The Cycling Adventurer
Bicycle Touring
Back to Oatlands 2001
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The Cycling Adventurer |
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Bicycle Touring |
Back to Oatlands 2001 |
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Multi-modal touring at its best
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Date: 20-21 October July 2001
One of the reasons I like touring with the Salamanca bunch is that it is fun. There's hardly a waking hour go by on tour where you don't have a laugh, either at your own expense or someone else's.
There also are the achievements — climbing the hill that has overpowered you three times before; sneering at the wind and rain while you're snugly tucked away in your tent; finding a wonderful natural surprise at the end of the day; philosophising the night away with a port or two.
Well. Here we go again. At the risk of boring you senseless with good, positive things, the Back-to-Oatlands trip provided it all, and more. But it almost didn't get a start at all.
The scene was the ferry terminus on the Hobart side of the Derwent River. All of the timetable information for Roche-O'May Ferries, (then) operator of the Wanderer service, indicated that the Saturday morning departure from Pier One was 9.25am. Very clearly. 9.25am. No argument. Between August and December. In black and white. An insert in their official brochure.
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The trouble was, the skipper on this run has been leaving for the past six years at 9.10am! Just as well Wayne Kelly, Daniel Murphy and Anne Hornby were on the ball and ready to go when the skipper wanted to. For anyone who missed the ferry (and I haven't heard of any), apologies.
So, my horror was palpable when I walked out of the bakery in Bellerive with breakfast at 9.25am to hear the ferry's three horn blasts indicating it was leaving the wharf... right there in Bellerive! My mind worked overtime on contingencies, and none of them seemed to shape up. The ride was going to be a disaster before it had even started.
My relief was equally evident when I rode around the corner to check the pier, and found four riders all ready to go. Wayne, Anne, and Daniel had been joined by Tony Watton, another Eastern Shore resident (he had ridden already from his Lauderdale home to make sure he was on time for his first time with the Salamanca gang). I didn't know at first whether to laugh or cry, but eventually I laughed.
Flat tyres leave the 'experts' pondering
Anyway, off we went via Warrane (Bligh St is excellent for riding if you wish to bypass the traffic on Cambridge Rd), Mornington, and the township of Cambridge before a refuelling stop at Richmond Bakery. At this point, punctures and repair thereof became the on-going talking point, especially for Tony whose final tally for the trip was one at Richmond, one at Colebrook and one on Sunday morning at Oatlands.
The irony of all this was that the self-proclaimed experts in Continental Town and Country tyres (me and Daniel) recommended before leaving Bellerive that Tony pump his up from 35psi to at least their maximum (65psi) to reduce rolling resistance, and therefore energy output. Tony did this at a service station and was really impressed with the suggestion as he cruised between Bellerive and Richmond.
He was a little more doubtful after the first puncture, as he was sure it was linked to the higher pressures. The experts (me and Daniel) just figured the higher pressures brought on the inevitable, and that the glass shards were already embedded in the tyres, just waiting to chomp through the inner tubes irrespective of the pressure.
My bike finally succumbed, and joined the flat-tyre set after we set out from lunch at Colebrook. As a Conti T&C "expert", I just accepted it as one of those things. Another piece of glass. Tony and I both do a lot of commuting on our bikes, and the amount of glass on the roads and paths has become ridiculous. The State Government needs to introduce container deposits a-la-South Australia to try to reduce this cyclist scourge.
By the way, there is a neat little building on the way into Colebrook from the south, on the right-hand side. It houses an historical display at the front (but it has never been open when I've been there). There are clean toilets out the back, and a shelter with picnic tables, plus play gym for the kids. It's well worth the stopping for any cycle-tourist who is passing through.
The guys do their guy thing
We got lunch and the tube repairs out of the way, and set off for Mudwalls Rd. You might think that the road heading north out of Colebrook is dead flat. Four times I have ridden it recently, and four times I declare that it is taunting cyclists with a steady but almost imperceptible uphill. It's also about this time that any wind in the northerly quadrants will start to impose their influence and knock back your speed to between 12 and 15km/h.
We arrived at the bottom of the Mudwalls Rd hill after crossing the railway line. Wayne got a slight break on us (must have been a lunchtime energy spurt), I followed, then came Daniel and Tony. Anne decided on the spot she would walk her bike all the 2.3km to the top. Fair enough.
But we guys are... guys and have to show it. My legs screamed out for Wayne to take a break. But I was on a mission. This was the day I would finally conquer the Mud Wall without stopping. Wayne said later he was simply determined. Daniel was hoping I would stop. And Tony was hoping we'd all have a break. Ha! Everyone tricked everyone else. Wayne did eventually stop at a spot I (piously) don't consider to be the top, but he did have a big mob of sheep being mustered along the road right in front of him, so I suppose that's a good excuse and he started off again before we arrived.
We all gathered our breath, stopped our legs shaking like jelly, and generally returned heart rates to something like normal as we waited for Anne. A big thank you to Anne, because it took us that long to recover (honestly!!).
The remainder of Mudwalls Rd was not too bad, given the lousy patchwork seal (the road was upgraded several years later to a better seal), then we turned on to cyclist heaven, the Heritage Highway with a tailwind, and headed for Oatlands.
