The Cycling Adventurer

   Perth-Adelaide 1997

Day 33   

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Woohoo! What a day... and a real century to boot

I am back business, big time! I smashed my daily distance record with a huge run from Kimba to Port Augusta. I recorded my first ever imperial century, or 100-miler. And nothing went wrong!

A tailwind set the tone right from the start, and I did not have a single problem in the rear end... or any other part of the bike. Plus, if I need accommodation in Adelaide, I have it with some lovely people who stayed last night in a room opposite mine and with whom I had breakfast this morning.

I should be in Adelaide on Monday afternoon after two rides of about 150km, a day or two behind my intended schedule, but there is nothing that can be done now about the lost time.

I went to bed last night at 10.30pm. I used my trusty sleeping bag to put over me because of the chill in the air. The bed did have an electric blanket, but I have an aversion to such devices after one tried to burn me to a crisp about 20 years ago. Funny I mention that, because at 4.40am, the siren above the town's fire station went off.

Now, if you've never lived in a country town with a fire brigade equipped with a siren on a tower, you've never really lived. The siren is designed to raise the dead. To get an idea, consider air raid sirens you might hear in a typical English World War Two movie, and multiply the intensity by two. Now you've an idea of what they're like.

I can't poke too much fun at what really is a very serious subject, though. Small towns rely on volunteer fire officers to protect property, or at least save what they can because of the unavoidable delay between raising the alarm, the volunteers arriving at the station, then driving to the blaze at sometimes quite remote locations.

Anyway, the alarm did a great job of raising me, but for the life of me, I did not hear any fire unit, see any flashing lights, or observe volunteers' cars rushing in from the outskirts of town. There was a Toyota LandCruiser that was driven slowly up the main street five minutes after the alarm stopped. That's all the movement there was. The siren went off again shortly afterwards, apparently to give an all-clear signal.

This interest of mine in fire brigade movements might seem morbid. Yes, I have followed a few day and night calls in my time as a country journalist, so I did not really have to be gawking out the window to see what was going on. But when I am staying in an old country hotel with more than its fair share of timber in the walls, floors and ceilings, and the potential for any number of guests to leave a lit cigarette in an inappropriate place, I become keen to sniff the air for nasty fumes and to seek a quick fire exit when an alarm sounds. Apart from the couple in a room opposite mine, nothing else stirred in our section of the hotel. There also was no-one around when I left to ask what had happened.

I suppose I could have taken my chance for a super-record early start and stayed out of bed. But, no, I crawled back under the covers after I decided that I did not want to risk riding in the dark. I slept lightly, and checked my watch every half an hour. I eventually got up again at 7.00am, showered and joined Barbara and Charles Kirvan in the television-cum-breakfast room.

Barbara and Charles have been away from their Adelaide home for four months, and are on the last leg, in fact, their last day of travel. They have done their trip basically looking for cheap accommodation, pubs like this one, caravan parks with on-site vans, even their tent. They said this way of travelling meant they met more people, just as they had done this morning.

Despite Australia's huge size, it is amazing how small it can be. I told the Kirvans about the route I took from Ceduna to Streaky Bay and Port Kenny, then over Mt Damper to Wudinna and on to Kimba. They said they had been to Streaky Bay, stayed at Venus Bay opposite Port Kenny in a private holiday cottage for $30 a night, and had travelled the road through Talia and over Mt Damper. It transpired that the Kirvans were farmers in the Mt Damper area before moving to Adelaide. Our discussion solved one problem for them. They had wondered what the single, narrow wheel track was on the gravel road to the top of Mt Damper.

They had visited Dean and Bev Oswald while in the area. We parted with Barbara generously offering me their home to stay at while in Adelaide, an offer that I may take up because their suburb is reasonably close to the city centre.

By the time I had packed and manoeuvred the bicycle through the doors and corridors of the hotel and out on to the road, the time was 8.20am, a moderately early time to leave. I pedalled along the main street, marvelling at the svelte feel of chain through derailleurs, and the smoothness of the rear axle. There was only the gliding sound of tyres on the road.

