Riding Backwards Uphill

"Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines, but it is to the one who endures that the final victory comes"

 - Buddha

The ride from Esperance to Albany did indeed test the endurance of my body and mind. It was the most difficult stretch of road that I encountered on the southern coast of Australia - and indeed the toughest to date as I sit to write this blog from the comfort of Perth.

I was crippled by heart-breaking head winds that slowed my pace to a maximum of around 9km/hour. Day-in day-out I pushed into the gale-force winds which spat rain in my face and held me hostage to the road. Ten hours of physical strain per day allowed me to progress some 80km's. When my legs stopped, the bike stopped. I literally had to pedal down hills to maintain my vertical position. My brain raced and wound itself tighter and tighter with frustration for every turn of my legs. But onwards I pushed.

I passed through farm-land of little beauty, through the tiny township of Munglinup - significant only for the huge numbers of yellow-tailed black-cockatoo's defoliating towering trees outside of the road-house. 

Ravensthorpe was the next town along, and even my psychotic state of mind could not ignore the charm and character of this small community. The 'Country Kitchen' offered me yesterdays pies, pasties and sausage-rolls for $1 each. An offer to good to refuse, so I loaded up my bike with pastry goods for the upcoming slog. 

I stayed a night in the caravan park of Jerramungup to power my electrical devises and relax in the company of some pretty German tourist girls. I was glad to shower and my spirits were lifted significantly with a long phone call from my sister Stacey.

My bike was really starting to suffer from a few small problems along the way, resulting in snapped spokes in my rear wheel, and a very real bump in my ride - it was starting to feel like riding a bucking bull. This phenomena strongly promoted the snug relationship between the thin bicycle seat and my sorry back-side. Without providing too much information, this bumpy ride induced physical discomfort/injury to the point that I thought to seek the advise of a medical professional. However with no such professional in sight, I pushed on slowly until eventually I found myself walking my bike the last few kilometers into Albany - for fear that my back wheel would fold in half, and for fear that I may otherwise be left sterile for the remainder of my adult life. 

None-the-less there I was in Albany, with three bicycle shops and the desire to rest and recuperate over the Easter period. I was not going anywhere near the bike for a few days.

And so I was happy again.

From Hardship to Heaven

Crossing the Nullarbor plain had been hard work. I had been relatively lucky with the winds, which historically blow from west to east at that time of year. But in saying this, it was still a long, lonely road.
One of the motivations that kept my legs turning over was the promise of paradise at the finish line - or at least very close to.
'Esperance' - even the name sounds fresh and welcoming.
It had promised some of the most spectacular beaches in Australia. It also promised grocery stores, a bicycle store, water from taps, quenching ale from taps, PEOPLE, national parks, caravan parks and... you guessed it... McDonald's.
The last 200km's of road before Esperance was characterised by ugly farm-land, ugly head-winds, and an ugly mood to match. To top this off I ran out of light about 30km's before the town, and was therefore forced to sleep in some bushes near the road. It was a poor camp spot, and a terrible sleep.
When I arrived in Esperance bright and early the next morning, I visited the bakery and took a stroll down the jetty - pie in hand. The bay was gorgeous. Every shade of blue glinted back up at me from the water below. The jetty was alive with anglers boasting bucket-fulls of fish, squid and crabs. The local thug was even sleeping under the jetty undisturbed by excited passing tourists - Sammy the Sea Lion.
After long days on the bike, it was time to relax. So I decided to head for the caravan park to tinker with my bike, make a few calls to loved ones and maybe have a quiet beer.
As I made my way up the drive-way into the caravan park, who should I bump into but Kel! He was staying there for a week, and invited me to stay with him. The benefits of this offer were two-fold as I was able to avoid the $30 per night camping charge, and I was able to relax in great company and talk to a friend once more. I would like to take the time here to thank Kel for his incredible generosity and invaluable friendship. I could not imagine my time in Esperance being any more memorable thanks to his relaxed, trusting, fun nature.
We spent the next two days sight-seeing, 4WD'ing through the sand dunes, relaxing and drinking beer. It was ace.
We had met many couples within the caravan park who had formed a great social community, and I was lucky to meet many of these characters later on down the road.
Next I took the 67km road out to the Le Grande National Park to camp the night at Lucky Bay. As I peddled into the national park, I was left truly speechless by the unique beauty of the scene. Giant granitic structures stood towering stark over the white beaches. The ocean horizon was broken by countless stony islands. There were plants and animals of every colour. Kangaroos relaxing on the beach. Blue sky mirroring blue water. It was stunning.
I took the time to climb 'Frenchman Peak', a towering granite out-crop. It was difficult to climb in my riding shoes with attached cleats, and I was left with painful blisters.
That night again I struck luck, and bumped into a coupe I had met at the Esperance caravan park - Ross and Jo. They were staying there for a few nights in their caravan. I was treated to a delicious meal, cold beers and even some cheeky chocolate for dessert. I was on top of the world that night with a full stomach and a satisfaction having seen some of the best scenery yet.
From Lucky Bay it was back to Esperance for one more night of beer and luxury before it was once again time to put in the hard yards. Every luxury had to be earned.  

