This Road I Ride

by Juliana Buhring

  In addition to being an excellent navigator, Shaun is a bit of mechanic. He takes Pegasus off my hands to give him a tweak-over. “I’ll have him ready for you bright and early tomorrow,” he promises.

  We arrange a time to meet in the morning, and Vincent whisks me off for a steak dinner—the surefire way to a hungry cyclist’s heart. He has recently moved to Australia with his Taiwanese girlfriend, and they put me up in their guest room for the night. While my dirty clothes spin in the washing machine, a bottle of Johnnie Walker is whipped out for a nightcap. I couldn’t ask for a better host.

  SEPTEMBER 20, 2012

  I return to Shaun’s house to find Pegasus cleaned, greased, and tweaked. He looks shiny new, and I feel as spoiled as my bike, especially after scarfing down a second breakfast of Weetabix in Shaun’s kitchen.

  It starts to rain as we pedal out of the city, which is all the reason we need to stop for coffee and another couple of brownies. Melbourne reminds me of London, especially along the waterfront, and even more so under the gray clouds and steady drizzle. As the rain doesn’t show much sign of letting up, we decide to hit the road anyway. The sun comes out as we leave the city perimeter, heading southwest toward Geelong. But with the sun comes a strong headwind. I’m slightly jealous when Shaun says goodbye and heads back in the opposite direction.

  “You’re gonna fly home,” I say.

  “Sorry I have to leave you to battle that headwind alone,” he tells me. “I’m afraid you’ll be getting a lot of strong winds in the direction you’re going. Stay strong. Remember, brownies and ginger ale make everything better!”

  Today marks two months on the road, 6,980 miles and six (and a half) countries. Pegasus has had thirteen punctures, three broken spoke nipples, two broken derailleurs, one broken light, two new sets of tires, and one new chain. I wonder what the count will be by the end of the ride.

  THE TOUGH GET GOING

  SEPTEMBER 22, 2012

  The headwinds are hitting hard. Locals have been telling me that I should expect them along the coast between Melbourne and Adelaide. Another nipple has broken, and the nearest bike shop I can find is the CrankHouse in Warrnambool.

  “You can’t pedal across the Nullarbor with what you’ve got,” the owner, Stewart, announces after finding another loose nipple and hearing that I plan to cross the infamous desert. “If another one breaks, you risk the spokes snapping, and there’s nothing out there for twelve hundred miles. You’ll be really stuck then.” He admits he is surprised I have gotten as far as I have on Pegasus. It’s a beautiful racing bike, but a workhorse would have been better for a long-distance, endurance journey.

  The mechanics change all the carbon nipples on the rear wheel to steel, and Stewart charges me trade price for the parts and nothing at all for the labor. He’s an avid adventure cyclist himself—short and stocky, with leg muscles that indicate powerful pedal strokes. He and his wife Susan enjoy helping cyclists and travelers who pass through, and he invites me to stay the night with them. We leave his crew working on Pegasus and travel the short distance to their home, where Stewart entrusts me into the care of Susan, a nurturing, matronly woman, who promptly packs me off to the shower and shoves my smelly laundry into the washing machine.

  Their eldest daughter prepares an incredible dinner of goat cheese salad, roasted sweet potatoes, and lamb chops—the kind of home cooking I’ve missed over the past two months. Hunger overrules manners as I wolf down every last morsel and polish the serving plates clean. A shower, clean clothes, and a king-size bed with fluffy pillows is the very definition of happiness.

  SEPTEMBER 23, 2012

  Stewart gets up early to see me off. “If anything happens to you within the next few hundred miles, give us a ring and we’ll come and rescue you,” he assures me, fixing a sticker with the shop’s details onto Pegasus’s frame.

  People keep warning me of the probable dangers I face traveling across Australia as a lone woman, but so far I’ve encountered only the kindness and generosity of strangers along the road. And the farther south I go, the nicer they seem to get.

