"Paradise"
I decided to spend the next two days on the gold coast. For one, my supply of spares and patches had dwindled over the previous day, and I wanted to find a bike shop to replace spare parts, do some routine maintenance, and find out about good cycling roads north of the gold coast onto Brisbane. An even more important equal consideration though, was that I hadn't been able to get over the irritation that was still in my right knee. I'd been riding the last two centuries or so more or less on yankee mulishness, and it seemed like a good idea take stock of things.
The YHA in Coolangatta turned out to be smack beside the gold coast airport, turning the morning into a brekkie with other backpackers broken every 10 minutes by the loud WHHHHHIRRRRROOOOOOM! of planes taking off from the strip about 500 feet away. I decided if I was going to have a break in the ride, I would at least do it in a more peaceful spot.
I rode north to Palm Beach and found an amiable cycle shop that let me into their backroom to do my own mechanic work while the other staff filled the hours with Tour gossip that I was only too happy to soak up. I left the shop and took a leisurely and enjoyable ride up through the various beach towns of the gold coast, Burleigh Heads, Miami, Mermaid Beach, Broadbeach, until reaching the "capitol" of the gold coast, Surfer's Paradise.
A bit about Surfer's. Las Vegas, whether it knows it or not, has a rival for the title world's tackiest, silliest, most footloose, most plastic, most brightly lit, and most bizarre city. Surfer's Paradise sits like a giant vacation high-rise set on a beach, a sort of Australianized hybrid between Las Vegas and Los Angeles . There are dozens of theme parks, an equal number of timeshare resort monstrosities, and more opportunities to relieve yourself of dollars (gambling or otherwise) than an NYC nightclub promising "cheap" drinks. Surfer's is the same place where, riding into town, I saw signs for hotels going by such names as "Aruba Aruba," "The Pink Flamingo", and "The Swingin' Saloon."
In spite of the glitz and glam, I found a relatively quiet backpacker's on the border between Surfer's and Broadbeach. I used the break to get some errands done. I bought new warm-weather clothes (only a day into Queensland, I was already sweating in my heavyweight mountain fleece and jeans). I tried out a gym to see if I could get the knee joints to cooperate with some carefully applied strength training. I bought a new book (I had finished Roff Smith's Cold Beer and Crocodiles, an account of a cyclist's journey around Australia, and picked up something lighter still, Down Under by Bill Bryson). I even had another go at surfing, but happened to pick what was apparently one of the worst possible days on the gold coast that year for surfing (so the guy behind the counter at the rent-a-board said as he went on about something to do with onshore and cross winds and "soft" waves and the like). It was also raining again. The net result was me getting quite wet with a lot of windblown saltwater to the face, but little surfing.
This morning, thankfully, the sun broke through the clouds yet again and the enormous strip of Queensland beach that is the gold coast shone brilliantly. I had a dip because... I just had to. Today I'd intended to make it to Brisbane, so I saddled up and made headway up the remainder of the Gold Coast highway, past the last of the high-rises and beach scene and onto the circuitous backroad network that I had mapped out for a sans-highway ride to Brisbane. As it was, I ended up on the Pacific Highway for some portions anyway, but by weaving, sidewalk hopping, and culling more than one favor from a local gas station attendant, managed to maneuver my way up to Brizzy with a minimum of fast traffic.
Crossing over the Brisbane Harbor Bridge some sixty miles later, I enjoyed the first (in awhile) stretch of straight road and a magnificent view of Brisbane city wrapped on three sides by the large and lazy Brisbane River. Tomorrow will be on to the Sunshine Coast, and maybe a chance to "cross train" some more if the weather and waves cooperate.
The YHA in Coolangatta turned out to be smack beside the gold coast airport, turning the morning into a brekkie with other backpackers broken every 10 minutes by the loud WHHHHHIRRRRROOOOOOM! of planes taking off from the strip about 500 feet away. I decided if I was going to have a break in the ride, I would at least do it in a more peaceful spot.
I rode north to Palm Beach and found an amiable cycle shop that let me into their backroom to do my own mechanic work while the other staff filled the hours with Tour gossip that I was only too happy to soak up. I left the shop and took a leisurely and enjoyable ride up through the various beach towns of the gold coast, Burleigh Heads, Miami, Mermaid Beach, Broadbeach, until reaching the "capitol" of the gold coast, Surfer's Paradise.
A bit about Surfer's. Las Vegas, whether it knows it or not, has a rival for the title world's tackiest, silliest, most footloose, most plastic, most brightly lit, and most bizarre city. Surfer's Paradise sits like a giant vacation high-rise set on a beach, a sort of Australianized hybrid between Las Vegas and Los Angeles . There are dozens of theme parks, an equal number of timeshare resort monstrosities, and more opportunities to relieve yourself of dollars (gambling or otherwise) than an NYC nightclub promising "cheap" drinks. Surfer's is the same place where, riding into town, I saw signs for hotels going by such names as "Aruba Aruba," "The Pink Flamingo", and "The Swingin' Saloon."
In spite of the glitz and glam, I found a relatively quiet backpacker's on the border between Surfer's and Broadbeach. I used the break to get some errands done. I bought new warm-weather clothes (only a day into Queensland, I was already sweating in my heavyweight mountain fleece and jeans). I tried out a gym to see if I could get the knee joints to cooperate with some carefully applied strength training. I bought a new book (I had finished Roff Smith's Cold Beer and Crocodiles, an account of a cyclist's journey around Australia, and picked up something lighter still, Down Under by Bill Bryson). I even had another go at surfing, but happened to pick what was apparently one of the worst possible days on the gold coast that year for surfing (so the guy behind the counter at the rent-a-board said as he went on about something to do with onshore and cross winds and "soft" waves and the like). It was also raining again. The net result was me getting quite wet with a lot of windblown saltwater to the face, but little surfing.
This morning, thankfully, the sun broke through the clouds yet again and the enormous strip of Queensland beach that is the gold coast shone brilliantly. I had a dip because... I just had to. Today I'd intended to make it to Brisbane, so I saddled up and made headway up the remainder of the Gold Coast highway, past the last of the high-rises and beach scene and onto the circuitous backroad network that I had mapped out for a sans-highway ride to Brisbane. As it was, I ended up on the Pacific Highway for some portions anyway, but by weaving, sidewalk hopping, and culling more than one favor from a local gas station attendant, managed to maneuver my way up to Brizzy with a minimum of fast traffic.
Crossing over the Brisbane Harbor Bridge some sixty miles later, I enjoyed the first (in awhile) stretch of straight road and a magnificent view of Brisbane city wrapped on three sides by the large and lazy Brisbane River. Tomorrow will be on to the Sunshine Coast, and maybe a chance to "cross train" some more if the weather and waves cooperate.
posted by eric at
5:48 AM
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