A Cautionary Note About Reading an Australian Atlas
Grafton, a town about 45 miles to the north, I thought was a modest goal for the day. Following a 10am start, allowing the sun to warm the bitumen to a comfortable 15 C (~60 F), I rolled out of Coffs Harbour through the (now genuine) orange and banana plantations that covered the route to Grafton.
For this stretch I had turned inland, trying to avoid as much as possible a ribbon of road called the Pacific Highway which runs the length of the Australian coast and eventually becomes the Bruce Highway north of Brisbane. This road is the central artery of eastern Australia, carrying not only cars, vans, and campers, but semi-trucks, tractor-trailers, and wide-loaders moving the the bulk of Australia's population up and down the coast for both work and play. Traffic is at a chronic 100km/h (or more, depending on how young or hurried the driver), cars are frequent, shoulder debris is rampant and particularly on the south side of Brisbane along the Pacific, it is a fearsome road for cyclists.
I made good time to Grafton along the inland road, west of the Pacific Highway, in spite of riding up hills with a disproportionate weakness to my right leg giving the sound of the chain in the cranks a nifty "crr-ANK crr-ANK" until the downhills came and I freewheeled again.
I made such good time in this lopside fashion in fact that I arrived in Grafton about an hour faster than expected, with enough daylight for another 20-odd miles before sunset. The knee was even starting to loosen up some, and the pedals were turning over faster now than at the beginning of the day. While there was little between Grafton and the next major stop up, Casino, a dot on my map called Whipporie, written in the same size font as the towns I'd found plenty of lodging in in the mountains and just shy of halfway between the two, looked like a good place to spend the night and put a little time back in the bank after my layover in Coffs.
Fortune, however, must have more fun with cyclists than with drivers.
If my road atlas had one font size smaller for place names than the one used for Whipporie (which it did) I would have found it hard to justify labeling it a "town" (which it also did). Upon arriving at Whipporie I found the "town" consisted of one petrol station; one bulk agricultural products store (the petrol station); one a la carte cafe (also, inside the petrol station), and a truly useful used kitchen appliances retail shop conveniently located inside the petrol station. With the sun down, the temperature dropping, and another 25 miles yet to Casino which I would have to ride in the dark, I asked myself whether I was in need of petrol, chicken feed, ham on white, or parts for my In-Sink-Erator. Lodging, unfortunately, wasn't an option.
While I was asking the petrol store owner about the nearest alternative place to stay, a couple of pickup trucks rolled up driven by two men who hopped out to briefly enjoy a cigarette and a beer at the picnic table in front of the station.
I tallied my options. I could keep pushing on down the road to Casino, another 35 miles in the dark where I was bound to be a surprise to just about any driver on the road where cyclists were still about as scarce as yetis, even in this cold. Or I could turn around and head back to Grafton which would be shorter, but with the same obvious hazard as above. Or I could put on my best Aussie New England manners and try my luck at getting a hitch.
It turned out the two men that had just rolled up, Greg and Arnold, were on their way south through Lawrence, a same-size dot but one that did have a pub and one with proper rooms for rent (I knew this because I'd sorta started the conversation in this direction). I looked at the truck full of tools and bits. Then at my bike. Then I looked at Arnold. He guessed my predicament and in no time said in a "ah-hah" moment voice, "SUURRE, just pile yer stuff in the back and we'll drive ya on down to Lawrence. Fred will take care of you."
I didn't know who Fred was but I sure hoped he had a room.
I piled my bike in the bed of Arnold's pickup and after some skepticism about loose tools and whatnot in there with it, myself as well. Arnold turned out to be a conscious driver and took it carefully for the trip to Lawrence, slowing down before bumps and road bends to prevent the cargo from careering out of the bed. Arriving in Lawrence, Fred (who, I had found out after calling the pub in Lawrence from the petrol station, was the pub's owner) turned out to also be running a pretty good bar business that night. I shouted Arn0ld a round, who drained it and promptly returned the favor. Fred then joined us, conversation turning over politics, local news and brushfires (which, I learned, were a very big deal after 5 years relative drought). Arnold eventually motioned himself towards the door, and I not long after headed around back to my room, in time for a hot shower before turning in myself.
