Pushing the Frog: a cycle tour

Cycle touring Indonesia: Jockeying through Java

2006-12-20T03:55:00.000-05:00

Hello from Yogjakarta and Merry Christmas

Even in Java Christmas is coming. First something to be resisted and ignored then suddenly tripping you up as it sweeps by. There's tinsel in the shops and prices are going Down! Down! Down! There are familiar Christmas carols in unfamiliar Bahasa Indonesia and the local church choir is warming up for its biggest day of the year.

If we are lucky we will be Bandung for Xmas. Maybe we'll spend the day cycling. Maybe we'll cruise along Bandung's "Jeans Street" for a second look at the giant airbrushed effigies of King Kong, Superman and the like that used to grace the front stoop of Bandung's warehouse clothing shops. I guess it will be just another day on the road.

It all depends on our state of well being though. Between us, Guido and I have had just two days of good health during our two week stay in Indonesia. Our sick days are gradually catching up with our cycling days so we are not getting very far very fast.

Luckily the cycling thus far has been a joy. We like Java much better on a bike. We like not having to fight off vicious old grannies for a seat on the bus. We like not having to sit between a sack of rice and a scrawny chook while the aforementioned granny sleeps drooling on our shoulders. We especially like not having to hold our bellies and clench our sphincters as the bus swerves from town to town and the scenery blurs in the windows.

People are patient with cyclists here. You are one of a throng rather than a bizarre aberration. Trucks wait behind you as you grunt up steep narrow roads. Their occupants give you the thumbs up and big smiles as they accelerate past.

Motorbikers draw alongside for a chat; "Halo Mister. Where are you going? Where are you from? How long you stay in Indonesia?"

Other cyclists and becak drivers slowly pedal across your path without a backward glance. Like them you quickly find yourself pulling blindly out into the stream of traffic. You find yourself trusting to the swerving prowess of your fellow road users and the will of Allah to keep you safe from harm.

"Farang! Farang!" The call goes up the village street. Out come the families to stare. Many drag along their children, wagging the poor wide-eyed tot's hands at us and encouraging them to say "Halo Mister". And so the plague of Halo Misters is passed down from generation to generation...

Older children giggle and joke at our expense. Young men in their early twenties call to Guido; "Halo Mister. I love you Mister!" Guido doesn't deign to answer.

People hang precariously out the backdoors of buses to take our photos with their mobile phones. They always take them on an uphill when we are at our reddest and sweatiest and least attractive.

Despite being on bicycles, buses are still our biggest hassle. On the flat or on the uphill they drive the fastest and come the closest. On the downhills they are much too slow for us. They stop frequently and suddenly ahead to pick up or drop off livestock laden passengers. We often have to veer out onto the wrong side of the road down corkscrew descents so that we don't end up mashed into their rear end. It can be a perilous business on a blind corner.

Lots of love, Claire xxx

Cycle touring Indonesia: Bye bye Bali

2006-12-11T01:10:00.000-05:00

Hi from Lumajang in Java where we are currently not enjoying our 4th sick day since arriving in Java. The "h" key is barely working so if someting seems missing, just add an "h" will ya?

Wow, it was great to be in Bali on a bike. Big things come in small packages they say and Bali proves the point.

From Ubud we slugged up the side of a bloody great volcano. It was a very long slow crawl to its lip - 30kms of relentless uphill slopes with a not so nice kick in the goolies at its end - very steep indeed.

As we got higher the brick houses and the warungs with cold drinks disappeared. Bamboo huts and warm cola prevailed. We followed an open drain full of straws and plastic bags and toilet waste all the way. It makes you think twice about accepting straws in your drinks.

Near the top was the agricultural hamlet of Secaak. I wouldn't be surprised if Secaak means; town of the barking dog and posturing rooster. As usual the local animals were unfazed by speeding cars, buses and motorbikes but in an uproar about two lowly cyclists. We tried to pedal quietly but invariably we'd set off a rooster who'd set off a dog barking who'd set off the neighbour's dog barking and so on - six kilometres of racket.

At the rim of the crater we were rewarded for our efforts by a view over shadow splashed Mt Batur, the turquoise waters of Lake Batur and the coy shape of Mt Agung hiding its summit in the cloud. Fabulous.

Not so fabulous the town of Batur. This should be put onto a slide and shown to all tourism students with the label - how tourism can destroy. This dirty, mean looking town of rubbish dumps and dark warungs interspersed with ludicrously large buffet style restaurants all competing for the view, was totally uninspiring.

Even more uninspiring were the next 8kms. Even steeper climbs were our fate. I'd felt sick at Batur and couldn't eat. So Guido wouldn't eat either. We did 38kms of climbing on one egg and one piece of toast and five soft drinks. I was almost crying when I got to the turn off to Penulisan and the downhill. Not only was I ridiculously hungry but I was busting for the toilet as well.

But for my problems the downhill would've been a breeze. We cut through thick clouds of fog with our front wheels as we slaamoned down the twisting mountain. I ended up jumping off my bike and running down a slope into someone's banana orchard for a pee amongst scratching chickens - not realising that everyone on the road above could still see me. Guido went so fast the motorcycles couldn't keep up with him.

At the bottom we had to sprint the last 20kms into Lovina Beach before dark. We let a tout lead us to the Sartaya Bungalows - brand new bungalows with fan and toilet for around 5-6 dollars. We had to postpone our showers and food till the tout had attempted to sell us a "Dolpin and Snok-ling tour" for a "good price".

That night we ate at 8pm - the first meal since brekky apart from a couple of pieces of fruit. The local warung owners were new and eager but slow to cook. It was called Warung Peni. "I show you the behind" said "Peni" and turned to a page which read "Peni's Special". "Thanks," said Guido, "but I think I'll just have the Chicken Sate."

The food in Bali was sensational. It arrived on our plates hot, fresh and beautifully arranged. It arrived in portion sizes so delicate that I had to wonder; "Will this give me enough energy to pick my nose much less walk back to my hotel?" It was touch and go.

After a relaxing couple of days in Lovina we took the high road past Bali's only national park to Java ferry terminal. Northern Bali is a dry old spot with high yellow hills to the left and blue seas to the right. We turned south and had a couple of short but steep and sweltering climbs to endure. But as we continued south the road delved into cool, green rainforest, flattened out and was a joy.

"This boat is what we in the shipping industry technically term a 'write-off'," said Guido looking dubiously at the twisted railings and rusted bottom of our ferry to Java. But we jostled our bikes into place beside the trucks, motorbikes, buses and 4wds and waved goodbye to Bali.

Hello Java...

Biking to Bali

2006-12-04T01:33:00.000-05:00

Ahoy from Bali

We cycled to Cairns Airport. We left early expecting it to be quite a distance but it was only four kilometres. We started packing the bikes straight away, which was lucky because it took us 4.5hours.

"Are you still there?" the Qantas staff kept asking.

It just took some figuring out. We'd forgotten, for instance, to bring an old rag with which to clean and wrap the chains.

"I've got a pair of old undies you can use," I offered. "Just don't turn them inside out 'cos' they're a little dirty," I said handing them over.

Of course then Guido, once he found out they were dirty, didn't want to use them afterall. So I got the bright idea of cutting out the crotch and letting him use the rest. Out came the nail scissors, which were later confiscated at the metal detectors, and off came the crotch. Then I had to walk around the airport looking for a bin which, due to increased airport security (read: bomb paranoia), didn't exist.

So then I thought I'd throw them in the bins in the toilets. I tried to go in past the cleaners. "You can't go in there!" one said. "But I've just got to throw this out!" I said holding up the crotch. "You still can't go in there," said the cleaner. "Look, I'll only be a sec and I promise not to slip on the wet floor," I reasoned. "It's the men's toilet!" she answered.

I hastily retreated with the crotch of my panties screwed up in my now sweaty palms. Could I look any dodgier - trying to get into the men's toilets with the crotch of my undies????

When we were finished packing the bikes we went and weighed them to check we were under 32 kilos as instructed by Qantas. We were then informed that the luggage allowance for international flights was only 25 kilos and we were going to be charged $18AUS per kilo for anything over that amount.

We didn't much like that idea. Guido's box was already 37 kilos. Back to the drawing board. We decided to take our panniers onboard as carry-on luggage. We stuffed them with all our heaviest gear. They were so heavy they cut into my poor hands. We also put on extra clothes - I bet we were the only ones in Cairns wearing a raincoat and fleece that day.

"Just try to make those panniers look light," said Guido as I struggled along with aching arms.

As soon as we got to the check-in I went straight up to a lady who we'd been talking to earlier. "How did you go?" she asked. "Oh, it was so heavy we had to throw stuff out!" I said dramatically (technically not a lie if you take the crotch into account). "We've already sent 14kilos back to my Mum and these bike boxes of yours weigh at least 5 kilos!" Then I smiled winningly. "We've cycled all the way from Fremantle in Western Australia you know and now we're heading for China."