  Many South Australians are descendants of hard-­working German migrants who came over to colonize and farm the land in the nineteenth century. I encounter one of them as I pedal into Dartmoor in search of water. The only shop in the pristine town is shut, and the next settlement is another thirty-five miles down the road. An old woman in overalls, loading some boxes into her gray van, notices me trying the shop door and finding it locked. “You lookin’ for something?” she asks. Her silver hair is tied up under a blue bandanna, with a few wisps floating loose around the deep lines of her face.

  “Uh, yeah. Do you know if the shop will open again?”

  “Afraid not. The owner’s just left for the day. We’re a small town, see. He doesn’t stay open all hours. What were you after?”

  “Something to drink.”

  “Well, I got a bottle of rainwater in the van if you want that.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She hands me a two-liter white plastic jerrycan, and I start to drink.

  “How’s that taste? Not bad, huh? Collected straight off my roof.”

  I pause midchug. “Your roof?”

  When she said “rainwater,” she really did mean rainwater.

  “Uh-huh. Doesn’t get any fresher than that.”

  “No. I guess not. It isn’t . . . um . . . well . . . dirty, is it?”

  “Dirty? Not a bit.” She sounds slightly miffed. “Comes straight from the sky, passes through a filter. I’ve been drinking rainwater since I was a child. Water is a precious commodity out here, you know.”

  “Oh, yes. I know.” I’ve learned that on the road. It’s cheaper to drink beer in Australia.

  “Where’re you pedaling to?”

  “Perth.”

  She starts to laugh. “No kidding. Where’d you start?”

  “Brisbane.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yup.”

  Her ice-blue eyes examine me suspiciously from head to toe, as if she is trying to make up her mind whether I’m putting her on. From her expression, she clearly thinks I’m joking, nuts, or both.

  “Where are you from?”

  Not that question again. To save time, I opt for evasion. “I’m of German origin.”

  She latches onto this information, as I had guessed she would. “Our ancestors were German farmers who worked this land for generations.” Then like any good German, she methodically interrogates me about every detail of my travels, right down to my route plan. “You want to get to Mount Gambier today? That’s a good thirty-five miles away, and you’ve only got about two hours of daylight left, and strong headwinds.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get there.”

  She shakes her head with an indulgent chuckle. “Didn’t anybody tell you, dear? You’re going the wrong way.”

  I can only grunt back.

  “Well, I guess you’ll want to get moving if you’re going to reach the next town before dark. Whatever you do, don’t travel at night. People disappear in the outback.”

  She is not the first Aussie to express concern for my safety. Everywhere I go, I’m told all manner of horror stories about tourists disappearing or being killed by outback nutters. “Haven’t you seen Wolf Creek?” they all ask. Based on the true story of two backpackers who were tortured and killed some years back, the film is a popular reference for scaring off the wary traveler entering the remote wilderness that is the Australian outback. I have no intention of seeing this film, now or ever. It would be like someone on a plane watching a film about 9/11.

  “Good luck to you, dear,” she calls, getting into her van.

  I wave and pedal off in the direction of Mount Gambier while she drives away in the other. So needless to say, I’m surprised when I spot her gray van at the side of the road minutes later. She is standing next to it, waving me down. How the hell did she get there without passing me?

  As I ride up, she says, “I just wanted
to ask, what road are you taking to Adelaide?”

  “Well, I was thinking of following the coast. I’m told it’s quite scenic.”

  “Oh nooo, dear. I wouldn’t go that way. It’s very deserted, and you’re traveling alone. I recommend you go inland, where there are more towns and more traffic on the roads.”

  I decide this is probably good advice from a local woman who clearly knows her way around, so I replan my route accordingly.

  SEPTEMBER 24, 2012

  The closer I get to Adelaide, the stronger the headwind becomes. Today is the toughest yet. I find myself shouting at the wind, frustration mounting as the day wears on. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, comes the moment when I hit what many marathon runners call “the wall.” As hard as my legs are pedaling, the bicycle is simply not moving. Another gust of wind slams into me, accompanied by sheets of icy rain. My shoes are heavy with water, squishing between my toes as I labor against the pedals. It has taken me eight hours to cover just sixty miles.

