Well, hello there everyone.
One or two people have hassled me to get around to doing a little update from me so as to let you know what I’ve been up to over here. Unfortunately, thus far that would make for very dull (not to mention brief) reading.
For those that don’t know, I am now in Brisbane. I chose to come here because I think I’ve had a lifetime of rain and cold in the last couple of years (well, try being a postie in England and you’ll soon know what I mean…). Anyway, this is the Sunshine State, right? It is winter here, apparently. A freezing 20 degrees most days (well, that’s what they say, but today I had the distinct impression that I was under some sort of celestial grill, and definitely beginning to singe about the edges) and the people I worked with last week were hugging themselves and whinging about the most pleasant zephyr as though they were in the middle of an Arctic gale. Maybe it’s an Australian thing?
Anyway, I am rambling. That’s a ‘me’ thing. Sorry.
I live in suburban Hell, Brisbane. I have no bike yet. You begin to see why there has been no update..? I am working as much as possible to rectify this situation, as it appears to me that to be without transport is in direct contravention of Queensland bylaws. The only time a Queenslander exits their personal metal box is to dash into a shopping centre or a petrol station. Pavements are for parking on when you run out of space in your driveway and on your front lawn. The train station I commute into the city from (one hour by express train) is a twenty minute walk from where I live. Today, for the first time that I can recall, I came across another human. He was having an animated conversation with a cockatiel, and crouching at the side of the road. I suspect that he had become disorientated in the heat and had temporarily lost his car…
So. Anyway, moving onto bikes. Yesterday, I thought to myself that I would go to the National Park for a walk. It was a gorgeous day, and actually the plants and native creatures here are fascinating, and there are probably no vile cars in the forest at least (no doubt something they are working on fixing, though) so the perfect excursion- and cheap. I walked the twenty dusty minutes to the train station, after waiting half an hour for a fictional bus. I waited a further twenty minutes for a train. An hour of chuntering, rocking motion listening to Aussie teenagers explore the various permutations of the word ‘like’. Twenty minutes walk to the bus stop, pausing only to watch a man get arrested for being publicly mad in front of tourists.
Joy! The bus was actually sitting there as if it expected me!
Now, since I have been in Brisbane I have seen comparatively few bikes. Given that the cagers drive in a manner that makes Aucklanders look like God Fearing driving instructors, I figured that those brave enough to ride much were all now hood ornaments or in specialised nursing homes. I did meet one, with an incredibly shiny Brutale; however, I think he had put only about 100 k on the clock in a year- and didn’t like to go on ‘long rides’ where he might encounter dangerous twisty bits… so I think you’ll agree he didn’t actually count. On this bus journey, though, as we got a little higher and closer to the National Park, I removed my nose from my book to look at the view, and what should I see but bikes! Not one, but two! While shaking my head and checking to see if exposure to heat had given me double vision, I then saw three…! Okay, so there were bikes here. They kept on going past, causing me to develop an irrational desire to chew the seat in front of me out of frustration. At this point I saw what I took to be the entrance to the National Park, and got off, forgetting momentarily in my fuddled bike-induced distraction that they like to build their homes BIG here. I was 4 ks early. And would need to wait for the next bus, whenever that might be.
Settling down in the dust under the bus stop to watch the now constant stream of very shiny bikes fly by, two suddenly peeled off and turned into the car park. I gazed wistfully at the two machines as they drew to a stop and the riders dismounted. One was a gixxer, the other a big, shiny silver WTF? After two minutes I gave up and ambled over, probably looking a little wild eyed and disturbing. It turned out to be a Kawasaki, (sorry, I forget what, but it was new) and both were thou’s. And very, very shiny. Their friend had just been pinged by the cops, and they were waiting for him to catch up. It turned out they’d both only been riding since about December, but Queensland’s system allowed them to proceed to a full license almost immediately. Me? Jealous? *cough*
‘So;’ I asked them. ‘Is is normal to have this many bikes up here on the weekend..?’
‘Ah, well;’ says one. ‘They’re probably all in town for the bike show.’
Cue double take.
‘Oh..? And where is that..?’ I asked, mentally calculating whether I could make it back in time to see anything after my walk. Suddenly the bus turned up, and knowing that if I didn’t take it I could easily die out here before another showed up (did I mention how bad public transport is here?) I sprinted back to the stop and leapt on. Of course, this was one of the buses that, when there is an ‘s’ in the day, the bus driver’s middle name is Algernon and the morning’s ritually slaughtered cat’s guts formed an 8, does not go all the way to the National Park, but terminates three stops earlier, where the bus driver alights and sacrifices a black cockerel before having a cup of tea and a jam doughnut.
‘Bugger it.’ I thought. ‘The sodding park will be here next week, but the show won’t.’ So I stayed on the bloody bus.
Half an hour of weaving about (pining as bikes zoomed past).
A ten minute train ride to the station in Chinatown next to the bridge under which it was being held.
Ten minute’s walk to the bridge (via concrete spaghetti junction stylings by the finest in Birsbane’s urban planning department).
Thirty seconds of horrible realisation upon reaching the bank of the river that I was on the wrong side, and the metal glinting miles off across the water was actually hundreds of bikes and not a bizarre mirage…
Twenty minutes crossing the bridge, ten minutes of which was over and beyond the park where the show was being held far beneath the walkway (urban planning again…). Having checked my little map to try and get some bearings halfway across, I discovered that I was in fact crossing Circular Quay- the one from the Pogues song, ‘Waltzing Matilda’, if anyone remembers it..? The perfect dirge to hum as I marched in the searing heat towards the now dwindling show… ten minutes in the opposite direction again. (Thanks, Brisbane Urban Planning, my thighs are much more svelte these days...)
Which was now pretty much all lurid hogs. Not my thing, but I amused myself by wandering around wondering which of the strangely dressed gentlemen were accountants during the week. However, on the other side of the vast encampment of hogs there were still some gorgeous classic bikes to be seen.
Thinking always of you fellas, I snapped a few pics on my little digi for your amusement.
I must say, the caravan affair would silence even the most avid Goldwing advocate… and look at the matching Mitchmobiles- she’s been breeding on the quiet! Aw.
Okay, must go as my bum is now numb and the landlady is back, demanding access to her computer.
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Originally Posted by zadok
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