It was enough to make her feel sorry for us. She pursed her lips and said; "I hope you have light hand luggage." At which point, Guido and I both nodded vigorously. She checked us right through to Denpasar without charging us the $180AUS we owed in excess baggage fees. We were lucky - Qantas (the so-called Olympic airline) recently charged our national cycling team an average of $600AUS per person in excess luggage.

At the gate, I tried desperately to make my pannier look light as I handed over my boarding pass but it was so bloody heavy my whole arm was shaking with the effort. The lady looked dubious but I smiled valiantly and she let me through.

We thought we'd also have trouble getting through Indonesian customs - what with that sack of malaria tablets and a whole heap of homeopathics and cell salts to explain. But straight away we got picked up by four balinese porters who insisted on taking our bags out (for a tip).

"Are you selling these bikes in Indonesia?" asked the customs man. "No, we're cycling from Indonesia to China," I said making pedalling motions with my hands. In the meantime the porters were all heckling him. "Come on, hurry up, we want our tip!!!" So he gave up, into the too hard basket we went and out the front door of Denpasar's airport.

Today we joined the motorcyclists and scooters and dodgy buses on the narrow streets of Kuta. Cycling with Australian cars is like being a fish in front of a shark. But in Bali you feel you are part of a big democratic school of fish. One fish weaves right and you all weave right too, one fish stops and you all stop too.

We cycled to Sanur then Ketwel then north to Ubud. Heading north we passed arts and craft stores hunched shoulder to shoulder over the narrow road. Giant tree roots were being carved into fantastic scenes, millions of squat soap stone sculptures bared their teeth and their enormous cocks, great towers of untreated carved chairs leaned precariously over us and elongated statues of women held the merest scrap of a sarong over their maps of tassie.

We cut off another cycle tourist on our way past the monkey forest. The monkey forest is a beautiful walled temple with a garden of large rainforest trees. But we gave it a wide berth. I still remember visiting it in the 70s when my older brother was bitten by a monkey and then had to spend a year getting rabies injections in the bum.
Tonight we are sitting on our balcony which overlooks the roofs near the Ubud Palace. All evening the thunder has been grumbling and every so often Ubud is lit by lightening. The cooking pot clang of the gamelan orchestra is playing somewhere and the huge curved bamboo fishing rods are swaying outside each residence. Rain is on the way...

Claire :0)

Hard boiled Cairns

2006-11-27T20:08:00.000-05:00

Hi there from Cairns!

Wow, we are just three days from flying to Bali and heading up through Indonesia. It is the great unknown as far as cyclists are concerned. Most "overland" cyclists fly from Singapore to Darwin. We're not sure why most decide to avoid Indonesia but it just seems to be the done thing. So, basically, we know it is very very busy and there are lots of volcanoes to heave ourselves over and that's about it. We also know that we won't be going anywhere unless the embassy hurries up with our visas!!

We arrived in Cairns ages ago. We flew in on a roaring tailwind. We had the idea to stay a couple of days, apply for our visa and then cycle up to Cape Trib. But it was not to be. It turns out I had a roaring tail to match the roaring tailwind.

I am recovering from the BIGGEST bum boil yet. By our second day in Cairns it was the size of a large nectarine. It was clearly infected with a big, black, bloody spot in the centre and lots of red streaks running up and down my bum cheek. (I hope no-one is eating right now.)

It was a Sunday but I was in so much pain I went to a 24-hour clinic. I tried to get the doctor to take a look at it but he was too squeamish - can you believe that!?! He prescribed me antibiotics more commonly used for respitory illness than skin complaints and told me to buy voltaren (more commonly used for joint inflammation). How bloody useless.

Next day, still in agony, I went to the travel doctor for a sack of malaria tablets. While there I asked him to give me a second opinion. He took one look then disappeared. When he returned he told me to bend over and jabbed me with syringe full of penicillin.

After I emerged from the curtain, Guido was looking green and his eyes were watering. "Why are you crying?" I asked. "I'm the one who got the jab!" Of course he vehemently denied having watery eyes but later said; "I thought maybe he was going to jab that needle right into the bum boil itself!!"

That's about as much sympathy as I can expect from him. I know better than to expect sympathy anymore. A couple of weeks ago I had an acker (pimple) on my chin. "Is this acker really noticeable?" I asked, confident that Guido would reassure me by telling me he could hardly see it. "Omigod!" he said (loudly and in public). "That is Heeeuuuge! I think we need to get you an "oversize" sign to wear."

Normally I can laugh at these comments but this boil was so sore I lost my sense of humour. Guido didn't mind:

"Jeez if that thing blows, it'll be a second big bang! We'll get a whole new universe with pus for planets."
"Howz Krakatoa going today?"
"It must be like having plastics strapped to your backside - Claire - suicide bomber of Cairns."

He really cracked himself up.

Meanwhile, I was walking around with a big wet patch on my backside. "Don't worry, I haven't wet myself," I told dubious onlookers. "No, it's much worse, it's pus."

Guido has also been amusing himself by taking daily photos of my boil as it slowly heals. I would upload it here but don't want my blog removed due to "objectionable content". It gives you quite a shock when trawling through your photos. "Yep, that's the foreshore at Cairns and that's Kuranda, oh, and look, there's my bum boil oozing pus." (I know some of you will be dying to see them so will happily email the pictures on request.)

Anyway, the upshot of this is that I haven't been on the bike for ages. We had to do a tour up to Cape Tribulation and I spent most of it going; "this would have been so good to ride." It was still ace though.

We followed a mad scientist through the rainforest and up a cliff face at night with only dodgy vines and termite ridden wood to grasp onto. We giggled a lot when he kept asking us where the firefly had gone - it was on his ear. We ate bush raspberries and learn't what plants NOT to touch when walking through the rainforest.

We saw crocs, amethystine pythons, darters, dragons, huntsmen eating cycadas, trapdoor spiders and lots of grasshoppers and frogs. We wandered up the waterhole where a hungry cassowary is causing consternation among tourists and rangers. But, fortunately or unfortunately, we didn't see it.

So, next time you hear from me we may be in Indo - visa permitting.

ta ta, from Claire

Cycle touring through chilling Childers, Qld

2006-10-24T00:30:00.000-05:00

Hi from Bundy!

We had a roaring tailwind on an easy to cycle road and arrived in Childers before lunchtime yesterday. We spent the day in town at the first available internet cafe in days then decided to head for the local caravan park.

It looked a little rundown but that never bothers us. I went inside and waited in line behind a boy with ragged clothes and dirty fingers complaining about the local charities refusing to give him any money for food. He wanted to borrow a broom, despite the sign at reception which said; 'we are a caravan park, not a hardware', but couldn't because they'd all gone missing. Great, I thought glancing back at my bike lock and chain, I wonder how many hacksaws have gone missing.

When I finally made it to the front of the queue I was told a tentsite (situated between the main hwy and the railway line) would cost $20AUS. I should have done my usual; I'll just speak to my boyfriend and let you know line, before getting out of that ripoff joint. Instead found myself saying, great and handing over the dosh. Hello!?!

I passed by a drooling lady muttering to herself and a wild haired dude with a beer in his hand to get to the hardpacked, sloped dirt of the tentsites. I had no-one to blame but myself for this predicament but that didn't stop me from sulking and griping to Guido who had, as usual, decided to make the best of it. He told me to get lost and go have a shower. The cistern in the toilet was held together by sticky tape. The repairer had also managed to tape over the carcasses of a large ant and an earwig which I thought a nice touch.

By 2pm the heavy drinking and loud rap music in the caravan next to us had begun. I played with the two black camp cats while Guido had his shower. They were fascinated by the tent and kept lying on their backs to poke their claws under the outer tent trying to fish out our spare tyres and safety vests. One insisted on chewing its bottom then licking my arms. Noice. When I pushed it away, it wrapped its claws round my leg, flicked at me with both back legs (claws out) and hooked its sharp teeth into my calves. Ouch.

We headed into Childers to hang out. The only other hangers out were a gang of four schoolies. They were doing a cafe crawl. They sat outside a cafe and yelled obnoxiously till they were asked to move on and then they moved to the next open shop and repeated the process. They reached the end of the street at 4.30pm then started sitting on the public benches near us - it didn't matter how many times we moved, they were there.

In town we decided to try the local Vietnamese for dinner. It was empty and smelled of fish tank. The goldfish hadn't had their water changed for a while I suspect. There were grubby net curtains and lots of spider's webs.

"I think I'll use chopsticks tonight," said Guido setting aside his sticky spoon and fork.

An old man with two teeth, dirty fingernails and a whispy white beard flip flopped over to us and said; "What you order?" He wrote down our order on a scrap of white paper, added it all up, then said; "You bay now."

