasing madly and in vain to reach our target before dark. When we do finally pull into town our talk is only of one thing – a beer and a slab of Pizza. As we move into a cabin in the caravan park and we tuck into the ice cold VB’s from the local bottle shop I forget to start on my food, and my legs turn into wobbly numb jelly. The three of us are slobbed out around the table filling our faces and guzzling beer (well a couple at least). “You know……I’m really going to miss all this” I turn to Tim and Andrew with a slight slur and feeling nicely drunk. Tim looks at me with a nod of the head “What you mean is that you’re going to miss the cycling!”, his point is well made. Naturally I will find myself tucking in to pizza and a beer back in England, it’s just the cycling that will be missing. But we all know that it’s the whole package, the whole lifestyle that is going to leave a gaping hole. In fact I think it’s the first time that I’ve actually admitted out loud that I will miss all of this.

Heading for Newcastle and we cross numerous rivers and estuaries, each with impressive steel lifting bridges to allow shipping traffic to pass. Finally we find ourselves following the Hunter River, a mighty expanse of water plunging down from the Great Dividing Range. The Mountains that have been silently stalking us ever since the North of Queensland remain at our side here; patiently following. Although their height is modest, it is the dense carpet of trees that impresses. And here the forest rolls down and surrounds us too on our way into Newcastle. The city of Newcastle however soon has other ideas and its urban sprawl soon drowns out the trees and we roll into town. An old industrial city, Newcastle has clearly seen better days. It’s early evening and the streets are deserted. No-one walks in the twilight zone outside the city centre. Many of the shops are boarded up and people here are rather different to those that we have seen further up the coast. The people we do see out and about on the streets are not surfers, not sportsmen, not rollerbladers, or surf lifeguards. These are just straightforward people, and quite a few people, who one might guess, are without jobs. We trawl through a rough selection of nasty places to stay, and finally we reach the Backpackers by the Beach, where we walk in on a scene of domestic bliss. A gang of guys from Bristol are shouting at each other about who should be doing the dishes and cooking. “Awright there maaate….yeah we’rrre from Brissol”, I struggle to contain my laughter. It seems so long since I last heard a full West Country brogue. And here’s a whole bunch of them. We settle in to our tiny shoe boxes. Andrew is rammed in a four person dorm whilst Tim and I share a double bed. I opt for the floor whilst Tim has the bed tonight.

Whilst Tim, Andrew and myself are gently easing our way down towards Sydney, the other half of the team are in full swing of the most hectic prepaarations that the team has known. Whilst we had talked as five just a few days before about the plans for our the end of the expedition in Sydney, and ‘a simple day with minimum complications, and a day for all of us to enjoy’ had been the catchphrase, it now turns out that Scrivs and Dean are not going to let the day pass without a proper marking of the day. When finally after a few days we speak to them on the phone, their excitement is barely under control. “Just you wait until you see what we’ve sorted out…………..I can’t believe it, I was just speaking with Michael Peshardt form the BBC on the phone!”. We arrange to meet them in Hornsby in just two days time for the final ride into Sydney.

We have a straightforward ride that brings us through some steep undulating hills and straight along the New South Wales Coast via an impressive natural landscape to a place called ‘The Entrance’. Unfortunately we miss feeding time at The Pelican Capital of Australia, but we do see a good twenty or thirty congregating out in the estuary, and intermittently flying in and out of the group. The Entrance is positioned at the end of a chain of salt water lakes that nestle in behind a Gargantuan sand spit that stretches for twenty to thirty kilometres. The wind is whistling in from the sea and white horses gallop in towards the shore and break roughly over the sandy beach. We pause only briefly to soak in the cool sea breeze and stare out at the changing seascape.

At the end of today there will only be two more cycling days to reach Sydney. And those will be only half baked rides, barely enough to get our legs warmed up. As we make for Gosford I suddenly want to ride slowly. I don’t want to reach the end. I want for the riding and for the road to continue. Our simple, and yet incredibly satisfying life on the road is coming to an end. For all the detailed preparations that we have made for every twist and turn of our amazing journey, this is something that I don’t have a plan for. My emotions begin to take over my mind. A flood of images fill my wandering and empty imagination. Windy passes in Tibet, and empty deserts of Iran. The wide open sea and the high snowy mountains. The steamy green jungles and the unforgettable barren Outback. And the team, how the team have been so magnificent. The words ‘I wouldn’t have done it with anyone else’ seem too cliché, and too shallow, and yet I wonder how many other groups of people might have hung together through monsoon and cyclone, through gunshot and personal difficulties.

Tears well in my eyes as I take the front of the three of us riding for Hornsby. It’s a place that is kind of resonant with the whole nature of a cycling trip from one place to another. Reflecting the number of unremarkable places that we end up in on the course of a journey from our origin to our destination; the kind of places that give clues to the heart and soul of the countries that we’ve cycled and paddled. In the calm before the storm everything seems so straightforward. Just turn the pedals, and ignore the pains in the elbow, in the backside and in the knees and legs. The rain pours down, soaking us to the skin. Amazingly though I just know that although the weather today, as we ride up and down through the steeply wooded hills that rise just North of Sydney, is disgusting, dirty, misty, wet and murky, I feel strangely confident that tomorrow will dawn bright and clear. Our journey has until now been blessed by good fortune. Our departure from Greenwich was preceded by wet and grey weather, and yet the morning itself was bathed in glorious autumnal sunshine . We have managed to skip around earthquakes and floods, cyclones and snow bound passes. Our fortune has guided us through illness and away in the main from serious interference from traffic. So I just have a premonition that we shall be fine tomorrow. The sun will shine on us.

At the Hornsby Inn we are deluged by the full contingent of families. The Stocks, The Potters, The Scrivens, and our Mum and Dad all come to share in the excitement of the eve of the culmination of three years of preparation and perspiration. We chat about this and that and a few people have a couple of beers. And then suddenly there are just the five of us. I had hoped that we might have a few moments to ourselves to enjoy the moments. We talk through the plans for tomorrow and then one by one we put our hands together in the middle as a team. We think of those not present and then give a huge cheer “1-2-3…Human Power!”.