How I Accidentally Went on a Thirty Kilometre Bike Ride - and Survived! (Part One)

‘It’s all downhill – right?’

‘The map seems to show a slight incline from Myrtleford to Porepunkah,’ says my friend.

‘So it’s downhill from Porepunkah to Myrtleford.’ On this basis, I agree to a bike ride she’s been looking forward to all holiday. ‘You’re sure there are no hills? You know I’m not good with hills.’

It’s the night before, and the conversation takes place just as I reach the cliff-hanger section of a novel I’m reading. One part of my brain is engulfed by the plot while Rhonda unfurls her plan to drive to Myrtleford, where she’ll leave my car, then cycle back to our campsite, just outside Porepunkah; I’ll join her and we’ll cycle back to Myrtleford together and enjoy afternoon tea at the bakery.

At the periphery of my concentration, the plan sounds good – but by now, another part of my brain is fully occupied with how I’ll fill in the two and a half to three hours of solitude I’ll have, armed with binoculars, bird book, writing journal and laptop computer, sitting on the verandah of a big shed in the middle of an olive grove, next to a billabong, overlooking valleys and hills, in the shadow of Mt Buffalo and a short walk from an isolated section of the Buckland river.

This leaves only a tiny part of my brain to focus on the distance between Porepunkah and Myrtleford, which seems to shrink to a leisurely half hour or so ride – mainly free-wheeling – through forests bursting with exotic birds; down twisty paths that weave in and out of gnarled undergrowth; along river banks, teeming with wildlife; and past fields of brilliant yellow canola flowers, through which lovers run and cavort and tumble into each other’s arms.

I’m almost looking forward to it.

The morning is overcast, the sun making occasional appearances from behind rat-bag clouds. There’s a light wind that threatens to strengthen. Rhonda loads her bike onto my car and fills panniers with drinks, snacks, tyre repair kit and rain jacket. We double-check mobile phones have plenty of charge and re-run the plan.

In the back of my mind there is a flicker of unease; I dismiss it as I turn my attention to opening the gate. Our camping companions, twenty or so Angus cows, are dotted amongst the olive trees, and munch nonchalantly on the long, dry grass. They stop momentarily to watch Rhonda navigate the long driveway to the road. I watch her, in the distance, as she gets out of the car to open and close the second gate, then disappear down the road.

I am surprised by a sudden pang of anxiety. I had expected to be flooded with a glorious feeling of freedom and joy. For heavens sake – I’d been given the gift of time to myself to meditate, to bird-watch, to sit by the river, to write. Suddenly I feel vulnerable. I am alone in the middle of an olive grove, in the middle of the Buckland valley, the nearest farmhouse way out of earshot and a dodgy mobile phone signal should I need to call for help if a madman comes to rape and murder me.

I do a ludicrous thing. I head back to the shed, and even as I walk past the bird book, binoculars, journal and laptop, lined up, ready, on the table, I can’t believe what I’m planning to do.

Thank goodness there’s a kitchen sink – thank goodness it’s stainless steel – thank goodness there’s a bottle of Jiff.

I actually clean the kitchen sink! Then I clean the toilet and the basin in the bathroom! Then I look outside at the empty spot where my car was parked. Then I put the kettle on. Then I say to the ‘neat-and-tidy monster’ who often comes to visit me, to con me into doing a whole list of jobs for him when I’m feeling insecure, to rack off.

I make a cup of tea and drink it looking out at the billabong and Mt Buffalo, watching him slink off into the undergrowth.

Then I take myself off to the river.

It’s beautiful there.

(To be continued next week…)