  A jeep roars by, throwing up a mist of muddy spray. I mumble a few choice words, wipe the mud from my face, and tuck my glasses into my pocket. They are useless at this point. I think about the people in that jeep, windows rolled up, heating and radio on, oblivious to the elements. I would give my last chocolate peanut butter bar to be in that car right now. I’m so cold that I can no longer think about anything else. My body is shaking; my hands and feet are completely numb. This is cyclist agony, the part nobody ever mentions. There is nothing redeeming in this kind of torment. This is the moment when I wonder why. Why am I cycling the world? Why am I forcing my legs to continue pumping up and down, up and down, for ten to twelve hours every day?

  Pain, misery, and struggle all teach you a lot about yourself. About who you are and what you are capable of under extreme conditions. I try to take my mind off the physical environment and step outside the immediate discomfort of the present. I picture a series of perfect moments. A stunning sunset. The peak of a mountain. A glass of spiced rum. Hendri’s eyes. His kiss. At times of complete agony, physical and mental, these moments of perfection stand out like beacons in a stormy sea, perhaps heightened because of the contrast.

  Do I endure the struggle simply to experience more extreme pleasure from these perfect moments? Perhaps that is the point. The more adversity we suffer in life, the more we savor the brief, rare periods of complete happiness and abandon. Those moments when everything—taste, sense, sight, smell, touch—is so enhanced. I think only those who know deep suffering can truly appreciate its opposite.

  In this moment I realize that there is no other place I would rather be. Because of that gnawing hunger that grows with every passing mile, the next food I eat will be the most delicious in the world. The cold and wet will make the dry and warm a pleasure that surpasses all others. The fatigue in every limb will make my sleep deep and dreamless, and I will wake refreshed, ready to tackle another day with an unknown destination, new sights, endless possibilities, and even more perfect moments.

  SEPTEMBER 25, 2012

  The sun is setting, and I’m about ten miles from Coomandook when I hear an explosion like a small bomb going off and feel the now-familiar grating of metal rim on tarmac. I get off to inspect the damage and find a jagged hole the size of my thumb in the rear tire. What makes a tire explode? There is no visible rock or glass on the road that could have caused such a gigantic tear, so I guess it has something to do with my tires wearing thin. I am in the middle of nowhere, without a spare, but I know there are parts waiting for me in Coomandook. I just have to find a way to get there, preferably before sundown. I stick out my thumb.

  A pickup with two large German shepherds in the back pulls up, and the driver steps out. He is tall and lean, wearing a checked shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat. My first impressions of people are usually pretty good. I have learned to trust my intuition and, so far, it has never steered me wrong. This guy has firm lips, steady eyes, and an honest face.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asks.

  “My tire’s just exploded, and I need to get to the nearest town to fix it.”

  “Well, first off, let’s get you off the road. It’s dangerous for a girl like you to be hitchhiking all alone. I’m late for my son’s birthday party, but I can drop you at the roadside station just up ahead. I’m sure they can help sort you out.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  He puts Pegasus in the back, with the dogs, and I get in the front. A few miles ahead we come across the promised service station with a small store. He takes the bike down and rests it against the wall. The manager is out front, offloading goods from a truck. “Hiya, Mike. I found this lady here in trouble by the side of the road. Do you think you might help her get a ride to Coomandook?

  “Not a problem if she can wait ten minutes,” says Mike.

  “Yes, of course. Thanks.”

  My rescuer rushes off, but not before repeating his warning about hitchhiking alone.

  Mike comes to find me ten minutes later. “Come on. I’ll take you there myself. I’m not putting you in some vehicle with a stranger. We look out for each other round these parts.”