There were over 200 items on the menu but I suspect that whatever we'd ordered would have come out the same - covered in congealing, greasy gloop. We'd heard the chicken being chopped up with the cleaver earlier and it sounded like a hard job which took several more blows than there were pieces of chicken. Our 'crispy fried chicken' was oily, lank and a very tough old bird.

"This is definitely NOT what Vietnamese food normally tastes like!" I told Guido. "If they tried to serve this up in Vietnam, they'd be chucked out of the country... mind you, they are living in Childers." After this we couldn't stop giggling. Another couple came in and ordered and as we left they were grimacing over their sweet and sour.

All night long, we were kept awake by the caravan next door. The guy drank, the baby cried, the guy yelled. Two girls with mental problems kept going to the toilet door and arguing loudly. Another girl walked about the camp with a towel wrapped around her shoulders all night. It just went on and on.

We were up at 5am and so was everyone else - for work. The guy in the caravan came out and vomited on the front steps then lit a ciggie and cracked open another beer. The girl with the towel went to the toilet twice and left unflushed diorreah in all but one loo. The rest of them stood near our tent smoking ciggie after ciggie. They seemed nice enough but how they manage to stay up all night then go straight out to work in the fields I don't know...

Little Miss Still Smiling Miller :0)

Cycle tour: Un-Australian conversations under canvas

2006-10-04T21:24:00.000-05:00

Hi from Coffs Harbour

To all those who forgot my birthday - shame on you! (Just kidding. I was actually pleasantly surprised by how many people remembered so thanks heaps for all those birthday messages.) I spent the day eating, being massaged and reading the paper in the cafe. Ah bliss.

Congratulations to all those Weagle fans. I keep picturing poor old Freo with their blow up anchors slowly deflating in their front windows and little forlorn bits of tattered green and purple streamers on their front fences.

We stayed at the surfing mecca - Crescent Head the other night. We paid a staggering $34AUS for a tentsite during school holiday season - ouch! Perhaps that is what made us slightly churlish about all the families holidaying around us.

One family had set up a mini theater under canvas full of plastic chairs featuring a big screen at one end. Not surprisingly, the set-up was all in aid of watching the Rugby grand final.

We went to bed early but all around us we could hear the tinny roar of the crowd in the stadium followed closely by groans and yells from half drunk campers.

What are they watching? said Guido
The OTHER code, I said parodying the Sydney-siders' lack of interest in the AFL.
What do you mean the other code? he said.
Look, its just the other code, ok?
You say that like its the dark side or something - what is it? he persisted.
Its just a bunch of fat guys running with balls, I said, still taking the pee.
Guidos eyes widened as if he had seen the light. Oh, you mean cricket! he said triumphantly.

Dear God, I thought, any minute now Howard is going to appear in that naff green and gold tracksuit of his and chuck me in irons for being Un-Australian and then he will deport Guido for not subscribing to proper Australian values...

Claire :0)

Cycling in the dark, NSW

2006-09-30T01:18:00.000-05:00

Howdy from Laurieton, just south of Port Macquarie.

There's not much I can't do in the dark now. Writing is one of the few things, as is reading. But I'm beginning to imagine I see better in the dark than before so maybe it's only a matter of time before I can do these things too.

After months of camping I've come to enjoy the night time. With the absence of light your body shuts down much earlier and you get long hours of rest. You're aware of the darkness in a much more palpable way than when at home in front of the box.

We arrived in the Stockton Beach Caravan Park in Newcastle later than usual. We'd had our very first puncture and the repair job made us miss our ferry. When we did arrive we had to set up the tent by the light of the moon.

It was almost totally dark but we had no trouble finding all the equipment, putting the tent up, unrolling our sleeping bags and getting our shower stuff together before locking our bikes to a tree. All by feeling alone.

In Hawks Nest, "Jimmy" of Jimmy's Beach Caravan Park twice mentioned the light. First he told us where to camp so we'd be closest to the camp streetlight then said; "there are BBQs over there provided by the council but you'd better be quick because there are no lights so you'll be cooking in the dark soon".

Of course, we weren't quick. Not only did we shun the camp street light but it was one of those rare occasions when the two of us could not agree on the right tent site. (This usually involves each of us jerking the tent a millimetre or two one way or the other so is pretty ridiculous.)

"Jimmy" was fascinated by my night cooking. In the dark I located the BBQ button, negotiated the pilot light, put on some rissoles, chopped and fried an onion, opened a tin of beetroot, chopped a tomato, washed some lettuce, peeled and chopped an avocado, then peeled and diced a whole sweet pineapple. All with only a plastic plate and a swiss army knife.

At the national park campsite in Bundeena last week we again set up and ate in the dark. The girl beside us spent her whole night doing all her chores by the light of a large gas lantern than shone across the water like some dysfunctional beacon. While we tried to enjoy the stars and the cool evening air, she was shining back and forth to the bins, the water tap, the toilet, the car, the tent, the car, the tent ...

I realised that night that I now automatically take mental pictures of the main obstacles. I knew approximately where the trees were, where there was a pothole or a slope on the way to the toilet and where there was a fence on the way to the bins. So I could, with a little care, make my way around them in the dark.

Whereas we often see possums running down from the trees for a sniff at the bicycles or kangaroos calmly grazing nearby, that girl, with her brighter than bright light, missed out on seeing any wildlife that may have been hanging around.

Now, with the nights getting warmer, I can lie in the tent and look at the stars. Last night Guido awoke to the sound of some scurrying and a giant shadow loomed across the tent. He looked out of my open door and right into the eyes of a fat and curious possum. It was gone the moment he reached over to shake me awake.

Claire :0)

Cycling Sydneyside

2006-09-23T05:00:00.000-05:00

Hi from Sydney

Dockers fans seemed to outnumber Sydney fans ten to one yesterday but they still lost! Quick, sack the coach. I was too chicken to rock up in the green and purple in case I caused a footy riot but, honestly, I don't think the Sydney-siders were too bothered. I asked several different people who won this morning but got told; "I don't follow that code" so had to read the paper over someone else's shoulder.

I expected the ride into Australia's biggest city to be harrowing. In fact it turned out to be less harrowing than cycling to the supermarket in Freo.

From Wollongong we took a bicycle path along the coast to Thirroul then, after a couple of unshaded hills, we coasted into Stanwell Park. The road there has just been re-opened after a two-year construction job. It used to hug the cliffs but it kept collapsing. A motorcyclist told me he used to encounter rock falls and large boulders on a regular basis.

Now, they've built long bridges that curve out over the ocean. From these you get spectacular views of Bald Hill and the coastline of Royal National Park. It is awesome. Bald Hill looked particularly impressive; especially since we knew we'd soon have to climb it.

There were tonnes of other fit looking lycra-clad types cycling their racers around. "Uh-oh, fitness fanatics means steep hills," I thought. But maybe all the hill climbing I've been doing for the past 1200kms or so is finally paying off because it wasn't too bad at all. There was even a Mr Whippy van awaiting us at the top. So we licked cones of lemon gelato while looking back down the hill with self satisfied expressions on our faces.

From the top of the next 7km climb we could see the highrises of Sydney looming out of the grey city haze. We coasted down to Bundeena, a little town on the edge of the Royal National Park, from where you can see Buraneer and Cronulla across the water.

While enjoying the view in a local park, we were accosted by a couple of workmen taking an afternoon sickie. We were occupying their usual drinking bench. They sat down for a chat and, when they heard we'd cycled from Freo, they offered us a beer.

They wanted to know all the gory details; "Have you ever eaten road kill? Would you? What if it was still warm? Would you eat it then?" asked one.

"A kangaroo skin would make a really good replacement for that," said the other indicating the worn patches on my sheepskin saddle. "Jeezus! Some of you cyclists are crazy eh?" he said.

"Did yous come up that twisty road from the turn off to Waterfall? Last year, I'd had a few, and was burning up there in me ute late at night and there was this guy cycling in the dark! No fluoro vest, no lights - nothin'. The only reason I saw him was because the F***er had a surfboard strapped to his back - sideways - poking out onto the road. I thought; 'F*** this, I'm not gonna be done for pushing this pr**k off the cliff.' So I pulled over at the top and waited for him, like this," he mimed leaning back and folding his arms.

"'What the F*** do you think you're doin' mate?!!?' I asked him when he rode up. 'Get that F***in bike in me ute right now!' I says and I drove him down to the youth hostel in Cairys Beach. When I got there the Ranger just shook his head at me. 'Who the F*** have you brought me this time?' he said."

God help us. No wonder cyclists aren't too popular with Sydney-siders right now. (There have been quite a few 'letters to the editor' about cyclists this week.)

