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 January-February issue of 2004. Length: 3000 words |
Tassie or Bust They say you’re supposed to replace your chain every 5000km. When your tandem recumbent trike has four chains, like ours, replacement becomes a bit of a costly process, especially when (a) you have to replace eight clusters at the same time, (b) your circumnavigation of Australia is already four months over budget, and (c) you know that when your circumnavigation of Australia is over, you’ll probably never want to look at your tandem recumbent trike again. The trikes themselves? Holding up wonderfully. However, at 14,000km into the excursion, our chains have seen better days, i.e. Day One, Day Two, etc. At Day 353 the chains run about as smoothly as a 40 year old cat, and twice as noisy. Any other cyclist might have said, “Judging by the condition of my steed, perhaps now is not the time to attempt Tasmania. They say it’s hilly, you know. Ask anyone.” But we’re not any other cyclists. That said, let’s begin. Somewhere between Adelaide and Melbourne, we began sparring with the idea of “adding on” Tasmania. After all, we thought, can we really say we’ve cycled the entire country if we miss a state? Sure enough, it may be a small state, and you need a very large boat to get to it, but it’s still Australia. Even if they forgot about it at the Olympic Games opening ceremonies, we weren’t going to overlook it. According to Tasmanians, we’d only been to the North Island so far. Yes, we decided. Let’s “add it on.” “Adding it on” was a major blunder of thinking on our part (besides the whole chain issue, of course). One does not “add on” Tasmania. “Adding on” Tasmania to your Australian cycling trip is like ordering a 96oz Porterhouse Steak and “adding on” a family-size supreme pizza. Tasmania is its own meal in itself. One can’t think of Tasmania in terms of the rest of Australia. The Outback, the Kimberley, the Pilbara… those were long and hot, but the challenge was mostly mental. We’d move the pedals, the bike would go forward; the fact that we could see three hundred kilometres into the flat, bleak, red distance, guided only by the light of successive heat lamps warming month-old sausage rolls… that’s what really made us cry into our pillow at night. Tasmania’s challenge was point blank physical, all the way. From now on, whenever someone stops us and says, “I was thinking of doing something similar myself. How was the Nullarbor?” my reply will be, “Mate, forget the Nullarbor. You want to challenge yourself? Try Tasmania.” Tasmania is quickly becoming a very popular touring destination for cyclists, and a well-deserved one. There aren’t many places on the Australian mainland where you can get lost in massive green canopies, spend hours climbing white-capped frosty peaks, and still always be within reach of a good feed and a comfortable bed. The people are friendly, talkative, accommodating, and best of all, impressed by large distances. From Launceston to Hobart, a two and a half hour drive, it’s considered customary to throw an overnight bag and a few packets of K-rations in the car. The fact that you’re riding a bike, well, let me put it this way… We were riding through Campbelltown, about 120km from Hobart. A lady waved to us and asked us how far we were travelling. I shouted out, “Hobart!” in too much of a hurry to get into the long story of our grand escapade. “Oh my God!” she gasped. I shudder to think what might have happened to her had we said, “Brisbane!” Probably would have collapsed on the street. Either that, or scratched her head in confusion, since Brisbane was in the other direction, not to mention across the Bass Strait. The best thing about cycling in Tasmania is that they’ve conveniently divided their state into three clearly-defined levels: easy, medium and hard. Or if, like us, you prefer not to be pegged into the “easy” hole, you can call them the Historical Route through the centre, the Coastal Route up the east, and what we affectionately referred to as “The Great Western Chainbreaker”. The easiest and most direct route from the Spirit of Tasmania to the capital of Tasmania is the Midlands highway. It meanders between Devonport and Launceston, then shoots straight down to Hobart through a number of small, pretty, historic towns. The road is flat by Tasmanian standards, but has a nice field of view in most places, so no worries about the traffic. It’s a nice, comfortable ride, and you’re never too far away from a pub. The East Coast of Tasmania actually follows the basic tenet of unoriginal sarcastic map readers: if you’re heading north, mate, it’s all uphill. Sure, ups lead to downs, but the ups get upper as you get further up, if you know what I mean. To start down at the south end you’ll find Port Arthur, the Alcatraz of Australia, and as you head north through Triabunna, Swansea, St. Mary’s, St. Helen’s, and finally Scotsdale, well, let’s just say if you can crack our top speed of 67km/h, we’ll be mighty impressed. Along the way, you’ll be rewarded with a gorgeous view of the ocean, unmatched by anything we’ve seen so far on the mainland. As for Level 3, the Chainbreaker… if anybody tells you that west is “a bit hilly,” they’re lying. It’s a lot hilly. In terms of ruggedness, Western Tasmania is to Tasmania as Western Australia