Last push to Norseman... and back to civilization!

Wake up.

Tent hot.

Too hot.

Pack bags.

Pack tent:

Outside pegs,

Unlock clips,

Inside pegs, 

Fold,

Roll,

Shove,

Swear,

Shove a bit more....

Swear a bit more...

Argh, the morning ritual, wearing a bit thin through endless repetition. But... running like an occasionally oiled machine none-the-less. 

This particular day I was up with sun, packed, pumped and ready to ride Australia's longest dead-straight road: the 146.6km stretch. 

I had wind blowing up my back-side helping me ride through the straight, and indeed all the way to Balladonia. 

With the wind helping me along I made the decision to see the ride out, stopping only to visit the little boys room/bush. I did stop at the one toilet on the road which was a small box housing a hole with an official sign above it saying: 'if waste does not go down, please push it down with provided stick'. As my eyes followed the arrow to the left of the room, I did indeed find a stick, plucked straight from the tree outside the cubicle, with some rope wrapped around the 'handle' for the finishing touch. Very classy. 

Apart from that I ate from the saddle, drank from the saddle and worked my little legs harder then ever, resulting in my timely arrival in Balladonia, 182km's later.

Upon entering the roadhouse, I ordered two of the biggest meals on offer, and washed them down with a plate of dessert. Much to the horror of the young waitress. My wallet also shook its head in shame. But my stomach was an empty petrol tank in need of some premium fuel!

I split the 192km, hilly ride to Norseman into two days, 150km's in one, and the rest the next day, passing Noreseman halfway to Esperance. 

The scrub gave way to trees once more, and I was suddenly in a beautiful forest for the remainder of the trip.

The Nullarbor had been an adventure for me. A barren, sandy expanse that taught me a lesson or two on what my body needs from the outside, and what I'm made of inside. It was an accomplishment.  