Claire :0)

Birthday Boy in Bermagui

2006-09-13T21:57:00.000-05:00

Hi from Bermagui

Today is Guido's 36th Birthday and he's decided that for his present he wants a day off. That means a day off from cycling, camping and eating dodgy cheese sandwiches.

We went first to Bermagui's campsite yesterday to check out their cabins as my treat for him. The campsite has this amazing view over Little Mt Dromedary and the South Pacific. Unfortunately, that seems to be all they are trading on. The camp was everything I don't like about commercial campgrounds. I like, for instance, to have a cabin where the cupboard doors are actually hung on the cupboards. Although you could literally swing a cat in there, that was the only thing the cabins had going for them and I just couldn't bring myself to pay $60 bucks for it - even for Guido's birthday.

Instead we camped and I found more I did not like about the campsite. Going to the toilet I looked down upon the dark scrapings of other number two-ers. To wipe, I had to spend half an hour and use both hands to disengage the tiniest scrap of dunny paper from the roll. In the shower there was the telltale metallic stain beneath the shower head showing that the pressure would be zilch. Better still, what pressure there was, sprayed out of the shower and all over my clothing rather than on my soaped up body.

Ah well, it's not all been bad. Today we've moved to a super dooper motel for the night and there is a patisserie in town which we are heading to for lunch. Plus, the only restaurant open at this time of year happens to be a nice fish restaurant with views over the harbour. Yummee.

I'm off to feed my face now.

Claire :0)

Touring Cockatoo Country

2006-09-05T00:21:00.000-05:00

Ahoy there

We are back on the road after a long, long rest in Melbourne. I spent the time in Melbourne catching up with friends and family. In the past six weeks, I only once put foot to pedal and that was to raid the local bakery for mocha buns, to which I am addicted.

Not surprisingly, as we headed off towards the Stony Point Ferry, my suspension seat post was riding a whole lot lower and was a hell of a lot creakier than it was when we arrived! We made it up the first 500 metres then stopped at the bakery for a rest and more buns. I was worried... would I sink the ferry?

It felt weird at first to be wobbling about on a loaded touring bike but I adjusted pretty quickly. Unfortunately my fitness is taking a while to return from its holiday but I hope to entice it back to work soon.

We cycled off Phillip Island and into Gippsland where we joined up with one of the many offroad cycling paths. The Bass Coast Rail Trail and the Leongatha to Foster Rail Trail both had the most awesome views over the coast and Wilson's Prom. We hooned down into Foster past tree ferns and black cockatoos. My Mum and Nanna were waiting for us in Foster with the dogs and they'd bought more mocha buns! (That put our Mocha Buns Anonymous Ten Steps Program back about a year.)

We told Nanna we'd seen Black Cockatoos. "Really? I believe they're quite rare," she said. She then told us about getting lost near Mirboo North in the Strzlecki Ranges. She said they'd pulled over to eat some chicken that my Auntie Sylvie had prepared for them. "These are scrawny chickens!" said Nanna. Later, Auntie Sylve asked; "Did you enjoy your chicken? Because it was actually cockatoo!"

"No wonder those cockatoos are so rare Nanna," I said.

Bye from Bairnsdale!

Claire xxx

Doggy Doo-ings

2006-07-07T01:19:00.000-05:00

While in the supermarket yesterday, when I thought Guido wasn't looking, I snuck over to the pet section. I picked up a long sausage of pet mince and surreptitiously weighed it in my hands. Guido was onto me immediately.

"Claire! That pet food is far too heavy to carry on a bike and we are NOT getting a puppy," he said sternly. I had to admit it was a little heavy. "If I ever get a dog it can carry its own food strapped to its back, just like we have to," Guido said decisively.

I took one last lingering look at the pet mince, which prompted several raised eyebrows from fellow shoppers, then regretfully put it back.

My puppy-lust had been stimulated by a little kelpie cross at the Yambuk General Store on the way to Port Fairy. We'd cycled an extra 5kms on empty stomachs so we could eat our ham sandwiches out of the rain. It was still wet with a nippy little wind and we were shivering under the meagre shelter of the store's overhanging roof. Then out of nowhere came this wriggling, excited little puppy. He had scented our food and had his grubby paws all over us in the wag of a tail.

When the owner noticed, he took the puppy out the back and away from the main road. But, after a suitable interval, the puppy ran right round and came out the other side wagging its tail endearingly. Out came the owner again and put him away. There was a longer pause this time but, where there's a ham sandwich there's a way, so the puppy soon crept back out. After putting his puppy away for a third time the owner waited with us and caught the little runaway red handed. "I wanna puppy!" I said to Guido for the billionth time since leaving Fremantle.

Dogs are not always so friendly with cyclists. On the road to Wellington, a Golden Retriever and a Jack Russell came tearing out at Guido. It always gives you a shock but mostly the dogs aren't vicious, just mischevious. I stopped my bike and faced the pair down. "Don't you dare!" I yelled at them. "Go home! Go on." It's much easier to be gruff and commanding and effective when your partner's threatened. The dogs retreated hastily then strove for nonchalance."What?" the Golden Retriever seemed to say. "I'm just licking my balls and minding my own business lady."

A few days later I was chased by the Tanunda Tiger. That's a slight exaggeration; the Tanunda Tiger is actually a stuffed Abyssinian wolf that is kept over the bar of the Tanunda Pub, whereas the mutt that chased me was a fluffy little lapdog. I totally underestimated it. "It's too little to catch me," I thought smugly. But it suddenly went into fifth gear and was yapping menacingly at my ankles. It gave me such a fright I began to giggle and that took all my energy away from pedalling so that the best I could do was lift my ankles up and coast.

Just as my loaded bike slowed and began to wobble Guido, totally oblivious to the scene behind him, realised he was going the wrong way and turned back. The "Tanunda Tiger" took one look at him and, assuming Guido was on the offense, sprinted home casting looks of terror over its shoulder.

Gruffness isn't our only weapon against the hell hounds of the road. I passed a paddock full of Greyhounds on the outskirts of Warrnambool yesterday. They were up and out of their kennels in an instant; howling and growling and chasing me with their noses and jaws snapping along the bottom of the fence. They were so much like bigger versions of my Mum and Dad's Whippets though that I went instantly into baby talk.

"Hello you bewdifool little boody boodies. Aren't you gorgeous? Yes you are! You're bewdifool little boody boodies," I crooned at them. Pretty soon the snarling stopped. They started looking puzzled, then their heads and tails drooped and they ended up looking decidedly sheepish and docile.

A lot of caravanners have dogs. We always groan when we see the pet friendly sign. Invariably there is doggy doo on the tents sites and smelly scent markings on the trees and fences. This is not fun when you sleep half an inch off the ground!

We suspect sometimes the pet owners get cabin fever and start getting sick of spouses and pooches in confined spaces.

While on the Nullarboor we witnessed what looked very much like attempted doggy-cide. We watched with fascination as a lady took her two lapdogs, which we instantly named Fluffy and Muffy, out to play near a pack of howling dingoes. She took them off the leash then proceeded to throw a ball in the direction of the worst howling. "Fetch! Go on fetch!" she cried.

"I think Fluffy and Muffy belonged to the first wife," I said quietly to Guido.
"And Fluffy and Muffy's days are numbered!" he replied.

Lots of puppy lurve. Claire

Spending time in South Australia

2006-07-06T22:29:00.000-05:00

"Guess what I found?" I said riding up to Guido 15kms out of Robe.

"Not another wallet!" he groaned. "I'm not cycling all the way back to Robe into that headwind. The owner will just have to wait till we reach Beachport. What is it with these South Australians and their wallets?"

It seems ironic to me that the more money we spend the more money we find. Now that it is June we are playing a game of "catch me if you can" with the wind and the rain. To keep ourselves motivated we've stopped camping and have begun to stay in cabins. The cabins are great; we're not staying with the sniffly, cold-riddled backpackers and we're not having to go to bed at 6.30pm because it is too cold to stand around our campstove cooking couscous.

The problem with cabins though is the cost. We are paying up to three times what we would pay for a campsite and it feels like our wallets have as many holes a sieve. But at least we've managed to hold onto our wallets, which is more than we can say for many South Australians.

The young Policeman in Beachport came out rubbing his hands on his crumpled blue pants. He sported three-day old designer stubble and had breakfast crumbs sprinkled down the front of his blue jumper. I noticed all this while babbling about not being a crim.

"We've just come to hand in a wallet," I said. "It must look really dodgy because we've handed in wallets before but I promise we're not stealing them we just find them by the side of the road." He looked me over and his face plainly said; hysterical woman.

"I do tend to believe you," he said very slowly and with barely concealed sarcasm. "Because if you were 'dodgy' you probably wouldn't be here handing in the wallet. Now perhaps you can give me your name and your number and I'll make sure the owner gets it back again."

