Cycle of Learning. Anne Fitzpatrick

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СКАЧАТЬ education and social change. I had my enlarged laminated photos of Kodaikanal ready for question time, but the kids immediately homed in on my personal hygiene during this trip. “How do you wash your clothes?” was the first question fired at me. I put down the photos from India and explained how I use the same bar of soap to wash myself, my hair and my clothes. I would use it to wash Bike and Trailer too, but they hadn’t started smelling yet, unlike myself, my hair and my clothes.

      A volley of questions followed concerning camping logistics, regularity of showers, teeth cleaning habits and, finally, a thoughtful follow-up question from a small boy in the front. “How big is your bar of soap?” The image of a monstrous 90 x 40 x 15 centimetre bar of soap travelling solo in Trailer was a wonderful thought, but I told him the 125 grams of truth. I rode away from the school to waves from the students who seemed relieved to be ridding themselves of their dirty guest speaker.

      I had just resolved to investigate some alternative hair-cleaning arrangements when the shoulder of the road suddenly narrowed, heralding the beginning of Macquarie Pass. As I rode higher and higher, mist set in and then some fine rain which I laughed at and imagined I was getting some sort of hydrating facial treatment in a fancy beauty salon (that probably has a wide range of specific soaps for different purposes). It had been blue skied and sunny just moments ago, and the line on my map hadn’t looked at all wet or slippery, so I was sure the rain would disappear soon.

      Ten minutes later as I began my descent of the pass, I suddenly hoped I wouldn’t literally be laughing out of the other side of my face, in a terrible-disfiguring-accident way. The minimalist shoulder had become a non-existent one. Even with my brakes squeezed to their utmost, I hurtled though the hairpin bends with the engines of a constant stream of articulated trucks in my right ear. In contrast to this clamour, the echoes of birdcalls from the rainforest-filled ravine below rang in my left ear adding to the feeling of careering, slippery, almost air-borne terror.

      I squinted through the rain, which was bucketing down, now more reminiscent of falling into a swimming pool than the gentle mist of a beauty treatment. Through the litres of water, I spotted a big red sign telling cars to travel at 15 km/h because of the steep declines for the next eight kilometres. I tried to imagine what sort of sign the road safety department would construct for Bike. Following the hypothetical instructions, I squeezed my brakes even harder. The brakes shrieked at me, and Bike slowed down but couldn’t quite stop. I clenched my teeth and executed a rolling dismount, thankfully finding myself on the road and not plummeting into the ravine. I walked the rest of the way, placing Bike and Trailer between the traffic and me. I exited the pass with my brakes and nerves completely worn through and mounted Bike once more, to ride with the heavy traffic headed into Wollongong.

      The next morning I laid out my tools and spare parts and did my best to replace Bike’s brake pads. They had been ground down to the metal bases by Macquarie Pass, and it seemed the denuded pads had also worn into the rims of the wheels. On close inspection, I found there were no actual holes in the rims, so I decided to ignore the situation. I was feeling rather proud of my mechanical victory of fitting the new brakes and didn’t want any pesky wheel rim issues spoiling my mood.

      I headed into Royal National Park and revelled in the absence of rain, trucks and red signs. I could look at the sparkling ocean views all I wanted without interruption. Until my gears went demented. Dropping into my lowest gear to climb a hill, cogs clicked, whirred, and refused to function. I gave Bike a lecture along the lines of “I spend my morning fixing your brakes, and this is how you thank me?” and got off to start fiddling. I pulled wires and twisted screws and managed to reduce my gear-changing capacity to half of Bike’s advertised 27 speeds. After an-other ten minutes with a spanner and having done further damage, I gave in before we became a single speed rig.

      Gears became less of an issue when I hit a section of the road that was closed for road works. I faced a choice between a 40-kilometre detour or catching a train for two stops. I decided to railroad it, to the dismay of Bike and Trailer. They resisted every step of the way as I pushed them up a near-vertical hill to the train station, let them bump and shudder down a huge flight of stairs to get to the platform and folded them into a complex origami design to fit them into the annexe of the train.

      The three of us limped into Sydney and tracked down some family friends who had a pile of mail and lunch waiting for me. Col took Bike aside and swiftly sorted out the brake and gear situation. I would normally have felt embarrassed by this, but given that Pam and Col are acquainted with a few generations of my family, they are aware of the DIY genes I have to work with. The fact that I had not burst a water main, electrocuted myself or found myself stuck naked inside a newly painted bathtub while wrecking my brakes is actually impressive for someone from my family.

      After lunch, Col got on his own bike and led me along his favourite route into the city centre. I soon realised we must have very different tastes. The sensations of imminent death or injury I experienced on Macquarie Pass started flashing back to me as we dodged flocks of pedestrians, hijacked escalators and sneaked into bus lanes. I summoned the calming techniques I have been developing for stressful riding situations: breath holding, brow furrowing and jaw clenching got me through some manoeuvres while humming or singing worked for others. Whenever Col turned around to check I was still behind him, I made sure I had a smile and unfurrowed brow for show.

      Reaching the end of my death-defying escorted tour, I farewelled Col and found some old high school friends who live in a tall block of apartments. With some quiet words of apology to Bike and Trailer, I hauled them up the fire stairs to the roof. There I left them to recover from the trauma of the last few days with a view of the Sydney Opera House and the Harbour Bridge.

      I settled in a few levels down with Rebecca and Brett. Since one is a chiropractor and the other a journalist and reiki practitioner, these two were not only providing me with a bed, meals and company for a few days, but also alignments, interviews and some channelling of universal energy. Kindly, they didn’t mention my grubbiness or grimy fingernails, although a gift from Rebecca of Chanel Shimmering Décolletage Gel may have been a subtle hint not to let myself go too much.

Chapter 3: Nipple Confusion and Corporate Uniforms

      Sydney – Ku-Rin-Gai Chase National Park – Berowra Heights – Wyong – Newcastle – Maitland – Gloucester – Taree – Kempsey – Nambucca Heads – Coffs Harbour – Woolgoolga

      Totals: 3,557 kilometres – 204 hours 33 minutes – $4,847

Friday 18 March

      Sydney, New South Wales

      I spent nearly a week in Sydney, catching up with friends, eating ice cream and refreshing my library at secondhand bookshops. On the down side, I had just one school visit in this time. Another school got in touch to find out if Kodaikanal was affected by the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami. I cringed into the phone as I heard myself replying, “Unfortunately, no.” I paused and rephrased my answer. “Thankfully, Kodaikanal is a hill station about 200 kilometres from the coast.”

      This school, like a number of others I had heard from, would have liked to support Cycle of Learning but was dedicating their fundraising efforts this year to victims of the tsunami. That’s the reality of fundraising, I suppose. There are so many causes and charities both here and overseas asking for support. The community has limited money and attention to give and people have to choose. There is no one to blame, but it gets disheartening when your cause is not being chosen. More disheartening was the fact I’d only raised a few thousand dollars so far.

      The fundraising strategy I had been using was to notify as many schools, churches, community groups and media outlets as possible about my ride and СКАЧАТЬ