A strong head wind greeted me as I turned on to the Eyre Highway, and the forecast on the radio told me a maximum temperature of 20 deg C was expected with "moderate to fresh south-easterly winds". I could not remember exactly what fresh meant in meteorological terms, but I think it was above 20 knots. The wind sure felt that strong.

The highway turned left after crossing a railway line, but on leaving the town boundary, the road curved back into the wind. I pressed on, but felt anxious that if I was going to battle this wind all the way, I would not make Port Augusta, and might have to spend the night at Iron Knob. The hills about which I was warned also started to appear, although they did have long descents on the other side.

After about 90 minutes, the wind subsided and I was happy. The bike worked like a charm, and I could even rest down some of the hills because I didn't have to pedal against binding bearings or the rim rubbing on brake pads. The first hour returned an average of 15km/h, but by the end of the day, I had built up to 17km/h, thanks to a change in road direction to the north, and the wind veering more behind me.

At the crest of a hill, I turned to look back and down. I saw I was again climbing more than I was descending, but even so the vista was magnificent, and encouraged me to keep up the pace. I noticed that vehicles overtaking me were less generous with the amount of room they gave, and at one stage, I had to move right off the bitumen and gravel verge as a police escort's siren heralded the arrival of an extra-wide load of mining equipment.

I buzzed along for another couple of hours thinking more about my average speed and distance to Port Augusta than about what might go wrong with the bike. It was a pleasure. I did fade a couple of times, but the inspiration of a clean run and a record distance for the day kept me going. Iron Knob soon loomed in the distance. This mine has a similar appearance to the Mt Lyell mine in Queenstown on Tasmania's West Coast. There is no foliage on the mountain itself, or on the huge mullock heaps around it.

After passing Iron Knob, the terrain flattened, and the road turned so the wind was directly behind me. The day just got better and better, and I consistently kept my speed between 25 to 30km/h. The T-junction where the Eyre Highway joins the road from Port Augusta to Whyalla was a real milestone. I was still on the Eyre Highway, but the junction was the first significant one since I left Norseman.

I am starting to fade quickly as I write this in my bunk at the Port Augusta Backpackers. The wind stayed behind me until I arrived in Port Augusta. I stopped at a service station on the outskirts of town and bought my daily treat for a job well done, two cartons of flavoured milk and a Solero ice-cream. They are a way to keep up my dairy food intake. I asked for directions to the hostel, and was given very detailed and accurate ones. Of course, I had to be careful with darkness starting to set in, to make sure I stayed on track. Port Augusta has the street names stencilled on the gutters rather than signs on poles.

The hostel is okay but not outstanding. It originally comprised two large flats and was converted by putting a doorway in the common interior wall.

The caretaker lives at one end, and the remaining rooms make up the dorms, lounge rooms and single kitchen. Its best — and worst — feature is the highly polished timber floor. It makes a racket when people walk on it.

After booking in, I unloaded my gear, and set off immediately for a supermarket, and to the pub for a couple of cans of beer.

The understated end of the Eyre Highway
at Port Augusta.

My backside was feeling a little chafed and sore by now, but not so much as to dull my feeling of achievement today.

I cooked up a lamb stirfry to restore my intake of fresh vegetables. I chatted with a couple of other house guests. A guy from Perth had been to Melbourne and New Zealand and was riding back home on his motorcycle. A Japanese guy had been riding the railway track to Perth when the crankcase on his motorcycle broke in a big way; he was now stranded in Adelaide facing a huge repair bill or the option to sell the bike as-is and use the money to pay for a ticket back to Japan. A German girl was interpreter for her boyfriend and another male companion, who also had mechanical problems with their car; for them, however, it was only a faulty starter motor.

I am delighted at having ridden 165km for the day. I don't know if I will ever repeat the effort because it takes a combination of all the right conditions. The day also was the end of the Eyre Highway, marked rather ignominously by an amateurish sign just before a bridge across the river through Port Augusta. I stopped in the fading light to get a picture of this rather momentous occasion.

Tomorrow, I start the final leg to Adelaide.

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