Madura - Cocklebiddy - Caiguna

Madura - Cocklebiddy 91km's, Cocklebiddy - Caiguna 65km's

It was with a feeling of great relief that I woke up in the morning on top of the world again. After a solid ten hour sleep, some sandwiches and chocolate for brekky and some careful bike maintenance, I was able to burn through the 156km's of road with minimal fuss.
I stopped at the Cocklebiddy road-house for a spot of lunch, but pushed on to the Caiguna road-house where I was hoping to camp.
The Cocklebiddy air hung heavy with the unmistakable stench of dead mice. The plague was apparently hitting this area hard, and I could hear tourists complaining and planning to move on with haste. I was only too happy to join the evacuation.
As I pulled-up outside Caiguna just on sun-set, an old, local bushy made his hatred of cyclists very clear to me, and I was careful to give him a wide berth for the remainder of the night. He was extremely drunk and had used very colourful language to indirectly threaten me. In light of this unnecessary complication, I stowed my bike close under my watchful eye, and wasted no time in befriending some tall, solid truck drivers: Mark and Greg. Mark was taking some time away from his accomplished profession in I.T - a very big change! He was sick of being called upon at 'Del', for problems around the clock, and so decided to drive trucks, where "the job finishes with the turn of a key". He was well dressed, well spoken and stood out clearly from other truck drivers I had met in the past. Greg was just a big, loud meat-head - but lovely all the same.
It was a Saturday night and Mark, Greg and I had mustered quite a large group of people to socialise with.
It was an uneventful, yet interesting evening, and I was comforted by the knowledge that I was nearing the end of the mighty Nullarbor.
From the storm-lashed coast-lines of Victoria and South Aus, to the sun-bronzed outback of W.A, I was finally feeling settled in an unsettled life-style.

Mundrabilla - Madura (116km)

"Tommy, I'll give you 20 seconds to get off my truck before your riding with me to Broome!!!", came the booming voice of Chris the truck driver at first light of the morning. I lifted my tired head to see his grinning face peering over the railing of the trailer. He was laughing and handed me a hot coffee which I threw out when he wasn't looking (I hate coffee).
Luckily the young girl behind the bar had given me a shower key the night before, so I took the opportunity to clean the Nullarbor scum off my sticky body to start the day fresh. I looked down in shame as I watched the dirty brown water of my own filth flowing down the drain. My hair had looked like one thick, short dreadlock. It was strange to look into a mirror again and see my transformed, rather thin body and terribly patchy beard.
The road to Madura was a flat 116km's, but I was feeling a little 2nd hand (possibly related to beer consumption the previous night) and probably hadn't eaten enough food - resulting in a heart-breaking ride. Certainly, it was the worst day of my experience on the Nullarbor, and I cursed every inch of white-line.
Madura is situated mid-way up the pass within the Hampton Tablelands, and is an incredibly scenic, peaceful stop. It was nice too see trees again, and the buildings of the road-house were quaint but beautiful.
When I finally arrived feeling weak and beaten-down, I had to sit down outside first with a bottle of water to collect my thoughts and strength to talk to strangers once more. It was lucky I did, because when I walked into the restaurant/bar area, I was stunned and rather embarrassed to receive a round-of-applause from the patrons sitting around the room. I wasn't too sure what to say, and stammered a few words of thanks before sitting at the bar to order a beer with a very flushed face. I didn't even want a beer, but it was my automatic reaction to the sudden burst of attention. I was soon talking to people within the bar, and they told me that they had been talking about the crazy cyclist (me) just as I pulled up.
Most people were brimming with questions about my trip and despite their friendly nature, I was just too tired to sit and talk for long. So I excused myself politely and rode a few km's up the road to find a patch of bushes to camp in.
That night my tent was swarmed over by a plague of mice, some 20-30 at a time, between the tent and the fly. They chewed their way into one of my drink-bottles, nibbled my helmet and shoes (all stupidly left outside), and chewed small holes in my tent, luckily not big enough to fit through.
Fittingly, it was a horrible end to a horrible day, and I was left to fall asleep to the sound of their tiny foot-steps hurrying around my tent.

Nullarbor - Border Village - Eucla - Mundrabilla RH's

Nullarbor - Border Village: 145km, Border Village - Eucla: 13km, Eucla - Mundrabilla: 62km

Nullarbor: Nullus: 'No', Arbor: 'Tree'
Worlds largest single piece of lime-stone. Visible from space.
Occupying some 200,000 square km's.
Big, hot, dry and bloody tough to cross by bicycle.

