The exact date is but a distant memory, though I believe it was the first Monday in October, two days after the W/C Eagles’ grand final win, and about three weeks before my darling Suanne’s birthday – an event I will not make.

I had been nervously chilling out at my mother’s house in Donnybrook for a few days prior, trying to get my head around the task I had set for myself. Even though my quest had been about a year in the planning, I felt sure that I’d completed sufficient training, and my stores were well supplied, something heavy was sitting in my gut like a lump of iron ore wrapped in Plasticine. However, with only one known solution to cure these anxious yipps, I strapped my kit to the bike on a cold, still morn, said my brief goodbyes, and left.

A flame flickered low; another candle is lighted;

Two eyes are born to flight with a vision so pure,

But the affordable view leads only to a riddle.

In the form of a boy will this silent walk be,

Underneath a braided pattern with a long history;

A portal may well it be,

As a seed does when it creates a tree,

With one small thought linked to a memory.

Every new step he will take in harmony with the past,

As if a line in the sand is drawn with every next stride,

But where that foot lands is seasonal;

Like truth and lies are;

In constant movement.

First Leg:

             Donnybrook to Boyup Brook…

The hill my mother’s house sits on top of is huge; it rolls all the way down to the main street of town that just happens to be the South West Highway. I would not know it, as I applied both front and rear brakes for maximum purchase, that this would be the only day of the entire journey that I would have the benefit of a friendly, soft descend to get into character with.

The scene here is valley after rolling green valley, filled from boundary fence to babbling brook with big, plump cows. Roosters are in fine voice, also, crowing their dictation to those who would listen, whether it be across the street or in faraway shires. I can smell the hint of diesel fumes as the four-wheel drives warm up to join the symphony, and dogs bark with joy as they jump to their thrones in the back of dusty Utes. I spy some of my fellow humans taking advantage of the fresh morning air in their quest for exercise, and, as they stroll by, they both nod to each other in mutual assent that my need for it seems greater.

Before I make a right turn at the intersection, I paused for a moment to get the story clear in my head one last time: I am about to attempt a solo pushbike ride from here to Melbourne; actually, to be fair, the trip did begin properly in Perth a couple of months ago, but, since that date, my love and I had uprooted and moved our entire kit and caboodle to Tasmania, a logistical feat that I recommend only doing once in a lifetime, and this is my twisted little way of getting there. Because of certain hassles associated with the move, I figure my departure to be a good month late and had seriously considered postponing it until next autumn, but I simply could not imagine what another six months of nervous energy would be like, so the decision stood firm.

I took the turn, nervously, and rolled less than a kilometre before turning left to embark on seventy-six kilometres of pure bliss. This was just the thing to stretch the sinew and convince the muscles that we were going to try to remain friends with each other through this play, and the first hour of the day flew by like a birdseed commercial, but, believe me, I wasn’t getting too carried away before the patrons had even taken their seats.

The terrain here was undulating, but by no means was it difficult, and the traffic was calm; up until mid-morning, that is, when a steady stream of caravans began passing me, heading in the opposite direction. I’d been told about a country and western music festival that’d taken place somewhere down here over the weekend, and, judging by the beaming smiles and the enthusiastic waves coming from the high hat-wearing hootenannies, the bash must’ve been a great success – I wondered how many hangovers there must have been behind those dirty windshields.

The southern part of Western Australia is a truly inspiring place, boasting some of the most diverse agricultural practices this country can offer. If more time had been afforded me, I would’ve followed a course south through lush, green pasture land, orchards, vineyards, Karri forest, and, ultimately, rugged coastline, but, alas, my destiny lay to the east, so I find myself traversing in this direction, enjoying mainly the pasture concept.

Beautiful farmhouses are dotted here and there on this misty landscape, with little trickles of smoke trailing from their respective chimneys to smear into the midmorning sky. The cows in the paddocks all blow frost from their nostrils, as do I, and, while my idea of them is of something natural and complete, they do not share the same summation as they gaze upon my colourful road show.

