year. That was not how it worked out.
Chinchilla surpassed all expectations I had of it. Besides the watermelon, there was also an information centre where they tell you about the free campground at the picturesque weir. The library had free internet and friendly librarians and there was a fish and chip shop called Salty’s. The bank tellers called all their customers by name, even me – but only after I’d filled out my details on a deposit slip. The warm and enthusiastic welcome I received at the school was exactly what I’d come to expect from Chinchillans and most people inland from Brisbane.
Since meeting the friendly caretaker on his motorbike, I had been looked after by a bevy of friendly Queenslanders. A family had me stay for a few days in Toowoomba; in Dalby, one couple invited me into their kitchen to cook myself a vegetarian lunch. A chatty cyclist I met coming up the Toowoomba Range asked me into his bike shop for a cup of tea and offered to have a look over my bike. When he saw the amount of gunk in my chain, his jaw dropped and he spluttered, “You’ve ridden how far without cleaning that?” I’d always thought that cleaning bike chains was one of those things that people talk about but never do, like defragmenting computers and dusting. But after he’d spent a few minutes cleaning it out for me and I rode away from the bike shop using a third of the effort I had ridden there with, I realised that a clean bike chain has certain advantages.
The latest fabulous Queensland person I met was Fiona. I have to admit, when I first made contact with Fiona, the inexplicably large amount of similarities between us and the synchronicity of our meeting made me a little suspicious. I wondered if she was actually an undercover slave trader in the market for stock with high-quality thigh muscles for an important grape-crushing operation or running a leg-powered pirate ship. I first heard from her in a friendly email out of the blue telling me of her own project, five years previously, very similar to Cycle of Learning, but raising money and awareness for a poverty-alleviation project in Indonesia. It was the first time I’d encountered someone who’d done not just the same sort of Around Australia fundraising cycling thing, but had done it in a similar way – low key in the publicity and fundraising arena, with a big focus on connecting with schools and communities to share information. And we both obviously liked countries that start with the letter I. After an email or two, it came to light that I would be riding right past Fiona within a few days. It wouldn’t have been so strangely coincidental if she lived in a big city that I couldn’t have avoided, but she was on a farm in the middle of south-Queensland-nowhere. A nowhere that I happened to have planned in my itinerary in a few days’ time on my way to Chinchilla.
Accordingly, I headed out of a small road from Dalby, dismounted Bike at the entrance to a dirt track disappearing into a cotton field and waited for the designated time. The expected ute arrived, a shout from the window instructed me to load myself and my gear onto the back tray, and I prepared myself to be driven to the beginning of my life in the grape-crushing slave trade.
It turned out Fiona wasn’t luring me to her farm for my awesome leg muscles; she was entirely who she had said she was, and the exact person I had been needing to meet. Over a vegetarian stir-fry (we were even gastronomically kindred spirits) I shared all my fundraising, organisational and bike-riding worries with her, while Fiona made me feel better with stories of her own similar struggles and reassurances that the way I was going about things made sense. It was a wonderful relief, and encouraging to meet someone who had come out the other side of a project like mine, relatively unscathed. Fiona had taken a few bizarre turns since her circumnavigation, firmly establishing herself in the field of philanthropic consultancy while simultaneously moving onto this cotton farm to be with her partner, vast fields of cotton plants and what seemed to be a small army of green frogs (who appeared at various times of my visit when I least expected them, and screamed at me if I accidentally squashed them in sliding doors).
In a final demonstration of deep understanding of my present condition, Fiona served me the most comprehensive breakfast I had encountered so far that year – complete with two types of chocolate – before I headed off into the wee hours of Monday morning.
Chapter 5: Lost and Found
Jandowae – Kingaroy – Nanango – Kilcoy – Mooloolah – Caloundra – Yandina – Gympie – Maryborough – Childers – Bororen – Rockhampton – Byfield – The Caves
Totals: 5,817 kilometres – 331 hours 13 minutes – $7,314
Thursday 21 April
Kingaroy to near Nanango, Queensland
27 kilometres – 1 hour 34 minutes
Heading back towards the coast brought a change in scenery. From flat, dry, brown farmland with occasional fields blackened by fire, I was riding into hilly browny-green bush, views of the Bunya Mountains, and an increasing number of dead kangaroos in various stages of bird-assisted disembowelment.
I’d hit Kingaroy on Wednesday. Like Chinchilla, Kingaroy is also a national food capital, this time of peanuts and navy beans. I investigated the local peanut brittle and salt-and-vinegar peanuts, and felt some twinges in my mouth that reminded me to buy some new toothbrushes, one each for me and Bike. Trailer doesn’t have teeth or a chain, so he made do with a new octopus (“ockie”) strap to keep my gear lashed on tightly.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
