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 May-June issue of 2003. Length: 1000 words |
It's All Downhill From Here! At least, that’s what we keep hearing. Ever since we reached the West Coast, at every petrol station we’ve had to endure the same conversation: Fat man wearing singlet: “Which way ya headed?”Lucky for us, there aren’t many petrol stations over here. You’d think, though, that after this many months on the road that things would get a little easier. That’s why we called the first few months “training”: we weren’t professionals when we started, but, by gum, we would be by WA. No more of this 50km a day kids stuff like back in Queensland. No way! We’re athletes now! Babies could do 50km a day! Big Kev could do 50km a day! That overweight, singlet-sporting, which-way-ya-headed bloke could probably even do 50, but he’d make so many jokes about not having to pedal in the back seat that we’d dump him in a ditch at 35. By the time we reached Western Australia we’d be lean, taut, pedal-monsters with legs like Phar-Lap! And just as fast! Broome to Perth in a week, I tell you! Whoosh! “Did you see that? We just got passed by two Canadians on a bike! I thought you said your Mitsubishi was the fastest thing on the road! Step on it, Earl!” But sadly, here we are, almost all the way to Perth, still pumping along six months later at, yup, 50km a day. All I ask is: Where’s my downhill? Maybe it’s in Perth. When we reach Perth, we can lighten the load a bit. After all, we’re used to carrying enough supplies to survive for a week at a time between petrol stations, a month at a time between supermarkets. Once we hit the southwest, it’s populated all the way down to Albany, so maybe we can get by with only one spare tread and 10 litres of spring water, instead of five treads, seven tubes, 18 cans of curry-flavoured tuna and 60 litres of water fit for a cow. And I can tell you, without a doubt, that we feel we’re about ready for a bit of population again, and the kind of population I’m talking about is constant population. I’d like the option to drive past a petrol station (especially if I see a bunch of fat men in singlets hanging around out front), confidently knowing that there may be another place to purchase food up the road sometime later that day. Sad but true: We actually shout for joy when we see a crumpled McDonald’s chip container buried amongst the roadside rubbish. And we don’t even really like McDonald’s. It’s what McDonald’s represents: enough people in the area to justify its existence (and an ice cream cone for 40 cents). We’ve been out of civilization for far too long, and if there’s one thing this last stretch has taught us, it’s that even Aimee can have a crummy day now and then. That’s really saying something, since Aimee smiles more than Freddo on Good Friday. Not that it’s the West Coast’s fault. That’s like eating a whole can of beans and blaming the fifth one for making you toot. No, I blame the lead up. See, way back in spots like Charters Towers, Richmond, and Camooweal, the vast, open space and searing heat was new. New and exciting! “Yes!” shouted Aimee, with no one around for miles to hear (except the occasional lonely bovine), “This is the Australia I was looking for!” Every morning she’d climb out of the tent, peer off into the flat, endless expanse of yellowed grass or red dust and smile until a fly got stuck in her teeth. But, something about cycling the Outback, the Barkly, the Stuart, the Kimberley and the Pilbara in rapid succession (as rapid as 50km a day can be), tends to detract from the bliss of peaceful solitude. Solitude? Solitary is more like it. Except people in solitary get bread with their water. All we get are flies. Think of it like this: Imagine that your favourite food is pizza. Mmmm… pizza! Then someone says to you, hey, how would you like to eat pizza every single day for the next five months? “Wow, would I ever!” you’d say. Trust me: after four, your favourite food would no longer be pizza. Had we begun this undertaking in Perth rather than Brisbane, The Great Northwest would have seemed absolutely fabulous (like that first week of nothing but pizza!). Heading north somewhere between Geraldton and Carnarvon at the hazy, mid-west border where bushes become scrub and the goats turn feral, I’m positive I would have woken up one morning to the sound of, “Yes! This is the Australia I was looking for!” Instead, we’re coming from the other direction, which means instead of, “Yes! This is the Australia I was looking for!” I get to wake up to, “Ugh, this water tastes like CRAP!” That’s certainly not a positive way to start your day (unless, of course, you live next to the Avon Downs bore, where crap-flavour is a step up). Don’t worry, Aimee: our downhill is coming. It has to be. If anyone deserves a downhill by now, it’s us. After being chased by a cyclone at the Pardoo Roadhouse, spending a week in Port Hedland after the flooding of the Yule River, conquering the Pilbara during the driest Wet season in 120 years, and worst of all, arriving in Carnarvon too late for mango season, who better to receive a downhill than us? Any day now, Aimee, after all of our climbing, and scraping, and slogging, we’ll reach the top of this metaphorical hill, and be able to look back at everything we’ve accomplished. Then you can smile again, put your feet up, and enjoy the ride all the way down. But be warned that the second you do, a familiar singlet will drive up and shout, “Oi! She ain’t pedaling! AH-HAHAHA!” |
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| © 2003 Kevin & Aimee Beimers. | |