A triumpant arrival
We pulled into the Midlands Hotel car park at the other end of town, and lo and behold, there was a tent set up in "our" spot. Purple and blue. Hmmm. Company. Then a familiar bike was spotted leaning up against the stone wall. And at the same time, out of the tent popped Pam Thurley. So we became the gang of six. The hotel was managed at the time by a former cyclist and he allowed us cheap use of the back area for camping. One of the advantages of this arrangement was access to toilets, really hot showers, drinks and typical country counter meals. Thanks to licensee David Christie, a former cyclist himself.
The only disadvantage to this arrangement was the noise kicked up by the young local yokels storming around the car park in their cars at 2.15 in the morning. There was no grandstand audience this time as with the Tour de Tamar. But we still got enough shut-eye not to be too cranky on rising.
Sunday was beautiful. There were plenty of sunshine and light winds coming from the north-north-west. The weather was ideal for riding, and that's just what Pam, Tony and Daniel decided to do... ride back home. They left quite early, and afterwards Daniel raved about how it took him only 4 hours and 3 minutes to arrive at his front door in North Hobart, including the climb over Grasstree Hill. I might have gone, too, but on the way to Oatlands, I strained the same ligament on the same knee on the same Mud Wall as I had done on previous attempts, and decided rest was the best option (the problem was a strain of the illio-tibial band, and it dogged me for several years).
Even so, Wayne, Anne and I cruised around by foot and bike, inspected the wares at the market (including some really snazzy wire sculptures of cars, watched the model yachts and steam boat on Lake Dulverton, and rode the partly completed rail-trail out towards Parattah.
Food, as I found out later, was a significant issue for the Back-to-Oatlands organisers, and we opted for something at one of the commercial tearooms. Staff were obviously overwhelmed, so there was plenty of patience needed after ordering. We also had a drive-by parade, spoiled somewhat by the incessant revving of an exhaust-less V8 Monaro (those who know me are aware
of my rev-head past, but this was ridiculous and the carnival atmosphere was totally destroyed by a lad whose intelligence was inversely proportional to the look-at-me racket he produced).
Ferry flashbacks worry Anne
Then the flashbacks to the ferry saga started. As one of the almost-victims of the ferry's early departure, Anne was most concerned that (a) the train due to return us to Hobart did actually exist; and (b) its departure time actually was somewhere between 3.30pm and 4.00pm.
As a result, we got on to our trusty steeds, and headed off to arrive in Parattah around 2.30pm. Fortunately, we had been armed with knowledge supplied by a mutual friend that, yes, there was a train, yes, it was OK it had gone on to Ross after dropping off passengers for Oatlands, and yes, it was returning, and yes, it should leave Parattah at 3.30pm. The doubts, however, still lingered in Anne's mind...
Anyway, Parattah is one of those amazing little Tasmanian country towns that hang on to their existence by a gossamer thread. I said to Wayne the real indicator that a town's still in business is when it has a fully fledged Australian Rules football team in the local country league. I think Parattah lost its team years ago, but nevertheless, the community spirit was still sufficient to have the lawns around the railway station nicely manicured and the Australian flags flying from the poles.
It was like stepping back in time. The backdrop to the station is a Tudor-style hotel which lies dormant and for sale. A local lady identified its demise as simply being a heavy-handed Licensing Commission directing that the licensee upgrade the men's toilets. Our imaginations ran riot with all the possibilities for the hotel's future — special overnight rail tours from Hobart to Parattah, a carnival out the front, romantic nights taking in the natural surroundings... All to no avail, of course, as sadly, the future does look bleak, and the hotel appears one step away from final decay.
A freight train doesn't help the cause!
A train did finally appear, but it was a freighter at about one kilometre in length. I can understand the fascination with these steel monsters, and the comparative efficiency with which they move goods. I remembered the excitement of seeing a two-kilometre-long train in south-eastern Western Australia, so starved are we in Tasmania of rail services.
A reincarnation of the Tasman Limited finally did appear on the horizon and pulled to a halt at the Parattah station almost on schedule. The Tasman Limited was Tasmania's passenger train between Hobart, Launceston and the North-West Coast, but the service was ended by the Tasmanian Government some 30 years ago. The locomotives and carriages have been preserved by volunteers.
"Bikes? Hmmm, we hadn't planned on bikes. Is it OK if we put them in the rear carriage?" the conductor asked. No problem, and so started a great couple of hours riding the rail and getting a new perspective on the countryside through which we had cycled the day before.
I'm not a train nut by any stretch. But I thoroughly enjoyed this as another step back in time. The seats were comfortable and clean, food and drink were available, I had good company, the scenery was extraordinary, especially the gorges and valleys south-east of Rhyndaston, and the volunteer staff were models of presentation, humour and customer relations. And, if you've never been down an underground mine before, the Rhyndaston Tunnel is a great way to understand what dark really means!
On the whole, this was another cycling trip full of highlights. Those who just couldn't tear themselves away for this weekend of multi-modal transport missed out on something that I think was special (then, of course, I am biased).
© 2001-2006 Rowan Burns — The Cycling Adventurer |
