Brizvegas, borderlands and big hills!

Well my friends, I made it to Brisbane! And ticked over 1000 solo kilometres today, so have crossed a couple of big milestones today. Time to relax (not that that's really a change), restock my energies and start plotting where to next. I've covered a fair bit of ground, geographically, symbolically and mentally since my last post.

As is becoming habit, I'll give it to you in a nutshell (macadamia nutshell to be specific) first:

26/5 Sawtell-forest near Grafton (~69km)

27/5 Forest near Grafton to Woody Head (north of Iluka) (~95 km)

28/5 Rest day at Woody Head

29/5 Woody Head to Broadwater (~61km)

30/5 Broadwater to Byron Bay (~57km)

31/5-1/6 Rest in Byron

2/6 Byron to Chillingham (~67km)

3/6 Chillingham to Ashmore- crossing the Qld border via Natural Bridge

4/6 Ashmore to Mt Tamborine (Hell Climb) (~40km)

5/6 Mt Tamborine to Beenleigh and train into Brisban (~30km)

Crossing the border was a day of contrasts, and got me pondering borders, lines and mountain ranges. Getting over it meant my biggest, steepest climb up to that point, culminating in a 25% slope, which I confess reduced me to pushing a stage of it. Looking back into NSW, I felt a sudden stab of affection for my home state. Having mostly thought of my travels as being in my home country, it wasn't until then that I had an awareness of moving further and further from home. All of a sudden I am putting mountain ranges and borders behind me, and looking down into the rain-veiled hills of NSW I realised I didn't know when I would be back.

I've never really placed much importance on borders- a political construct, a line on a map. In Australia, they seem particularly arbitrary, where you really can imagine that someone had fun with a pencil and ruler, with the occasional reluctant squiggly line as a head nod to geography. It sometimes seems that state borders mean nothing more than different coloured number plates, slightly different road signs, different words for individual serves of fruit juice, and varying incarnations of the same poorly written newspapers. Yet I think there are deeper differences, albeit subtle, difficult to put your finger on. Like you're viewing the same country from a slightly different angle, or you've woken up in the same house and someone has shifted all the furniture a foot sideways. Which must sound incredibly dull to a European, used to taking a step and speaking a different language, seeing the world in a different way. But my point is, maybe our borders do mean more than I've generally thought.

Maybe it has as much to do with geography as anything, with the weather and topography carving slight but inevitable differences in our psyches. Of all the state borders I've crossed, I think this has been my favourite, because it was actually based on something real-the Border Ranges. Perhaps even more so than the River Murray, which looks more or less the same on both sides. The first people I talked to in Queensland (4km in at the Natural Bridge National Park) spoke of the (rainy) weather leaking through from NSW, as if affronted by such an inferior import sneaking over the border. And despite initial cold and rain (the bits that leaked over the range) it was true- I rode from rainy NSW to sunny Queensland.

I also felt changed by the crossing. From doubtful and trepidatious at the bottom, with warnings of steepness from a local I spoke to ringing in my ears, and intimidated by the new knowledge that this climb is 'part of the international training circuit' (way out of my league, right?), to invigorated, confident and with renewed belief in infinite possibilities after breakfast on the border. After that I went singing down the green rainbow filled valley, and felt I could be the only person in the world. I then celebrated with a relaxed stop at Natural Bridge national park. Oh Rainforest. The newness of my surroundings was confirmed by immediately seeing two new (for me) bird species- logrunner and emeral dove.

The next day, lulled by my border exploits into a false confidence in my hill capabilities, I decided to tackle Mt Tamborine for good dose of rainforest before heading into Brisbane. A few people had commented on the steepness of the climb, but that happens for every hill and you get so used to people telling you you're crazy that you just stop listening after a while. Well, already not in the best of spirits after taking 2 hours to shake off Gold Coast roads and traffic, with their creepy sterile new retirement villages stretching into infinity, I realised at the sight of my first 'Very steep climb ahead' sign that I may have been about to get more than I bargained for. My not-so-fresh legs burned, protested and faltered early on. If I hadn't already come up and down a steep 1km climb I may well have retreated, back to a flat highway, a train, anything... But onwards I reluctantly went. After various tactics, including walking, pushing, pulling and looking forlornly at passing utes with empty trays (perhaps I could feign mechanical failure for a lift?) I settled on 100 pedals, stop for 10 breaths, 100 pedals and so on... inching my way up the mountain. Gone was any previous effort of putting on a smile for passing traffic (gotto keep up the image of cycle touring)-this was painful and I didn't care who saw my grimaces. I fell to my usual tactic of hiding my grumpiness in food- budget for the day be damned. When I found a bakery I ate cake, a nut stand, I ate nuts and when after 3 long hours I found a fudge shop at the top, oh boy did I eat fudge.

So yes, some days are hard. Some days my body sings along and I just don't want to get off the bike, but days like yesterday I drag my muscles kicking and screaming, 'just a little further'. It's a continuum, and luckily most of my days have been towards the happier end. But perhaps it is only on the other end that I can learn certain things about my own nature, power and potential. But I'm in no hurry to repeat it.

I am aware there is a bunch of ground I haven't really covered in my writings, focussing more on these dramatic Queensland hills. Well, I can't give all my stories away for nothing, but here is a grab bag for you:

In the past couple of weeks I have ridden long stretches of expansively flat river delta roads. I have wondered whether I am that character from a Douglas Adams book who is a rain god without knowing it, eventually realising when I saw a weather report that it wasn't just me, it seemed to be raining everywhere. I have been stung by a bee on the foot moments after pondering the deliciousness of walking barefoot, and moments before watching the full moon rise dripping honey into the sea. I have ridden through sugar cane and banana country and partaken in local delights from roadside stalls, that in some areas seem to be outside every second house (how wonderful that they survive here,where in other areas they have become uneconomical, mainly I believe due to repeated thefts- are these more honest roads or are these volcanic soils just more drippingly fertile, producing surpluses to be shared?). I have enjoyed brief interludes with friends- Tony and Tim from my Otesha travels, dear Jen from Sydney, who came to 'visit' my moving home en route back from Qld. I have been willingly waylaid in Byron Bay for a few days, seduced by a cuddly poodle, a very comfortable bed and good company. I have fallen deeply into Love in the Time of Cholera, gobbling down pages in rests by the roadside (and feel I may never have made it up Mt Tamborine if I hadn't been buoyed by the love finally being requited after 80 long years that felt like it). I have slept on the verandah of a lovely village community centre, feeling at home surrounded by community gardens and environmental education signs. And I have eaten a lot of bananas (perhaps my next song will be an ode to the banana, or to porridge, I can't decide...)