Cycle of Learning. Anne Fitzpatrick

more handsome, less cauliflower-eared wrestlers in our vicinity) since he had the same name as her late husband. Whenever I’m in Albury with her, given she’s friends with a significant proportion of its population, a trip to the shops will involve stopping every few metres to say hello to her librarian’s daughter’s acupuncturist, or whoever it is that she knows.

      I’m pretty sure if a neurologist did a scan of Maureen’s brain, the huge overdevelopment of “thinking about other people” region would be shown to have strangled out the “self-conscious” zone. She’s the sort of open woman who if conversation turns to dentists she will pull out her false tooth to give you a look, or after having a run-in with a sheep on one of her son’s farms, she’ll drop her trousers to show you the bruise she’s got on her thigh.

      She is one of the best examples I know of how to live a happy life. We had a conversation once about depression. Maureen told me that while she felt really sorry for people who suffered from it, she found the whole concept completely confusing. “Why don’t they just go out and talk to people, or do something interesting … ?” Maureen has the balance right – by spending her time thinking about others and acting on their needs enthusiastically and unreservedly, she’s eliminated the parts of her thinking that cause suffering to a lot of the rest of us. Ego, insecurity, self-centredness and disconnect from others do not get a look-in on how Maureen functions.

      On the way back into Albury, as we barrelled through farmland with brown crops and receding dams, I saw two figures on bikes in the distance. They looked familiarly fast and unfriendly. As we neared the cyclists with their matching panniers, my suspicions were confirmed. They were the two Danish riders who had passed me on the way to Meningie two weeks ago. Maureen wanted to stop and talk to them of course, but as my pride was still wounded, I insisted that we drive past and not disrupt them from their fast and focused cycling. Ego and social disconnect is particularly hard to rid yourself of when it comes to being ignored on the road.

      With Bike and Trailer on the New South Wales coast.

      Saturday 12 March

      Bundeena to Sydney, New South Wales

      39 kilometres – 2 hours 31 minutes

      In the past few days, I came to realise that there are some things I cannot do, and some places a bike should not go. The day before, Macquarie Pass earned a place high on the list of the latter. I had a few route options to get to Sydney, but this one had nice-sounding roads and towns, and the route – on the map at least – looked easy enough. There must be better criteria for navigational decision-making but I was yet to figure it out.

      I began the morning meandering down the Illawarra Highway re­­­flect­ing on the students I’d spoken to in a Goulburn primary school. They had listened politely to my spiel about India, discrimination, education and social change. I had my enlarged laminated photos of Kodaikanal ready for question time, but the kids immediately homed in on my personal hygiene during this trip. “How do you wash your clothes?” was the first question fired at me. I put down the photos from India and explained how I use the same bar of soap to wash myself, my hair and my clothes. I would use it to wash Bike and Trailer too, but they hadn’t started smelling yet, unlike myself, my hair and my clothes.

      A volley of questions followed concerning camping logistics, regularity of showers, teeth cleaning habits and, finally, a thoughtful follow-up question from a small boy in the front. “How big is your bar of soap?” The image of a monstrous 90 x 40 x 15 centimetre bar of soap travelling solo in Trailer was a wonderful thought, but I told him the 125 grams of truth. I rode away from the school to waves from the students who seemed relieved to be ridding themselves of their dirty guest speaker.

      I had just resolved to investigate some alternative hair-cleaning arrangements when the shoulder of the road suddenly narrowed, heralding the beginning of Macquarie Pass. As I rode higher and higher, mist set in and then some fine rain which I laughed at and imagined I was getting some sort of hydrating facial treatment in a fancy beauty salon (that probably has a wide range of specific soaps for different purposes). It had been blue skied and sunny just moments ago, and the line on my map hadn’t looked at all wet or slippery, so I was sure the rain would disappear soon.

      Ten minutes later as I began my descent of the pass, I suddenly hoped I wouldn’t literally be laughing out of the other side of my face, in a terrible-disfiguring-accident way. The minimalist shoulder had become a non-existent one. Even with my brakes squeezed to their utmost, I hurtled though the hairpin bends with the engines of a constant stream of articulated trucks in my right ear. In contrast to this clamour, the echoes of birdcalls from the rainforest-filled ravine below rang in my left ear adding to the feeling of careering, slippery, almost air-borne terror.

      I squinted through the rain, which was bucketing down, now more reminiscent of falling into a swimming pool than the gentle mist of a beauty treatment. Through the litres of water, I spotted a big red sign telling cars to travel at 15 km/h because of the steep declines for the next eight kilometres. I tried to imagine what sort of sign the road safety department would construct for Bike. Following the hypothetical instructions, I squeezed my brakes even harder. The brakes shrieked at me, and Bike slowed down but couldn’t quite stop. I clenched my teeth and executed a rolling dismount, thankfully finding myself on the road and not plummeting into the ravine. I walked the rest of the way, placing Bike and Trailer between the traffic and me. I exited the pass with my brakes and nerves completely worn through and mounted Bike once more, to ride with the heavy traffic headed into Wollongong.

      The next morning I laid out my tools and spare parts and did my best to replace Bike’s brake pads. They had been ground down to the metal bases by Macquarie Pass, and it seemed the denuded pads had also worn into the rims of the wheels. On close inspection, I found there were no actual holes in the rims, so I decided to ignore the situation. I was feeling rather proud of my mechanical victory of fitting the new brakes and didn’t want any pesky wheel rim issues spoiling my mood.

      I headed into Royal National Park and revelled in the absence of rain, trucks and red signs. I could look at the sparkling ocean views all I wanted without interruption. Until my gears went demented. Dropping into my lowest gear to climb a hill, cogs clicked, whirred, and refused to function. I gave Bike a lecture along the lines of “I spend my morning fixing your brakes, and this is how you thank me?” and got off to start fiddling. I pulled wires and twisted screws and managed to reduce my gear-changing capacity to half of Bike’s advertised 27 speeds. After an-other ten minutes with a spanner and having done further damage, I gave in before we became a single speed rig.

      Gears became less of an issue when I hit a section of the road that was closed for road works. I faced a choice between a 40-kilometre detour or catching a train for two stops. I decided to railroad it, to the dismay of Bike and Trailer. They resisted every step of the way as I pushed them up a near-vertical hill to the train station, let them bump and shudder down a huge flight of stairs to get to the platform and folded them into a complex origami design to fit them into the annexe of the train.

      The three of us limped into Sydney and tracked down some family friends who had a pile of mail and lunch waiting for me. Col took Bike aside and swiftly sorted out the brake and gear situation. I would normally have felt embarrassed by this, but given that Pam and Col are acquainted with a few generations of my family, they are aware of the DIY genes I have to work with. The fact that I had not burst a water main, electrocuted myself or found myself stuck naked inside a newly painted bathtub while wrecking my brakes is actually impressive for someone from my family.

      After lunch, Col got on his own bike and led me along his favourite route into the city centre. I soon realised we must have very different tastes. The sensations of imminent death or injury I experienced on Macquarie Pass started flashing back to me as we dodged flocks of pedestrians, hijacked escalators and sneaked into bus lanes. I summoned the calming techniques I have been developing for stressful riding situations: breath holding, brow furrowing and jaw clenching got me through some manoeuvres while humming or singing worked for others. Whenever Col turned around to check I