The sky clears, the wind turns and Tom Mackie peddles to freedom!
In fact, I really was in luck this time, because as the sky cleared, the temperature remained fairly low. This allowed me to carry a little less water as I was not working as hard to stay cool, and was therefore not drinking nearly as much as I had been. And the wind! Oh the blessed wind took pity on my pathetic struggles to push forward, and turned just enough to help push me in the right direction. With the wind my mood also took a change for the best. After days of head-winds, it becomes a little difficult not to take it personally. The scenery looked just a little prettier, my legs felt just a little stronger and I was able to remember why I was putting myself through this strenuous expedition.
This stretch of road was particularly spectacular because it runs very close to the edge of the world. That is, it runs very close to the Great Australian Bight. With cliffs of that size overlooking sparkling oceans as far as the eye can see, one could be forgiven for thinking that it is indeed the end of existence.
Countless lookout sites are accessible via short dirt tracks, although the bight can quite often be seen from the road.
I pulled into Border Village for a quick bite to eat, but hurried through as I wanted to rest at Eucla, which I had read was far nicer.
I found myself snagged in the quarantine check-point for some time, turning my trailer inside-out to prove my innocence in the fruit-smuggling trade. People laughed and took photo's as my bike looked rather ridiculous in the huge truck inspection bays.
I gave myself quite the stomach-ache in Eucla as I ate myself silly in a thoughtless feeding-frenzy, and spent the next hour or so curled up on a quiet stretch of grass beside the road. I was buggered.
From Eucla the road to Mundrabilla was fairly uneventful, although beautiful with the ocean to the left and the table-top ridge to the right.
Sadly it was dark by the time I rolled into the Mundrabilla road-house. The lights of the road-house shone out clearly in the darkness, and I could see it from kilometers up the road, like a heavenly glowing oasis for food. By this stage I was very hungry.
The road-house was old but full of charm, and had a small bar within feeding ice-cold stubbies to passing truck-drivers. By luck I met a pair of drivers who were unable to drive their 'oversize' trucks at night. They were real characters. Huge men with loud, booming voices, but warm friendly personalities. We sat, drank and laughed together for hours, and they insisted on buying my beers which they claimed could be billed to their logistics company (seems unlikely but hey I'm not their accountant!).
It was nearly closing time when somebody asked me where I was staying... Oh crap! I hadn't even thought about a camp-spot for the night.
It was decided that I would sleep up on the trailer of the truck, utilizing the 90 ton hunk of steel as shelter. It really was a strange feeling rolling my mattress out to sleep high on a truck within my steel cocoon. But none-the-less, I was out like a light.

IMPORTANT-ISH!

I have back-tracked the blog to add a few photo's so be sure to check it out!!!
I will also update here by saying that I am currently in Albany with just under 5,000km's on the clock (4,973).
Just between you and I, I'm having a few cheeky rest days here!

Nundroo RH- Nullarbor RH, 145km's

Up until Nundroo the road had been surprisingly hilly, with almost no flat sections at all. I had envisaged the experience to be completely flat with zero trees as far as the eye could see, but this was not the case. From Ceduna until just past Nundroo I was surround by tall Eucalypts and the road was winding slowly towards the west. But eventually the trees gave way to scrub, and the hills gave way to much-appreciated flats. The road straightened out and I found myself peddling through the open country that I had expected. It was not boring country. It was not ugly or bare country. It is in fact beautiful country... there is just so much of it. I watched from my saddle as wild dogs/dingo's ran around in the bushes, wedge-tail eagles sat around in trees nearby, emu's tried running me off the road, birds of every colour dazzled me as they flew past and snakes and lizards raced for cover as I drew near. The fauna was incredible.
The day was hot and pleasant, but as I neared the 80km mark, dark clouds rolled in dramatically and I was soon taking shelter under my rain-coat. I rode for about 4 hours in the pouring rain until at last it eased enough for me to emerge from my riding shell and curse the raw wounds that had resulted from my wet bike shorts rubbing on my inner thighs. They were very tender and bloody sore.
Somewhere between the Nundroo and Nullarbor road-house, is located the Yalata Road-house, which was closed for renovations. Luckily in my research I had stumbled upon this information, and was carrying sufficient supplies to pass through. A couple even pulled over and gave me a bag of delicious apples along the way.
When I finally arrived at the Nullarbor road-house it was getting late, so I payed the ridiculous fee of $20 for an unpowered site (my worried mother was insistent that I stay somewhere safe), and set up my tent on coarse gravel unprotected from the unrelenting wind. The Nullarbor was the windiest place I had ever visited. It was also the most expensive, and the camp-site was terrible.
In the morning I payed a further $35 on bottled-water, and ordered the breakfast on 'special': a bacon and egg toasted sandwich for the bargain price of $9. Ouch.
But I needed the fuel to peddle the next 187km's to border village with nothing in-between.
It was going to be tough.