Wallets are not the only things we're finding. Along with the road kill, which has now expanded to include koalas and wombats, I am forever picking up fivers. Five CENT pieces that is. I have quite a collection in my handlebar bag and it is starting to become some kind of nervous tick or impulse. I keep thinking of the saying; see a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck.

"You just never know," I tell myself. "I might need to make a phone call and be five cents short or coffee might go up from $3.00 to $3.05 or maybe I'll find a scratch-and-win lotto ticket by the side of the road which will require me to have a lucky fiver on hand to scratch with..."

The truth of the matter, however, is that I think I am just beginning to feel anxious about not having enough money to keep cycling as long as I would like. This is so much fun - much better than driving or taking the bus!

The Coorong in South Australia is a great example of how cycling can change your perspective on a place. Guido and I had been moaning and groaning since the Nullarboor about the prospect of cycling via the Coorong. Both of us had been there before and experienced grey skies, howling winds and long boring stretches of coastal heath and sand dunes.

We thought about going via the Dukes Highway or inland via Naracoote but decided against both when advised of how busy they were. So, with heavy hearts, we cycled into Meningie and prepared for the worst.

The worst didn't eventuate. The sun shone and the wind pushed us to Policeman's Point. The road was curvy and undulating and absorbing to ride. There were few cars and thousands of birds. The Policeman's Point Caravan Park was on the edge of the lagoon. That night, we walked the wide beach and looked back at the contours of the dunes in the hazy evening light.

We'd found no information on this delightful spot and had been led to believe that it wasn't worth visiting. Instead of the long, lonely and uninhabited stretch we'd expected (and had remembered) we found cozy roadhouses and snug hotels and parks struggling to stay afloat by nabbing the visitors caught short of Meningie.

The Caretaker at Policeman's Point felt they were really up against it. "The council won't let us put up a bigger sign by the road, even though everyone else does. The nearest tourist office is run by someone related to someone who is involved with ANOTHER caravan park so they won't stock our brochures," she said. "The most advertising we've received this year has been via a photographer. He fell in love with the place and put some pictures on his website. Two days after he posted them, we got visitors and thanks to the popularity of his website we are gradually getting more."

I'm still carrying a wad of brochures and cards around that she pressed on me in the hope that I would pass them on to other travellers. But we haven't met anyone travelling that way for ages so they are still weighing down my handlebar bag along with all those five cent pieces!

Claire :0)

Adelaide Sightlines

2006-06-20T01:11:00.000-05:00

Hi from Adelaide.

This is the longest we've stayed in the one place since leaving Fremantle. The friendship is wearing thin. Today I was shushed in the library, grouched at by two would-be internet users and ignored by three waitresses. We are moving on tomorrow. That's if I can tear Guido away from the library's Paul Macguire Maritime Collection. He is in heaven. "This is the largest collection of boat books I've seen since Holland!" he gleefully hissed at me.

We've had a nice few days fluffing about Adelaide with my Mum who caught up with us here. She's a crack up. We all went to the State Gallery on Sunday. It was the Gallery's 100th Birthday and there was free cake! Mum got herself into trouble while making a beeline for the goodies. "Can you move? You're in the way of our sightline of the Premier," said the reporter sent to cover the speeches. "I'm too short to be in anybody's way," said my Mum stoutly. "And which one is the Premier anyway?" Great answer.

We start the last leg to Melbourne tommorrow!

Claire :0)

Glad Gladstone

2006-06-09T23:55:00.000-05:00

Hi there

We have finally said goodbye to the Eyre Peninsula and are within 200kms of Adelaide. Today we tried to make it 130kms from Adelaide but the wind and a general feeling of weakness and offness prevented us from getting further than 20kms before turning back. We thought we'd left behind the days when we had to cycle and cycle without stops but between here and Clare there is nothing substantial in the way of townships. It was a looking like a night in the wind and rain by the side of the road in Yacka so Guido put his foot down and made us turn back.

Gladstone is a nice enough place. We're staying at the community caravan park with Bernie the caretaker who bustles around the campers with a fag in her mouth. "I'm off to stickybeak in the Winnebago!" she told us last night. In she went on the pretext of caretaker business to check out the layout of the camper. "It's perfect!" she reported back to us. "Its compact but everything has it place and the beds are nice and big."

At this time of year a warm Winnebago starts to sound appealing. The night before last we stayed in Melrose beneath Mt Remarkable and awoke to a layer of ice down the front of tent. Our hands hurt with cold as we tried to strap on bungee cords and pull out tent pegs. It was so cold in Melrose that we went to the pub for a counter meal because we could not face standing around the barbecue. When we walked into the pub for schnitzel night we were dressed in every item of clothing we owned. By the time we walked out our faces resembled beetroots and had even begun to perspire. It was boiling.

We ended up at the free outdoor internet cafe to cool down. This has to be the weirdest internet cafe in Australia. It is in the window of what was once the bank. You go up three wooden steps to the bank window. Behind the window is the screen and on the window sill is an old grain sack which you pull back to uncover the mouse and keyboard. It seems to have been set up as a hobby by the man who lives in the bank. He is a paraplegic who lives with a dog named Bronte who is specially trained to look after him. "It is so hard!" said the lady who told us his story. "I love that dog! He is so sweet but you have to ignore him because he is a working dog. You can only pet him and play with him when he is on a break."

She, like most people here, was astounded by the fact that we have cycled all the way from Fremantle. (Did you know that by the time we reach Adelaide, with all our detours, we will have done over 4000kms? Why don't I have buns of steel yet? I'll ask the next baker.)

The proprietor at the Wilmington Takeaway just shook his head at me when he heard we'd cycled from Fremantle.

"If you can't get there by car you don't need to get there," he said. "I went across the Nullarbor in 1966. It was just a dirt road with cattle grid after cattle grid. The road was degraded so much that the cattle grids were sitting a foot or two above the surface. I saw heaps of discarded caravans that had just been rattled off the back of the cars or had disintegrated beyond usefulness. I went over in a brand new FJ Holden." "Not brand new! That must have hurt," I said. He held his hand over his heart like the memory still pained him. "I felt every rattle," he said.

An older man, who had come into the shop to listen suddenly piped up too. "If I mention the name Oppie, does that mean anything to you? First person across the Nullarbor on a bicycle in the 1930s. He did it as a publicity stunt for Malvern Star and the Manager of Malvern Star went along in a support vehicle. It took him 13 days to ride from Perth to Sydney before there was even a road. That record's never been beaten," he said. "Ah the good old days," said the Proprietor. "When men were men," I said.

At Laura we were accosted in the street by a little bird of woman. "I can't find me car keys, I can't find me car keys!" she kept telling Guido - rather like the white rabbit. She eventually found them on a table outside the local cafe with her fags. "Where do you folks come from?" she demanded.

"What? You didn't cycle all the way from there did you? Crazy. My son lives there. He's a rotten one. If I didn't call I'd only hear from him once every 13 years. He's in the church over there. I come from Kalgoorlie and I used to drive over the Nullarbor every year but not to see my son mind! I used to go to Kalgoorlie to visit a guy with a shed. It was a huge shed and he didn't know what was in there. I used to spend weeks at a time going through all the stuff. It was full of antique vases. I used to pack me boxes up with em and get the boys at the hotel to carry them down to me car and then I used to travel all over selling them antique vases to antique stores all over South Australia. I made a pretty penny I can tell you."

She said all this wthout once drawing breath and eventually the cafe owner made her a cup of coffee and enticed her away. "She can really talk," he told us. No kidding.

love Claire :0)

Birds of Eyre

2006-06-06T00:46:00.000-05:00

On the way to Coffin Bay we saw our first emu. There was limited room between the fence and the road. It was scared of us but didn't know how to escape us so it kept running alongside. It was fast. First Guido then I tried to pass it on the rolling dirt road. Its gangly legs splayed at the knees and it held its head pushed forward like the spout on a teapot. It sprinted along at 20 to 30 kilometres per hour. Guido got a little ahead and it slowed looking anxiously over its shoulder at me before deciding to brave the fence. It ran head first at the wire and got stuck for a moment; feathers flew and dust rose as it scrambled its way through at last and ran for its life.

We soon found that Coffin Bay was overrun with emus. Flocks of them ran out in front of us as we explored the Coffin Bay National Park. Dozens more lay in skeletal heaps decomposing by the side of the road. It made a nice change from decomposing roos.

As cyclists we find ourselves communing with birds a lot. We've even begun talking to them. "Warning, do not squawk for food," I told a seagull yesterday. "As refusal may offend."Guido bullies the seagulls and crows mercilessly. His method with seagulls is to chase them out into oncoming traffic. His method with crows is to throw stones. I prefer to watch their antics.