My friend, Wayde, had given me a big waterproof coat, the kind they wear on oilrigs and dockyards: bright yellow, with aluminous tape running horizontally around the waist, chest and sleeves. What an important gift this would turn out to be; not only did it keep me dry, but it was also lined on the inside with a netting that worked like an insulator in conjunction with your body heat. On days such as this one, when I would keep it on for most of the ride, it would literally be wringing wet on the inside by the time I took it off. It would remain one of the most important items of the entire trip.

I made the town just after midday with hardly a fuss. The bike performed well, my body felt untested, and I had the whole afternoon to reflect and settle in.

Well, I found myself referring to a town consisting of fewer than one thousand six hundred people, although I counted no more than ten for the entire day. The ones I spied in the main street as I pulled up to the curb beside the pub seemed totally disinterested in my endeavours, refusing the return of a smile like it would be needed for far greater duties one day. It’s amazing how easily one can feel like a big yellow alien. I brushed the ice from my shoulders and went into the bar in search of a room.

This region was once home to the Bibbulmun tribe, and the town gets its name from the word ‘booyup’, or ‘place of big stones’; apparently, the European surveyor who first came upon the region in 1845 carved his name and the date into a big jarrah tree – the tree is now dead, but his handiwork is still in the stump, and so is his legacy, because, sitting at the near side of a rectangular bar with nothing else but a carpet of discarded tote tickets to their feet, were more Europeans – the kind who look, and talk, just like me, but don’t always have a lot to say.

A fresh-looking young barmaid happened across to see if I was lost, and looked unsure when I enquired about a room. After I was ushered into the little bottle shop to check the empty register, I was told that a room would not be a problem, but it was right next to the men’s toilet and got a bit rowdy from time to time. I wasn’t arguing. She gave me the key and thanked me for the money, but no smile was offered.

This was a good chance to get into shape with the stripping down of the bike. Some days would prove easier than others, and, as it turned out, with some stairs, a few narrow corridors, and a very cramped bedroom to negotiate, today would prove to be the testiest.

My equipment of choice is as follows: a Merida hybrid bicycle, meaning it’s just a combination of a mountain bike comfort design married with road bike running gear. On the back is a rack that caters for two side panniers, and towed behind is a Bob trailer: an American-designed contraption with a single rear wheel and rated to carry between thirty-five and forty kilos. Before this ride commenced properly, I spent a lot of time distributing the weight between the trailer and the rack until I was happy with the performance of the entire package. I never changed too much once the ball got rolling, but there would be associated problems to follow.

Although I carried with me a tent, sleeping bag, food, water, and every kind of hardware for cooking and mending, barring any unforeseen incidents along the way, the camping out part of this tale was still a way off in the distance, and, no matter how meagre the hospitalities, a bed and a hot shower were always welcomed, along with a cold beer and a good feed.

I scrubbed up and waltzed into the bar, trying a different tone to see if I could extract some natter, but the only thing I found was that my natter didn’t matter – Layne drinks alone this evening; this crew doesn’t want to be shaken up too much. Being male, there was nothing left for me but to study the barmaid and marvel at how such a feminine creature could be trapped inside this turnstile of mediocrity. On the rare occasion she held her stare for more than a millisecond, I detected some pain in it, hovering very close to the surface. I could only conclude that, if she was frequently involved with the likes of these fallen court jesters, it’s no bloody wonder.

My mind wandered off to the morning Suanne had dropped me at Hobart airport; the vision of her quivering lips and the flood of tears racing down her sweet face will be something I’ll have to carry with me until this tale concludes, and there will be times ahead when it’ll be almost too much to bear.

I drank, thinking about her. I ate, thinking about her, and then I went to my noisy room and fell asleep, thinking about sadness.

With not much of this rickety road travelled,

His blistered little feet scurry for more,

Innocently,

Like the appetite for this chore was not of his choosing.

There is much to do, much to learn,

With no known reason why;

Imposingly;

Every new second of information has a promise attached,

As a spiky thorn would deliver.

The arrows of change will come diagonally,

And each and every one of them has already left the bow,

To arrive at a time of his choosing,

But to recognise the fruits of one’s yearnings is not always pretty,

And allies will be needed,

But which arrow to trust is a question only answered by the heavily scarred.