is to Australia: the east-coasters don’t like driving over there unless they absolutely have to. As a general rule, the wigglier the road looks on a map, the more hours you’re going to spend climbing peaks hundreds of metres high, screaming wildly down the other side in a hard-earned frenzy of white-knuckled truck dodging, and the west coast is nothing if not wiggly. As you pedal off the boat at Devonport, the west just narrows its eyes at you and says, “Come on, punk. I dares ya.” If, like us, your chain skips from the strain of pedalling off the boatramp at Devonport, the west points at you and says, “HAH hah!” in a mocking falsetto voice. Chances are you take better care of your bike than we do. If you don’t, shame on you. If you do, maybe you’ll take that dare. However, our battle-torn machine, of which it has been suggested that the derailleurs be bronzed rather than lubed, was only open to one course: Easy. To say we chose the Midlands highway because of our lust for history would be like Bert Newton saying his hair is naturally orange. At first, we weren’t even sure if we were going to be able to leave Devonport. For the first three days after arrival, the weather patterns seemed to be centred around the direction our trike was facing. That is, if the trike was pointing away from our Cosy Cabin, angry grey clouds would form and we’d be soaked through in ten minutes. When we said, “Who in their right mind would cycle in this?” and turned back to the Cosy Cabin, the sun would come out and say, “Suckers.” This happened three times one day. With a pattern like that, I’d rather have a nice day indoors than a crummy one outdoors. As we learned later, Devonport is notorious for nasty weather and gale force winds. If you can time it right (and it takes many long hours of peeking out from behind the curtains of your Cosy Cabin) you should be able to squeeze yourself into a weather window and achieve escape velocity without too much agro. Fifteen minutes up the road, it’s clear as a bell. Trust me. It is. Our first day out had us feeling great. We tackled the first few hills with gusto and enjoyed the feeling of being somewhere completely different. I think at this point in the expedition, it's exactly what we needed: a bit of a shake-up. It’s like Day One all over again! Everything old was new again (except our trikes, of course). The city of Launceston, our first major city in Tasmania, is built to bring people in and keep them there. Literally. I’m not talking necessarily about the tourism, such as the James Boag & Son Brewery or the Cataract Gorge, although we did enjoy them. No, I mean the city itself is built at the bottom of a huge basin, such that no cyclist who enters can possibly escape without building up momentum in a giant skate-park half-pipe sort of way. If you could fill the entire Tamar Valley with, say, popcorn, or ping pong balls… man, you’d need a lot of ping pong balls. Once we were able to break orbit out of Launceston, we took a rest in the quirky town of Evandale, which holds its own little piece of cycling history. If you’ve never heard of Evandale, obviously the wheels on your bike are too small. Evandale is host of the Annual Penny Farthing Championships, home of the Velocipede Society of Australia, and once Guinness World Record holder of “The Greatest Number of Penny Farthing Bicycles Free Standing and Held Together by Hands Only.” 69, to be exact. They have a certificate. I was given the chance to try riding a penny farthing. Before you say, “Harrumph, they’ve never looked that hard to me,” first put yourself in my shoes: I’m going from basically sitting on the road in my recumbent to hovering two metres off the ground. I’m going from three twenty-inch wheels to two wheels, one of which is five feet tall. The handlebars are at the same level as my knees, the pedals are hard-fixed to the wheel, and when I turn a corner I have to turn my legs. While I’m whinging, there were also very high winds that day. But, I’m proud to say, I did it! I kicked off from the park bench, did a little circle, and came back (on my fourth try, that is). I felt like a champion. Sure, I may not be fast enough to get into the competition – some of the racers get up to 40km/h, and lean into the turns – but if, say, Aimee was pregnant and I had to get her to the hospital, and all I had available was a penny farthing and a little red Radio Flyer wagon, and maybe some rope, I could do it. The Evandale Penny Farthing Championships take place each year in February, when the town triples in population and contestants fly in from all over the world (with very large luggage, no doubt). The rest of the way down to Hobart was calm and leisurely. Actually, when I say “calm,” I mean “slow.” And when I say “leisurely,” I really mean “one constant torrential downpour of rain the likes of which Tasmania hasn’t seen in 30 years.” I won’t lie to you: it rained a lot. Wettest spring in 30 years. I mean, mainlanders tend to complain about the weather in Tasmania, but this month even the Tasmanians were shivering. I was shivering, and I’m Canadian, for goodness sake. I suppose you could say that the weather tried her best to make us pack our bags and get back on the boat, but despite her wrath, we still had a great time. An unlucky time, perhaps, but still unquestionably great. Following