Crows are the most cowardly of birds. Any little tit with a beak can chase these giants away. If you throw them a crust they sidle up and sidle back and sidle up again before spearing the bread. It looks like they're doing the Bus Stop. A little known fact about crows is that they are enthusiastic beer drinkers. (Due to their croaky voices I suspect them also of smoking but I'm yet to prove it.) I've seen several crows with their beaks in cans of Four X. They hook their beaks in, then slug the can back, then roll the can to get more liquid to the front then slug it back again.

The Port Lincoln Parrots are a little cheeky - swooping us when they don't want our tent in their territory. When you pass them they carefully sidle over to the other side of the tree or bush claw over claw. They then turn their backs and keep cracking nuts as if, what they don't see, can't hurt them.

In South Australia the Major Mitchell Cockatoos are so numerous they are considered pests. The radio lines are clogged with irate farmers who want to be allowed to shoot them. Unlike other birds they never fly in formation. They are always swooping each other and performing quick death rolls while squabbling and squawking. Yesterday we saw another huge flock swinging on the powerlines. "Are those powerlines about to collapse?" said Guido. It sure looked like they were. I think they are also responsible for my mobile reception cutting out all the time!

Claire :0)

Eating Eyre

2006-05-23T19:33:00.000-05:00

"I'll have two large buttered finger buns, three apple scrolls, an iced coffee and a chocolate milk, please." I turned to Guido. "That probably won't even touch the sides, what else do you want for breakfast?" "Um, I think you'd better leave something for the locals to buy," said Guido nudging me to indicate the looks of the other customers who'd all turned to stare. Yesterday we'd shocked the lady serving us by ordering a pie, a pastie, a cheesecake, a doughnut, a loaf of bread and a litre and a half flavoured milk. "That'll be $20.20!" she said as if that were the most she'd ever had to charge. We got such a bad reaction that we had to go to another local cafe for our second lunch (of chocolate cake) rather than returning to the Elliston bakery.

We are like eating machines yet we've both lost a little weight. Admittedly, not a lot, but enough to make our pants sit a bit lower on our hips. As Guido is so slim it doesn't really show but try convincing the other caravanners that. I'm sure they think he doesn't eat right. Guido was bailed up in the toilets yesterday by the usual questions; "Where are you going? How many kilometres do you do a day?" Then; "How much weight have you lost?" Later, when I was cooking, we had a couple of them come into the camp kitchen for a chat. "I smelt cooking," said one bloke. "So I thought I'd better come in and investigate what you actually eat." We still have a pannier full of instant noodles and couscous, which we should be eating (just to lighten the load), but can't face now that we can go to little supermarkets and bakeries for fresh food.

In Venus Bay, we went to the General Store for breakfast. "We don't have a breakfast menu," said the lady at first. "So, we don't have scrambled eggs." I turned to catch Guido doing his dismayed (and famished); 'What? No scrambled eggs' look. The store keeper saw it too and her resistance crumbled in a flash. "Alright, I'll cook you up some scrambled eggs," she said to him. "What about you?" "I'll just have two serves of scones with jam and cream," I said casually. The store keeper went into mother-mode. "You can't have scones for breakfast!" she said and suddenly there was a breakfast menu. "What about toast? Raisin toast? Boiled eggs? I can even do porridge." The scones were delish.

We are enjoying our little hops around the towns of the Eyre Peninsula. The roads between the towns are a drag. The hills roll on, the road is brown and rutted, there are fields of wheat and canola and more wheat and more canola and then maybe a tiny patch of scrub. Once you're in one of the coastal towns though it is a different story.

Venus Bay was particularly beautiful. The town is situated on a spit of land that curves around a calm, sandy bay on one side and is pounded by the waters of the Bight on the other. We were camped a few metres from the bay and awoke each morning to a beach bathed in pink and gold light. There were Pelicans sunning themselves and looking for all the world as if they were having a morning bath. We wandered around the South Head Walk which is a crumbly track around the spit. At the entrance to the bay we watched dolphins fishing, the babes sitting very still with their heads slightly above the water, while their parents herded the fish closer to the shore. Around the corner, where the cliffs are harried and nipped at by the surf, we saw a sea eagle enjoying a fish for lunch.

Eyre Peninsula is a fishing mecca. We really stand out here. For a start we are about 25 years younger than most visitors, then there is our lack of a giant bus or Winnebago or 4WD and finally, and most conspicuous of all, is the fact that we don't fish. We are amazed by the bag limits here. You can pull (approximately) 12-20 Whiting per person per day or 60 mullet per person per day or 20 salmon per person per day. Who eats that much fish?

The bays here are so stocked up, that a lot of the time, people say they actually are reaching their bag limits. In Venus Bay, they are reaching them by just fishing straight off the jetty. A man we spoke to yesterday said when he was fishing off Locks Well the sea was black with a huge school of salmon. On the other hand, people are beginning to complain that they can't pull a flathead (no bag limit) to save their lives this year. In the eighties, when the big Tuna companies came in, they apparently decimated the tuna population within two short years so that stricter regulations had to be brought in.

We're looking forward to heading up to Whyalla to see all the cuttlefish coming into the bay to breed. At Smoky Bay they were pulling the bag limit of 15 per person off the jetty. It was a shame to see this beautiful dainty translucent blue grey fish (which looks a bit like a pearlescent squid) gasping on the wooden slats.

Today we are heading south for 40kms to some roadhouse in the middle of nowhere then we have a yucky 110kms to do to Coffin Bay. We've had headwinds all the way down the coast now. Guido bears the brunt of it. I tuck in behind him and draft the whole way. I've offered to take some of the load but he says he gets no benefit and doesn't like it. It would all be worth it if only Guido liked Oysters the produce that Coffin Bay is famous for.

lots of lurve. Claire:)

Across the Nullarbor

2006-05-17T19:47:00.000-05:00

Clutched in my hot little hand is a certificate from the Ceduna Visitors' Centre. It says: "This is to commemorate that Claire Miller crossed the Australian Continent on the Eyre Highway following the footsteps of Edward John Eyre reaching Ceduna, South Australia, on the 16th day of May 2006 by bicycle."

From leaving Norseman (pictured) to arriving in Ceduna it took us 14 days plus one rest day to do around 1200kms. We were lucky. We had only three days of headwinds and no days of rain. We suffered no injuries apart from a few twinges and a bit of a crook gut now and then. We avoided UFOs near Mundrabilla, kept clear of the road trains during misty weather, avoided the gale force winds at Cocklebiddy and managed to dodge being hit on the head with American and Russian space junk. We never once saw a Coffin Cheater (bikie gang member) - we think they've retired and given up the Eyre Highway to the caravanners - maybe they've become caravanners themselves. There were no weirdos lying beside the road waiting to rob us and not a single axe murderer in sight. The Yalata Roadhouse was closed so we didn't even get radiation sickness from the buildings that came from Maralinga. We can faithfully report that all the stories we were told prior to leaving were grossly exaggerated.

I even managed to fend off the dingoes. When we arrived at the Nullarbor Roadhouse there were signs everywhere requesting visitors to refrain from feeding them. That night a dingo turned up to root through the rubbish bins. I am obviously over my phobia because without thinking I ran at it clapping my hands and chasing it halfway across the plain. I scared the crap out of it and it didn't return that night. It was only in the morning I was told that it was already half tame because the truckies used to feed it. It probably had no idea what the heck was going on!

On the Eyre Highway we rarely got a sense of how remote it was. If you have dozens of cheery people waving at you from caravans, trucks and cars all day then you tend not to perceive yourself to be in a harsh or forbidding environment. The strangest thing we saw was on the way through the Aboriginal lands of Yalata. We saw this vehicle coming over the hill and couldn't quite work out what it was. "Claire, check this out!" said Guido furrowing his brow and screwing up his eyes. "It's a cyclist!" "We thought we were seeing things," I told the bloke as his pedalled up to us. "So did I!!!" he said. He was a Scotsman cycling from Melbourne to "play a little rugby with my mates in Perth." He was the only other cyclist we'd seen since Norseman where we met a bloke trying to get from Perth to Sydney in a month. He didn't make it. He was doing so many kilometres early on that he hurt his knee and didn't even attempt the Nullarbor.

Ceduna is a town with troubles. On the way in, the first sign we saw told us that it was illegal in Ceduna to drink alcohol on the streets and the second sign we saw told us that it was illegal to camp anywhere but in the caravan parks. Then there were all the signs about the fruit fly threat. Everyone has to give up their fresh fruit and vegetables at the border to prevent the spread of fruit fly into SA. "Stuff the quarantine, I reckon if a fly can make it all the way across the Nullarbor it deserves to get in," said Guido. "Jeez, if they want to confiscate something they should take my bicycle shorts - after three days in them they're pretty darn fruity," I said.