Second Leg:

                  Boyup brook to Kojonup

Bam! Reality check. I should have known what was to come, because those big stones the natives talked about actually bound together nicely to make bloody big hills, the first of which began virtually right at the doorstep to the town and had me off the bike to push the thing the first two kilometres of the day, and, just as I got to the top of that first monster, it started to rain.

Two things did not change all day: the rain did not stop, and neither did the hills, not for the entire eighty-five kilometres. I swear, there was not one part of this stretch where you could see the horizon for more than about eight hundred metres, and, every time I had to climb one of those bad boys, I shed as many tears as the sky, then, out of the grey – whack!

A lightning bolt struck right next to me and turned my white corpuscles blue, and I leapt off the bike and ran for cover under one of the many trees.

A fumble with the helmet was needed to determine what material the casing was made of – plastic, thank God! I had visions of my long red hair being charred to a cinder. The rain stayed, but the thunder part of the storm was moving very quickly to the north, so it wasn’t long before confidence was restored and this sideshow rolled away once again.

About an hour further down the road, it became increasingly noticeable that my right knee was in some grief; a retirement gift from many years of laying carpet. This was not the only physical issue I’d been monitoring in my daily life, but it was definitely the one I hadn’t expected to mutter and whinge so soon into the trip. A decision to pull over for a stretch and some grub was made, even though it was showering down like in the days of Noah.

My chiropractor, Mathew, had wisely instructed me to stretch my hamstrings as often as possible, so I found a an old tree stump standing precariously on a lean at a height that suited my flexibility, and, with my leg jutting out at right angles to my body, I felt everything pull and click as I slowly leant further forward and released whatever air my lungs were carrying. This felt good – very good – but the right side of the knee was not responding as well as I hoped. The problem was the load in the trailer. Fine going down the slopes, but every climb up the other side had me up out of the saddle hyper-extending my legs through the pedals with every bit of power I could muster. With twenty-five kilometres of this still to go, it made the only decision available to me easy to arrive at – I ride in pain for the rest of the day. I chucked a couple of mandarins down my neck and soldiered on.

Every now and then, life has an uncanny knack of shaking you out of your solitary glumness, and the beauty of such situations when they happen can be so profound with their unique healing powers that they live on within you for many a year. I remember reaching the top of one of these hills, thinking, surely the ground will flatten out eventually. The need for this was so great that my concentration had been focussed on the horizon for so long, without even realising that the countryside was gradually changing to my left and right. Small hobby farms were beginning to spawn along the roadside, and, as I let the bike carry me down into a valley under its own momentum for the umpteenth time today, two foals came running up to greet me on their paddock side of the fence. They were so cute and inquisitive, intent on making contact with this friendless, silly shaped contraption limping down the road. When it was apparent that the intruder wasn’t stopping, they started stamping up and down, and chasing me for as far as the boundary allowed.

I would realise, as this lesson played out over time, along with all the other highlights and events yet to present themselves, that no matter how much you try to slow down your mode of transport in this life, you still find yourself flying by things with certain agendas and deadlines that don’t allow for flexibility and change. All I wanted to do that day was pull up and run over to those two playful characters, and embrace their innocence with love and respect, but I needed to feel closeness with certain services that might be needed at any moment if my knee decided to retire from the game prematurely. I took the little gift for what it was and used it to freshen my spirits for the hour it would take to reach the Albany highway: the main artery splitting the town centre of Kojonup.  

We would use the primary stages of this route leading up from Albany to relieve the Nyoongar people of their right to freely inhabit these traditional lands they’d called home for thousands of years, when, in 1837, British soldiers and surveyors trekking up to Perth decided that the abundance of fresh water springs surrounding this spot would be far better used furthering the Crown’s conquests, or was that the Clown’s? Well, given that the fresh water the Nyoongar people cherished for so long is now too salty to drink…

I’m going to leave it as the latter.

This line in the sand is significant for another reason for which we are responsible: land clearing. To the east of here begins the human scourge that is the wheat belt. Most of this farming concept in WA is further to the north-east, but from here I will spend the next few days skirting it on the southern side – I would not know at this point just how much I would learn to despise these incessant fields in the coming weeks.