Top: Catastrophic chance of fire? OH NO!!!

Wedge Tail Eagles

Emu's always running across the road

Spot the tiny lizard

Penong - Nundroo

It was not until nearly 4pm that the bike parts I was waiting on were ready for collection. I had been popping into the general store to check if they had come regularly over the last few days, and I had the sneaking suspicion that the gentleman made me wait far longer then necessary. But maybe the isolation of the town was doing funny things to my brain.
So by the time I had the bike fixed and my luggage packed it was nearly 5pm, and I still had 80km's to cover to reach the next road house of Nundroo. Normally I would have waited until the next day to ride this distance, but I could wait no longer, and decided that riding in the dark was worth the heart-ache.
At first it was absolutely boiling hot. The sun was by far the hottest I had experienced yet. I was really racing to reach the road-house asap, and I was also carrying in excess of 10litres of water. I was really working hard.
A thick cloud of flies followed my bike along the journey, relishing the opportunity to laugh, splash and play within the oasis of pools of perspiration forming on my skin.
After dark, I was meticulously careful to move off the road completely when being passed by a car or truck. I had a rear, red flashing light on the bike and a bright white head-light, but I would leave nothing to chance, and so ensured my safety. I was surprised by how few times I was forced to move from the road. The traffic was very light at night.
Finally I arrived at the road-house. It was very old and very run-down. But the prices were relatively cheap and so I stayed the night for $8, and was even treated to a free dinner - the left over pies and sausage-rolls that were otherwise destined for the bin. And at road-house prices a free feed is a welcome change for the wallet.
The shabby road-house made me feel that I had cycled back in time, or maybe to another country, and I enjoyed the alien feeling.
So I spent $30 on bottled-water to refill my water bladders (no taps in the Nullarbor), stocked up on food, and prepared to take the 145km ride to the Nullarbor Road-House. My vulnerability was beginning to feel very real.

Nullarbor scenery...and lots of it!