  He loads Pegasus into the back of his beat-up jeep, and I get in the front with his son. Coomandook is about a half-hour drive down the road, and once again I can’t help but think that for all the stiff warnings I’ve received about the dangers of traveling through the outback alone, I’ve encountered nothing but exceptional kindness and generosity during my time in Australia.

  About an hour after Mike drops me at the local pub, a new surprise turns up. Antonio flew into Perth a couple of days ago, and since then he has driven halfway across Australia to meet me here and shoot some photos and video of the ride. Seeing him again is wonderful and strange at the same time. It feels like it has been years, not a couple of months, since we last spoke face to face.

  “You look tired,” he says, giving me the once-over, “but not as gaunt as you looked in the pictures from America.”

  “Must be the steak pies.”

  Antonio has heard all the horror stories about the Australian outback and insists on accompanying me across the Nullarbor, where I will have to cross seven hundred miles of desert with nothing but a handful of sporadic outposts along the way.

  “You won’t see much of me, but I’ll keep within a fifty-mile radius of you, just in case something happens,” he says.

  Much as I enjoy my solitude, it is comforting to know there will be someone nearby for this stretch of the journey.

  SEPTEMBER 26, 2012

  With a fresh tube and tire change this morning, Antonio drops me back at the spot where I broke down yesterday. “Call me if you need anything!” he shouts before waving and driving off. The plan is to meet in Adelaide tonight, where another ex-kid Facebook friend, Angel, has offered to put me up for the night.

  SEPTEMBER 27–30, 2012

  Civilization has been increasingly sparse since leaving Adelaide, but the Nullarbor really starts with a sign next to a dusty roadside garage that states LAST SHOP FOR 1000 KM. I decide it’s a good idea to stock up with food and water. I plan to use the long, flat desert road along the Eyre Highway to rack up the miles, aiming for an average of 150 every day. I also just want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  Edward John Eyre, the first European to cross the Nullarbor in 1841, and whom the highway was subsequently named after, described it as “a hideous anomaly, a blot on the face of Nature, the sort of place one gets into in bad dreams.” The desert plain boasts the longest straight road on earth, cutting a seemingly endless line through a monotonous landscape of calf-high shrubs. For ninety miles there is not a single tree to break up the scenery, giving the impression of moving on a treadmill. Just a short detour from the main road, however, the Great Australian Bight, the bay of the southern coastline, is dramatic and unforgettable, with steep cliffs that plunge down into the dark turquoise waters of the Southern Ocean.

  There is great camaraderi
e among the rare travelers you meet on the Nullarbor road. I receive a honk and a wave from almost every passing motorist. One guy chases me down to ask what I am doing, then hands me fifty dollars for food. A few hours later, at one of the isolated outposts, I come across a group of retired men in matching yellow-and-green jerseys drinking beer. The Fawkin’ Hawkins, as they call themselves, are a colorful group of old school friends who embark on a road trip to a different place in Australia every year. And every year they design a new jersey to mark the occasion. For all their perfunctory “gruff and rough” bad jokes and ribbing, they turn out to be pure gold. I am presented with an honorary autographed yellow-and-green jersey, together with a seventy-dollar donation.

  Such occasional human encounters have been the only entertaining breaks in my otherwise monotonous journey along a dead-straight road. Even animal sightings have been rare. Live animals, that is. I have seen plenty of dead ones. Roadkill is one of the principal features of the Nullarbor road. Most animals come out at night and are hit by the giant “road trains” that speed along the highway twenty-four hours a day. Come morning, the road looks like a battlefield, littered with the fresh corpses of kangaroos, dingoes, lizards, and on one occasion even a wild camel. Only magpie roadkill makes me crack a smile and utter a snide “Tried it on a truck, did ya?” The tarmac is permanently stained with rusty streaks of old blood that is perpetually replenished with new. The smell of rotting guts baking in the sun is abominable. Long hours in the saddle are primarily occupied with dodging roadkill while holding my breath and fleeing from the giant, bee-sized horseflies that feast on the carcasses.