I fell into the main street of town – literally! And gee, what a surprise – I landed right on my bad knee. I thought I’d got used to these click in pedals by now… Nup!

I stuck my left leg out to embrace the curb, but the momentum was with the trailer that was swinging out to the fat side of the street, and it quite simply, with no fuss at all, and flung me over on the leg that was still dead-bolted to the bike. The one big positive that would come from this unplanned misdemeanour is that it would ensure smiles aplenty from the town’s folk today. Maybe I’m onto something, I thought.

“Where ya headed?” The bloke at the motel reception inquired.

“Hobart,” Yours Truly replied impishly.

“Wattya plannin’ on crawlin’ or ridin’?”

“Got a roommate?”

I was smiling underneath, and I would have a beer with this guy later, but I wasn’t giving away too much until these soaked clothes came off and piercingly hot water had penetrated my skin; my knee also needed serious attention, not to mention that I’d torn my calf muscle with the circus act outside.

The room was good, and the front door lead straight off the forecourt, enabling me to push my road train into the main passageway without a problem. I ripped the kit apart to clutch the necessary implements to scrape the muck from my hide, and plunged myself under the growing steam in the rain room. There are no words for this, but I will say that if a wild camp had been inevitable this evening, there would’ve been a very crumply, grumpy boy greeting the day in the morning. As things stood at this point, there was no guarantee that either the machine or the man was going any further with this adolescent marathon of unpredictability.

The next priority to address as I slipped into warm, dry clothes was to find a chemist to purchase some Voltaren gel. This proved to be a breeze. The aforementioned drug was readily available two doors up the road, and I had it administered within a couple of minutes. I also found myself in the supermarket buying more water, some chocolate, and potato chips. A nice lady at the checkout told me about the tourist information centre located about a kilometre down the road, so I took this as an opportunity to limber up and try to ease the tension building in this very important joint of mine. It worked. I would remember this as an act of always attempting to change routine, and, as I browsed through the many pamphlets on offer in the store, I made the decision that, no matter what tomorrow chucked at me, I was not getting out of the saddle. As a result, the first of many little catch phrases for the trip would be born, the first of which was: ‘inner thighs get you over the rise’.

By now, the sun was getting low, so it was time to try a different door; that being the one that leads to the bar, the very same one adjacent to where a mangled mess had put on a very cheep display earlier – an award-winning performance that had not yet been forgotten, I assure you…

“Here ya go, Mick; this bloke tryin’ to ride to Hobart upside down.”

Finally, I’m a hit!

“G’day, Mick, want to join me?” I asked with an outstretched hand.

“Naa, mate, I ’avn’t mastered walkin’ upright yet.”

My kind of people; I felt right at home, and I kept feeling it until six cold ones had slid down my neck and my jaws were aching from laughter. I ended up sharing a meal with some plumbing contractors from out of town, and we chewed the fat while watching a story on television about a guy who consumes twenty litres of Coca-Cola a day.

When back at the room, I made a few phone calls to some family members to alleviate any fears that might be growing. I told them about my knee and they urged me to consider pulling out. The very thought of this being a possibility made me want to smash something, but I listened to their pleas with rational thought, and, to put the matter to rest, I decided to see what the next few days would bring, and, if I make it to Esperance, I’ll evaluate whether crossing the Nullarbor will be a reality from there. As it will come to pass, one of these calls made here is going to play a huge role in getting me over the line, but, as I drift off into the blackness, I do not know this. What I do know is that morning is assured; which direction I go to greet it isn’t.

When things are calm, he can learn to walk unaided,

Oblivious to those elements that plot and scheme around him,

As the wind carries its will;

For we are each portions of this will;

Guiding what we take, and what we give toward a future lesson.

In the night we are pupils with a bad memory;

His eyes see the picture of this clearly,

Though small conclusions sit beside long equations,

Stimulating more questions only.

Along this thin line, there are numbers,

And he must learn to trust only one;

The realisation of this will take a lifetime, however,

But the search down this path has already been decided by the will of the wind.