A False Start

The ride from Ceduna to my first stop of Penong was short: only 70km's or so. The wind was hot and screaming, unfortunately head-on. I found it a little uneasy riding in the wind with my first real road-train experiences, but managed to find my groove fairly quickly. I could see them coming in my rear-view mirror, and tried my best to follow the white line. Always the white line. On and on...
When I arrived at Penong I was in a very optimistic frame of mind - the start of the Nullarbor had been easy! I was welcomed by the odd landscape view of dozens of wind-mills all clustered together before the town. I was also surprised to find a general store and a pub, two additions to the road-house experience that I did not find again out in the wilderness. So after some light refreshments I decided to take the dirt-road out off the beaten-track to visit the famed surfer village of Cactus Beach. Cactus Beach draws surfers from around the globe with (apparently) rare left-hand breaks, heat, flies, great-white sharks and the opportunity of a remote, relaxed get-away. What I found however, was an uncomfortably corrugated, stony road of 22km's, a sore knee, fading light, scorpions in numbers, clouds of flying ants and finally a deserted beach by nightfall. What paradise! The flying ants were attracted to my head-lamp, and so swarmed around me as I fumbled to erect the tent. Luckily they did not bite, and finally I was left to rest in peace.
In the morning I was up early to pack my gear neatly and take some photos of the beautiful area. Rain clouds were moving-in fast, so it was with great sadness that I rode past the honesty-box without having the time to stop and count out the correct change. My experience had been dismal anyway, and I felt that if the honesty-box were being truly honest, it would have payed compensation for wasting my time.
On the bumpy ride back into town however, the terrible wrath of karma hit hard and my bike refused to go onwards. The rear wheel axle groaning under the weight of my trailer and luggage finally gave way with a clean break. I was left many km's from town with a bike and trailer that were all but dead-weight. Luckily I had packed the original axle for the bike, allowing me to ride without the trailer.
After hiding the bike in a small shed beside a wind-mill, I spent the next few hours carting my trailer and my expensive items of luggage into town wheelbarrow style. It was extremely laborious work, and my arms were shaking as I shuffled slowly along.
After my bike, trailer, gear and myself were all finally back to safety within Penong hours later, I was able to organise the ordering and freight of the parts I needed pretty quickly. I should make note here that every detail of the recovery was organised and overseen by my dad who worked hard to ensure that the parts were correct, ordered and sent in the fastest possible way to reach the remote hole of Penong. He was my life-line to get back in the saddle, and I appreciate the effort he made whilst ensuring me it was no effort at all. Thanks Dad.
It took 6 long, hot, boring days to receive the parts (pretty fast really!), and the grumpy locals made every effort to ensure I would never return, whilst milking money out of me for basic living expenses. I found the local folk to be some of the unhappiest, unfriendly, sour creatures I had ever met. Although I'm sure there must be more than meets the eye.
I was able to return to Cactus beach free of my trailer in this free time, and found snakes to play with and sunsets to photograph (unsuccessfully).
I hereby endeavour quite forcefully, never to return to Penong again, until death do I part.

Top: Cactus Beach

Masters Snake (no cropping, I was bloody close (only mildly venomous!))

Salt lake

Back on the #1

Leaving Streaky Bay felt like a big step in my trip. It meant leaving the comfort of civilised towns, and also leaving my new friends. Ceduna was the next town to come, and the last proper town for 1,200km's. It was the gateway to the Nullarbor. During the build-up of my ride, and the ride itself, I had heard the word 'Nullarbor' used so many times in so many contexts. Horror stories about sharing the road with road-trains, troubles with aborigines, severe heat, severe cold, water carrying troubles, bike troubles etc. were playing on my mind. Most people view the Nullarbor simply as a long, boring passage from one side of the country to the other. I was feeling very anxious and keen to see this mighty emptiness with my own eyes, in order to form my own opinion.

When I arrived in Ceduna, it was getting late. Time-consuming punctures and a random run-in with my American friends Sherly and Crash had set me back well behind schedule.  I wanted to stay in a caravan park after countless warnings of theft and violence amongst the locals. There were about five caravan parks to choose from, and in my brilliance, I picked the worst of the lot. The man in the office was very friendly providing me with a lengthy, boring history lesson about wars within Europe, but my time was rewarded with a free dinner. He even gave me a discount on my accommodation. However, as I entered the camp-ground, my spirits fell. I was chased by a large vicious dog past rows of permanent caravan sites, all of which had aboriginal men and women sitting outside. They had dogs running wild despite signs about keeping dogs on leads. I had the feeling that they were living at the caravan park for a cheap fee, although I may be wrong. There were dead mice scattered around the toilet block and camping sites. There were police breaking up fights that were raging between locals. There were no other tourist-looking visitors to be seen. There was even a swing-rope hanging near my tent that looked curiously like a noose. It was a sinister scene. 

However, I slept the night in peace and packed up bright and early to explore the town. There was not much there really, just the bare-bone needs of a functioning town. I was soon chatting to a pair of aboriginal men fishing from the jetty, and felt the conversation had gone quite well. But the moment my back was turned - not two steps away - they were calling me some very rude, very hateful words indeed.

That was about enough for me, Ceduna had provided me with a place to stay, some bike parts and grocery items, and I was away - Finally into the Nullarbor!