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'Only the Stupid Pommies!' part three |  |
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| On
to Mount Isa
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Here in Queensland the clocks have changed and so we're on our way well
before sunrise. In fact we encounter far more darkness than we might
have liked. We ride a little tentatively to begin with, as we have been
warned of bad road conditions between Cammooweal and 'The Isa'. Our only
problem, however, appears before us when Scrivs yanks on his brakes just
shy of a herd of cattle lurking unseen in the darkness; but dangerously
strewn across the highway. As the skid of tyres across the tarmac hangs
in the air, we hear the clatter of hooves on the road and then through
the undergrowth. The cows scatter at high speed in every direction. We
have had a lucky escape.
With grim determination and gritted teeth we ride on into the early morning. We cling to consciousness as our bodies tell us we should be sleeping but our feeble minds try to counter that today is the last push; our last big cycling challenge is there for the taking. We manage a commendable seventy before our breakfast stop at a turning heading off into the back of beyond. Another twenty five and we're all utterly at our limit. We crash into the picnic site named 'David Hall' an intrepid roads engineer from the early days of outback road building. We keep telling ourselves it's not far to go now, as we're over half way for the day. The trouble is now that the heat of the day is rising, so we are encountering a strengthening headwind that whistles straight into us and refuses to let us get to Mount Isa without a fight. As the heat rises, we throw down as much of the Camooweal bore water, as we can face. A powerful mineral taint makes it hard to stomach, but we don't really have a choice - its either that or a roaring headache, and certain heatstroke. We make a strategic lunch stop at just about midday. We pull out of the heat and into the shade. After eight hours on the road we agree that we've earned a proper rest, and so we get out the lunch stuff and have a proper feed. Cheese and Ham sandwiches, followed up by sticky melted chocolate bars fill our stomachs and send us off into a brief sleep. With a dry mouth and a nasty salty taste I'm awoken by Tim telling us that we really should be on our way. Just one more stop should see us into the mining city of Mt Isa. We push on into the wind fighting hard against the breeze. And then suddenly, our legs can move freely once again, we find ourselves clicking through the gears, and our speed, from a snails pace, has risen to a veritable sprint. Another strange thing has happened after three weeks of flat and featureless horizons. We are entering the rich mountains that surround Mount Isa, and as we do, we find shelter from the wind and even a downhill that speeds us to our destination. A trickle of cars and roadtrains seems to be joining us now as we enter mining country. Also we notice that a couple of the roadtrains that we saw sitting stranded on the far bank of the Georgina yesterday have managed to get through and back on the road again. At our last stop we are elated to find that we just have twenty more kilometers to ride. Our bodies ache from head to toe, and we are all growing ever more dehydrated by the minute. Its just then, as we crouch in the shade of a small stand of trees, that we check around the group for water supplies. Each one of us has less than three quarters of a litre left. Tim has consumed over eight litres since we set off, and the rest of us are not far behind. The powerful sun has done its worst today to punish us for attempting the Barkly at the wrong time of year. Yet as we ride into Isa and wave at each and every passing car, we feel a deep sense of achievement. We slump in the shade on the pavement outside the newsagent whilst Scrivs heads inside to sort us out with a special treat and cold drinks. Tubs of freezing chocolate ice cream are pure ecstasy to our distorted taste buds. Our arms are still smeared with sun block, covered in the small lumps of insect bites, and have an abrasive scattering of salt crystals from our evaporated sweat. We're in quite a condition, but we've made it. The 'Stupid Pommie Cyclists' have beaten the Barkly in the wet, and we're ready for New Year - Cheers! |
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