For this stretch I had turned inland, trying to avoid as much as possible a ribbon of road called the Pacific Highway which runs the length of the Australian coast and eventually becomes the Bruce Highway north of Brisbane. This road is the central artery of eastern Australia, carrying not only cars, vans, and campers, but semi-trucks, tractor-trailers, and wide-loaders moving the the bulk of Australia's population up and down the coast for both work and play. Traffic is at a chronic 100km/h (or more, depending on how young or hurried the driver), cars are frequent, shoulder debris is rampant and particularly on the south side of Brisbane along the Pacific, it is a fearsome road for cyclists.
I made good time to Grafton along the inland road, west of the Pacific Highway, in spite of riding up hills with a disproportionate weakness to my right leg giving the sound of the chain in the cranks a nifty "crr-ANK crr-ANK" until the downhills came and I freewheeled again.
I made such good time in this lopside fashion in fact that I arrived in Grafton about an hour faster than expected, with enough daylight for another 20-odd miles before sunset. The knee was even starting to loosen up some, and the pedals were turning over faster now than at the beginning of the day. While there was little between Grafton and the next major stop up, Casino, a dot on my map called Whipporie, written in the same size font as the towns I'd found plenty of lodging in in the mountains and just shy of halfway between the two, looked like a good place to spend the night and put a little time back in the bank after my layover in Coffs.
Fortune, however, must have more fun with cyclists than with drivers.
If my road atlas had one font size smaller for place names than the one used for Whipporie (which it did) I would have found it hard to justify labeling it a "town" (which it also did). Upon arriving at Whipporie I found the "town" consisted of one petrol station; one bulk agricultural products store (the petrol station); one a la carte cafe (also, inside the petrol station), and a truly useful used kitchen appliances retail shop conveniently located inside the petrol station. With the sun down, the temperature dropping, and another 25 miles yet to Casino which I would have to ride in the dark, I asked myself whether I was in need of petrol, chicken feed, ham on white, or parts for my In-Sink-Erator. Lodging, unfortunately, wasn't an option.
While I was asking the petrol store owner about the nearest alternative place to stay, a couple of pickup trucks rolled up driven by two men who hopped out to briefly enjoy a cigarette and a beer at the picnic table in front of the station.
I tallied my options. I could keep pushing on down the road to Casino, another 35 miles in the dark where I was bound to be a surprise to just about any driver on the road where cyclists were still about as scarce as yetis, even in this cold. Or I could turn around and head back to Grafton which would be shorter, but with the same obvious hazard as above. Or I could put on my best Aussie New England manners and try my luck at getting a hitch.
It turned out the two men that had just rolled up, Greg and Arnold, were on their way south through Lawrence, a same-size dot but one that did have a pub and one with proper rooms for rent (I knew this because I'd sorta started the conversation in this direction). I looked at the truck full of tools and bits. Then at my bike. Then I looked at Arnold. He guessed my predicament and in no time said in a "ah-hah" moment voice, "SUURRE, just pile yer stuff in the back and we'll drive ya on down to Lawrence. Fred will take care of you."
I didn't know who Fred was but I sure hoped he had a room.
I piled my bike in the bed of Arnold's pickup and after some skepticism about loose tools and whatnot in there with it, myself as well. Arnold turned out to be a conscious driver and took it carefully for the trip to Lawrence, slowing down before bumps and road bends to prevent the cargo from careering out of the bed. Arriving in Lawrence, Fred (who, I had found out after calling the pub in Lawrence from the petrol station, was the pub's owner) turned out to also be running a pretty good bar business that night. I shouted Arn0ld a round, who drained it and promptly returned the favor. Fred then joined us, conversation turning over politics, local news and brushfires (which, I learned, were a very big deal after 5 years relative drought). Arnold eventually motioned himself towards the door, and I not long after headed around back to my room, in time for a hot shower before turning in myself.
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