In town, we went to the Visitor's Centre where the sign on the front told us that if we weren't neatly dressed and wearing shoes we wouldn't be allowed in. Inside, there are toilets and the sign told us if we were minors we would not be allowed in without supervision. At the Supermarket the signs told us not to ride our bikes or our skateboards inside and that the Supermarket would not be held responsible if we left our groceries out the front and they got stolen. At the Caravan Park we were told to go at walking pace and that takeaway cask wine was verboden. In the bakery we were told if we squeezed the bread we had to buy it. After a while, we started to make up signs of our own: "Warning, if caught putting up officious signage your laminator will be confiscated."

We're heading down to Smokey Bay today and then onto Streaky Bay (we're curious about the streaks) and then around the Eyre Peninsula to Port Augusta.

Claire :0)

Dingo Dreaming

2006-05-06T01:48:00.000-05:00

Howdy from Cocklebiddy!

Thanks so much for all your emails. The roadhouse owners think I'm a sicko cos' I am sitting here cacking myself laughing. I will answer you all soon but right now I've 10 minutes to write this entry and counting.

The day before yesterday I stopped in the middle of nowhere for a sip of water. Guido was way ahead. There were no trees, just light green salt bush, red dirt, hard blue skies and the endless stretch of the world's longest straightest road at 90 miles. Not a soul in sight and suddenly I hear a dog yipping. Look left, look right. Nup. Must be dreamin' no dogs out here.

That night we slept at a rest area 114kms from Balladonia and 66kms from Caiguna. There were three other vans, a table for our stuff and a dry flat patch for the tent. "I swear I heard a dog yip today," I said to Guido as the sun turned the clouds pink. "Must of been hearing things."

Ten minutes later, the sun gone, the dingos started howling and finally for me the penny dropped. A pack maybe 100 metres to the right started up and another pack 100 metres to our left answered. My spine went as stiff as a board and I could feel each prickle as every little hair on the base of my spine stood up straight. I have heard horrible stories of lone cyclists harried by packs of dingoes. Logically, there was probably only one cyclist this ever happened to but illogically I didn't care because I was just petrified.

"Ahh don't worry about it," said Guido as I crept closer and started pawing at his fleece. "If the dingoes come we'll just lock ourselves into the pit toilet for the night." We hadn't eaten at that stage so I had to wait outside the tent till the noodles boiled, till Guido slowly spooned every morsel into his mouth totally absorbed by his meal, till we scoffed our snickers bars, locked the bikes up and generally pfaffed about (Guido is the pfaffer in this relationship). The whole time I was sure all that howling was getting closer. I made Guido turn his head lamp on repeatedly only to find the evil dingo I'd seen creeping up on us was just another rock. I also insisted he escort me to the aforementioned pit partly so I could go to the toilet but mainly so I could check if there was a lock on the door. What a wuss! I collected stones in my pockets and made Guido build up a pile outside the tent doors. I took off my belt to use as a whip and told Guido if the dingoes attacked we would make a run for it to the pit toilet then yell to the people in the van to come and drive all over them. Then I jumped into the tent and about ten seconds later fell fast asleep.

The dingoes continued to howl all night but after waking three of four times I got used to them and actually started to find it kind of comforting. Meanwhile, poor old Guido felt duty bound as my protector to lie awake all night with a stone at the ready. He got no sleep whatsover as around twenty dingoes hunted in and around the rest area - probably catching the rodents and wallabies attracted to the spot by all the rubbish left by us humans.

The next morning it was overcast, foggy and lightly raining. This is the time to be out here. The environment that seemed so harsh the day before softened in the moist air. Man size spider webs sparkled between bushes and distant trees showed darkly against the white mist. We saw the most beautiful wedgetail eagle in a tree. I had time to get a drink, blow my nose and take a picture while it revolved its head from side to side to regard me with each of its golden eyes. We've seen many more since then circling for food in groups of two or three.

At the next rest area we were taken under the wing of a couple of caravanners who fed us hot, sweet milky tea with homemade nut loaf. mmm. We told them about the dingoes and they said they'd heard them many times but rarely ever saw them. Later we saw a feral dog (black) scouting around for road kill. It slunk up behind us but ran away when Guido did his thang - you know - that scaredy cow thang.

Oh well, let's hope the weather gods keep sending us the same ripping tail winds we've had over the past couple of days. Weather and legs willing we will head to Madura tomorrow where we'll probably have a well earned rest day overlooking the ancient sea bed along which the Eyre Highway continues.

cheerio!!! Claire

Albany to Esperance on a pushie

2006-04-27T01:40:00.000-05:00

"Yous riding pushies are yer? Where yer headin? How many k's do yer do a day? That's not much. Jeez, lotta hills ahead of yers. Wouldn't catch me ridin' a pushie. Watch out for those road trains. They don't stop for no-one."

These are the standard words of encouragement we've received every day since Albany. So far the road trains are not as bad as expected. When they are heading towards you at 110kms per hour the wind hits your face like a whip. But when they are behind you, you can point your front wheel slightly left and surf the wind like a wave.

We're getting very accustomed to fluorescent orange and yellow vests, t'shirts and rain pants. Every second person from the Stirling Ranges to Esperance has gone fluoro. Today I actually caught myself, speculating over whether or not to buy a giant glow-in-the-dark PVC and fleece jacket. Talk about peer pressure!

This is not, as I first thought, some bizarre throw back to eighties fashions. There is a new nickel mine opening 150kms away and the whole region seems to be involved from tank builders and OH&S nurses to road builders and rangers. This is also a ute lovers paradise. There are utes and dust covered 4WDs everywhere. All day, every day, we were passed by white utes heading to or from the mine site. The campgrounds are full too. Many workers are from inter and intrastate and they've brought their vans to live in.

"I had to bring me camper," said Ralph, a Quality Assurance Assessor. "I can't stand workin with people all day long then drinkin with em and then havin to live with em in a donger as well. It's just too much."

We met Ralph in Ravensthorpe, about 200kms from Esperance. Without him, we would have remained totally oblivious to the bitter campground rivalry between the mine site workers and the road workers. It seems the latter, who live together in dongers, only pay $50 per week, use the campers' kitchens for illegal BBQs and make so much racket they have to be shushed on a regular basis by the caravan park owners. The mine site workers, on the other hand, are in bed with a tinnie by 9pm and get up quietly at 4.30am without making a fuss. Well, that was Ralph's side of the story. All we knew was that one of the mine site workers fell asleep with a DVD on so that it played the opening credits over 500 times and kept us awake for most of the night. We heard nothing from the dongers and the roadworkers even offered us the scraps of their fried chicken. yum.

Speaking of food. Guido and I speak about it all of the time. You know you've got a bit of a problem when you convince the Manager of Brumbys to open up 2 hours early just so you can get a couple of pasties, hot bread, Brownes Coffee Chills and apple scrolls before your next cycling day. He's opening at 6am for us. "Not a problem at all! Just knock on the back door and tell us what you feel like and we'll make sure you get it." That will get me out of bed tomorrow.

You also know you've got a problem when the check out chick at Woolies turns to a mate and says "Uh oh, those freaks are back for more muesli bars." Yesterday we bought 84, but we didn't eat them all at once. Oh no, we're organised little bunnies, we sent them ahead.

We would like to have seen more of Esperance than the inside of Woolies and the inside of the Post Office, but it was not to be. We rang all the road houses on the Nullarbor yesterday to ask them what kind of groceries they had. If you ever have to ring road houses on the Nullarbor don't, whatever you do, use the word "groceries"! They hate that word. "Nope, nobody out this way sells groceries. Nope, never heard of groceries. Nope, we only sell chikko rolls and only if we've eaten our fill first." After the first couple, I changed my tack and started asking if they sold "basic food stuffs such as bread, milk, noodles and baked beans". This got me a lot further and I was also able to make arrangements with most for them to hold packages for us until we got there. As long as I didn't mention the "g" word, they were all really nice.

We then went to the post office and asked when the next mail delivery on the Nullarbor would happen. I got one of those fat, white-bearded types who look jolly but are actually as cold and bad a## as two-day old turds on a glacier. "I don't know when the next delivery to the Nullarbor is and even if I ask my MANAGER she won't know either because it doesn't even go from here. The entire network of Pioneer and Greyhound buses has shut down and doesn't run anywhere in Australia so we can't guarantee mail to those remote areas anymore!" He seemed almost pleased to tell me this.

I rang the Norseman Post Office instead and they informed me that the mail would go on Friday and be delivered on Wednesday (one delivery per week) but that I had Buckley's chance of getting the parcels to Norseman in time unless I hot tailed it over to Woolies and got those parcels in the post pronto. So that was where we were yesterday. We hooned around the supermarket throwing cous cous and noodles and snickers bars into the trolley like the bomb was due any day. I got so stressed I even caught myself frantically trying to decide whether I could cook pappadams on a camp stove. We ran back to the post office and proceeded to pack seven post bags full of muesli bars, nuts and noodles and to address them to each roadhouse. "So, what's in these bags anyway?" said the postal lady who served us the second time. "Oh," she said when we told her, "more crazies cycling across the Nullarbor."