that, anyone else will have an easier time than us with the weather, provided your trip isn’t scheduled for spring of 2033. Aimee and I even got the chance at a snowball fight, and I’m not talking about inside the $4 Snow Tent at the Exhibition either. I’m talking honest to goodness snow. The snow was located at the peak of Mount Wellington, 1200 metres above downtown Hobart, where we gathered one frosty Tuesday morning for an exciting, invigorating and extremely rewarding activity: The Mount Wellington Descent. Organized by Island Cycle Tours, and hosted by the always enthusiastic Sam Denmead, the Mount Wellington Descent is a fantastic and unique way to see Tasmania’s capital and the surrounding area. It takes everyone’s favourite part of cycling, the downhill, and turns it into an all-day event! Be honest. Can you picture the “Mount Wellington Ascent” being nearly as popular? Neither can I. Sam provides the bikes, the van and an esky of Cascade fruit drinks, and the landscape does the rest. The stunning views of Hobart and surrounds from the top of Mount Wellington are unmatched, as is the energizing feeling of travelling at windswept speeds, all without pedalling! Down the backroads, through a few offroad trails, past the Cascade brewery where we stopped for a snack and to strip off a few layers of clothing, and finally, through the streets of Hobart to end at Salamanca Square. Now, I don’t want you to think that this was just some cushy-tushy ride for grannies and neophytes. The offroading portion had its moments of terror, and I can safely say that we all came out the other side a little muddier and ruddier. Best of all, from the end of the ride, we could look up and see the Mount Wellington up above us. We thought we deserved a reward after all the climbing we had to do to get to Hobart, and this was definitely it. All the better that the reward came from cycling. After a week in Hobart and the surrounding area, it was time to return to the Devonport. We thought, hey, easy was pretty easy. We didn’t do so badly on the way down, and we never like to ride the same road more than once… what do you say we kick it up a notch? Are we ready for Level Two: the east coast? As it happened, we weren’t. Leaving Hobart was easy enough, if not slow, but we’re used to slow by now. Slow is the nature of our trip. If we had wanted to see things quickly, we would have bought a VW bus like all the other tourists. About 75km east of Hobart, a landmark event happened: we had to actually get off and push. Every other hill so far we’ve encountered in all of Australia (okay, so there’s not that many of them west of Townsville) has been matched metre for metre by the awesome power of the Penninger gear ratios. But a time has to come when no lube, grease or oil can save a chain attempting to turn a shark-tooth cluster capable of use as an effective martial arts weapon or wood shop cutting tool. Mind you, I think even VW bus drivers need to get off and push when it comes to climbing Bust-Me-Gall Hill. Tasmania, you may consider my gall busted. You have won. Although, somehow I didn’t feel so bad when we arrived at the top of Bust-Me-Gall, and found out the hill had a name. I think people should be allowed to push their bikes up hills with names. Especially since the second hill we pushed up was very soon afterward. That one was called Break-Me-Neck. So, we cut in early. At Swansea, time was getting short (I guess we can’t travel the way we usually do when we have an actual departure date), so we made a decision to cut back to the Easy path before the Medium got way too medium for us to handle. Swansea was the fork in the road, since we knew between here and St. Mary’s there was another hill with a name. The name was Mount Elephant Pass, and I don’t know about you, but the words “Mount”, and “Elephant” didn’t fill me with self-confidence. Heck, even “Pass” was kind of scary. By the way, if you manage to conquer Mount Elephant Pass, email me and let me know if the pancakes at the Mount Elephant Pancake Barn were worth the trip. I love pancakes. As you’ve probably figured out by now, we never even considered trying Level Three. We didn’t see the west side of Tasmania at all, and unfortunately, that’s where some of the best parts of Tasmania can be found. The terrain and landscapes that really set Tazzie apart from the rest of the country… guaranteed you’ll find them in the west. But, as we’ve already learned many times over on this grand adventure, you have to leave something for next time. Uluru, Katherine Gorge, Monkey Mia, the Great Ocean Road… we’ve had to bypass all of these. And now, we’ve added Western Tasmania to the list. So, next time then. Oh yes, Mr. Chainbreaker, we’ll be back. We’ll be back one day with brand new clusters, chains, derailleurs, brakes and leases on life. We’ll laugh right back at you on our way off the boat. “Hah hah!” you say? We may be limping away in defeat today, but we shall one day return, and respond with a resounding, “Hah hah, yourself!” For as long as there are more places to go, as long as there are more things to do, and as long as there are more wiggly roads to explore, we’ll be there to take up the challenge. Besides, maybe the west is where they keep the two-headed folks I’ve heard so much about. |
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