Five years ago I pedalled my overloaded bike aboard the Princess of Tasmania at Station Pier, Port Melbourne. A deckhand waved me into the lane that led to the lowest deck - the one where all the huge trucks go. I wobbled aboard between two giant semi-trailers feeling, well, a little vulnerable. The next morning I rode back down the ramp at Devonport, in front of all the trucks, and set off on a damp, muggy January morning to circumnavigate Tasmania by bicycle.
On day two I was hauling my load up Cradle Mountain, and having serious doubts about my ability to do this at all. I was in my mid-fifties, only moderately fit, and a little overweight. OK, more than a little overweight. One relentlessly steep five kilometre ascent took me half the day.
Two weeks later, in Hobart, I was five kilograms lighter, slightly sunburnt, and feeling indestructible. I had teamed up with other cyclists, made friends, seen some amazing places, survived extremes of terrain and weather, and I was enjoying myself. Another two weeks on, back in Devonport, I was sad that the adventure was over, and already planning the next big ride.
Two years passed before it happened. Depressed, directionless and struggling emotionally, I set out to ride the South Island of New Zealand. The mountains were bigger; the distances were greater; the natives were more than a little scary. The same doubts beset me. Could someone like me actually do this?
The New Zealand tour was an emotional and physical catharsis. Again, I met and befriended other cyclists, fell in love with the mountains, rivers and lakes of that amazing country, realised that the natives were quite nice, despite their phonological perversity, and discovered that, given the time and the motivation, I could ride pretty well anywhere. I was hooked.
From August to October, 2008, I rambled around Britain and Ireland with a better bike, more high-tech, lightweight camping gear, and a lot more confidence. Snowdonia and the Scottish Highlands didn't scare me a bit, although the weather occasionally did. I trundled on and off the CalMac ferries in the Hebrides without a sideways glance at the trucks and cars. Atlantic gales and a near-lethal strain of the flu terminated the tour in Sligo but, like the others, it was a wonderful, life-affirming experience.
By this time, cycle touring was beginning to become part of my identity: something I loved, and was good at. There's no better way to explore a new part of the world. The gentle pace of a bicycle allows you to absorb your surroundings, to meet people, to really get the feel of a place. In the process, you get fit, (you eat like a horse but shed weight), you experience the sustained "high" that comes with continuous physical exertion, and you have time to think - to make sense of things.
The sense I've made of things comes down to a deep concern about the destruction of the natural environment - the loss, in fact, of the life-sustaining systems of the Earth itself; a passion for social justice, peace and disarmament; empathy with the struggling majority of the planet's population, in comparison with whom my wealth and privilege seem to me obscene; and an abiding fear about the future we've bequeathed to our children and grandchildren - my children and grandchildren.
How does this fit in with touring on a bicycle? What does it have to do with my intention to ride more than 7000 km across the United States this year? What, in fact, is this deranged person going on about?
Watch this space!
One heavenly man meets another one...
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