Claire xxx

Scaredy Cows

2006-04-18T02:20:00.000-05:00

Guido has a profound effect on cows.

He usually cycles about 500 metres to a kilometre ahead of me. (Fine by me as our cycling rhythms are a very different and I hate being right behind him as he struggles to find the right gears up steep hills.) Sometimes I'll lose sight of him but the cows never do. They ignore cars, they ignore motorbikes, they ignore farmers and walkers and kangaroos but treat Guido like eeevil incarnate. After one glance, the "look-out cow" sounds the alarm and they go off!

I've seen paddocks-full of fat, normally docile, cows stampeding away from the road en masse. I've seen them buck like broncos in their haste to put as much trampled grass between them and my man as possible. We figured at first that they must see the bicycle, with its grand orange flag and fluoro yellow backpack cover, as some sort of beast on the prowl. But I'm on exactly the same bike with the same flag and same cover and yet the cows are completely unfazed by me. In fact, I'm getting a bit paranoid about it. I've tried staring them down, I've tried shouting shoo and scat and waving my arms about - nothing. They just keep chewing grass and flicking at flies with their tales. What am I? Invisible?

We met a dairy farmer on the from Northcliffe to Shannon National Park the other day. He and his mother had just moved their herd of cows to better pasture. They were parked either side of a blind curve; he in his big red tractor and she in the family Commodore. The farmer's dog decided Guido was a rather garish cow himself and attempted to herd him into the paddock with the rest. After that we had to stop and chat. It was one of those conversations that is very hard to get going and very hard to end. We seem to have a lot of chats like that with farmers. It's a bit like pushing a loaded touring bike up a hill.

The farmer was a big burly guy with a bushy red beard and staring blue eyes. He told us he was considering giving up the farm and heading to Tom Price to wash dishes. He reckoned he could make more money on the mines and he's probably right. "But at least as a farmer you're your own boss," said Guido. "Nah mate, the bank manager's my boss mate," he said. Then there was one of those very long pauses where he simply stared at us. After a minute or two we shuffled our feet and politely coughed and got ready to say; "well, bye then," but of course he'd just been thinking and as we raised feet to pedals he said; "So where are yous guys headin? Yous guys better be careful on them roads over Easter. Those cityfolk think they have to get where they're headin in two seconds flat or else." And so the conversation went on for another twenty minutes.

It was very similar to one we had with another farmer on the Grimwade Road between Collie and Balingup. He stopped us to ask if we were "having fun" on the deep, steep rutted gravel roads. "Yep!" we said, then nothing. Just stares. So we got ready to leave and then out he rumbled with another question. It turned out he was from Mumballup. (More staring.) Then, being facetious, I asked him WHERE he lived in Mumballup.

Mumballup consists of two houses, a tavern and the four horseshoes the one horse of the one horse town left behind when he moved to the city. We'd just come from there where we'd purchased a lemon squash from the bar man. He was one of those blokes with a head full of teeth that didn't quite fit in his mouth. More like a row of piano keys than teeth or like Dr Frankenstein was having a bad day and put the teeth in his jaw in the wrong order. He was laughing and abusing the crap out of a baby pet galah making a racket on the edge of the bar. He kept cracking himself up with his jokes. "Sorry mate, I've been here on my own for two weeks and I've got to go fishing. I've got cabin fever. No no no, I've got TAVERN fever!" He cracked himself up again. Anyway, he was a very nice man who came out later to sneak us free Red Bulls. "Sssh!" he said when he handed them to us and looked carefully from side to side down the empty street of Mumbullup. Not sure who he thought would see him. Maybe the galah is a dobber?

Anyway, better stop rambling on and go. I've put some more pics in the online album if anyone is interested. so long from Albany. Claire xxx

Highway 1: Easter time at Denmark

2006-04-15T00:42:00.000-05:00

Hi Punks
Apologies for the lack of posts but a rabid pack of internet crazy german tourists have taken over the services between Fremantle and here so I haven't had a chance to get online. They're all hooning around the state in rented Kaui and Maui vans driving a little too fast and a little too close for our liking. We cycled into Walpole the day before yesterday, wet, cold, tired and without accommodation at Easter. Good one. I was just in time to stand in line at the information centre while the aforementioned tourists asked questions like; "Where do they farm Kangaroos in Australia?" and "Is it the season for Kangaroos in Australia? Do they bite?"

Denmark is crazy busy. There are over a thousand people staying at our campsite. We have come here for a few days to get off the roads over Easter and to hibernate till the food stores open again. We're in the anti family section of the Ocean Beach Caravan site. That means right up the back with the heavy metal heads, surfer dudes and potheads. Luckily for us they imbibe so much alcohol so early in the day that they are all tucked up and sleeping like little babes by 10.30pm. Needless to say after a couple of weeks of quiet bush camping it feels like downtown Sydney.

We can't believe we're almost at Albany. We headed out of town exactly two weeks ago and have enjoyed a leisurely tour of the South West. We've zig zagged up into the hills then down to the coastal plain then back up to the hills again. The day we left we passed around 2500 cyclists on their last day of the Great WA bike ride. That meant about 1000 high fives, 500 hellos and another 500 "You're going the wrong way!" comments. They'd ridden much the same route we're doing in reverse. The ride is still the talk of the towns between Perth and here. The locals and Calm Rangers are telling us about a sea of tents and seven semi trailers housing toilets, showers and food. The Publicans are particularly happy because they claim the cyclists were the biggest beer and wine drinkers they've ever had the privilege of hosting. Good work Eventscorp!

Apart from that one day on the way to Walpole the weather has been perfect for cycling. Nice overcast days and a few showers to give the giant Karri trees that perfect rose gold glow. Up until the day before yesterday we were able to avoid the main highways choosing instead to slog it out over deep gravel and ruts rather than spend time with the trucks. We had some amazing days heading through the state forests around Dwellingup and Collie and ended up riding right into the Lewana Rally on Grimwade road near Balingup. We camped a stone's throw from the Service Park and met some very enthusiastic volunteers who claimed to be looking forward to a day hanging out at the road closure barriers.

The first few days of cycling and tenting were a bit much. The latter more so than the former. I got shocking cramps after camping at first but eventually realised that as long as I slept on my left side and not my right side I was fine. We're now in a very set routine morning and night and each have our bits and pieces we're in charge of. As for the bum boils, the nice lady at Eagle Wool Products in Freo sent me a grey sheepskin seat cover poste restante to Collie and I am much more comfortable.

The picture above is what I see of Guido each day. It is on a nice road near Nanga Mill in Dwellingup when we were on the way to camp out on the Munda Biddi.

Ok, so we're off to Albany on Monday and then we'll be out of range for a while when travelling one of the more remote segments of our journey between Albany and Esperence. We think we're heading via the Stirling Ranges but not sure yet so will try to post again soon.

Claire xxx

Testing testing one two three

2006-03-19T22:42:00.000-05:00

Check out the fully loaded steeds we'll be relying on for the next 12 months.

The one on the left is "Kermit" and the one on the right is "bike". (I can only hope Guido is feeling more creative when naming our first born!)

We spent this weekend on a test run along the Swan River stopping for lunch under the Moreton Bay Figs at Point Walter (pictured). What with the Bike Hike and the Great Western Bike Ride this weekend we kept getting strange looks as if to say - aren't you psychos lost? I say "psychos" because it was 34 degrees and only mad dogs and cricketers ventured forth from the shade.

Guido just about killed me when he led me up the steepest hill in Fremantle but we learnt a tonne of stuff about how to pack the bikes and how to ride with an extra 30 kilos on board. We also learnt that this ride might just be a teensy weensy bit tough - especially on the old posterior. Guido has stolen my gel seat, is contemplating a sheep skin saddle and is even contemplating some rump-enhancing padded panties. Stay tuned for THAT photo!

I guess my next post will be from Dwellingup!

Claire

The best laid plans

2006-02-18T03:52:00.000-05:00

Yes folks, Guido and I are like a pair of chooks on steroids. We're hatching more plans than Mel Gibson in Chicken Run and we are working our way through a five page 'to do' list.

Top of the list was sorting out how to communicate while on the road. Guess what? This is it. I'll send you guys a note as I update words and pics. If you want to log on and take a look you can and if you don't, you don't have to. Meanwhile, I'll just keep prattling into the void.

One slight hiccup; Guido's bicycle is in pieces at the top of our pantry. He hasn't yet received his bicycle frame from Surly which could make cycling a little trickier than usual. (Not to mention the neglected training program.)

The big departure day is March 31-ish. Not long now!

Claire :)