CROISIERE VELOSOLEX SHAYNE'S 2006 Cit In TRIP PERTH to DUBBO by VELOSOLEX Distance: 3476 km. Trip time: 14 days Average speed: 21 km/hr Fuel Used : 49.4 litres Fuel rate : 1.42 lites/ 100 km. Travelling hrs: 167	Day Date Trip km Odometer km Location 1 28 March 48 48 Perth 2 29 March 329 377 Hyden-Norseman 3 30 March 300 677 Norseman 4 31 March 306 983 Caiguna 5 1 April 195 1077 Cocklebiddy -Madura 6 2 April 212 1289 Eucla 7 3 April 343 1632 Nundroo 8 4 April 154 1786 Ceduna 9 5 April 219 2005 Wudinna 10 6 April 264 2269 Pt. Augusta 11 7 April 221 2490 Yunta. SA. 12 8 April 278 2768 Topar 13 9 April 261 3029 Wilcannia-Cobar 14 10 April 258 3294 Nyngan 15 11 April 182 3476 Dubbo

 

The Story

Day 1
48km.

The first indication that this was going to be a special trip, was on the morning of Day 1, whilst standing in the shower, I glanced down and my mind moved back decades to a time past...

Bill Presse was standing at the front of a ninth year maths class on probability. "What is the probability of getting heads if I toss this coin?" he asked and the class returned the reply "1 in 2". "Ahh" said Mr Presse, with a smile and a twinkle of vivid blue eyes that told you there was a catch. "But there is a chance, no matter how small that this coin would land on its edge, and therefore the probability must be something less than 1 in 2" and until now I had considered that a pedantic argument only to prove a point.

I looked down in the shower, because I had dropped my soap. Not just any bar of soap, but in all likelihood an illegally procured bar of soap 'compliments' of a hotel. When this bar of soap commenced its life it would have been round bar, about 5cm in diameter and about 1cm thick. Over time it had been eroded, as soap is known to do, but not quite eroded enough to end its life by the forceful application of my heel sending it through the shower grate. The bar of soap was now 4.5cm in diameter, perhaps 3mm thick, but paper thin on the edges. Yet there it was standing bolt upright on the tiles, oblivious to slippery nature of its substance or the ceramic tiles on which it was making its last stand.

And that is when I knew ... what I knew, I have no idea, ... Paulo Coelho might say it was the earth conspiring with me, or perhaps an omen that the Velosolex wheels would remain upright for my journey across Australia. I knew this was going to be different

Actually the whole thing started with a Sunday morning beverage with Mary and a general inquisition as to why I had purchased a Velosolex.

"My God, I thought that there was nothing between a 2CV and walking, trust you to find another minimalist form of travel," commented Mary.

"Why did you buy it?" he continued.

"It is not as if you can do anything with it" Mary's monologue continued.

Mary seemed to be able to continue a conversation without much input from me, which was fine because it left more time for me to consume some Ouzo and Coke.

"It is not as if you could ride that across Australia" Mary was on quite a roll now.

However, then I said it, it just popped out,

"Yes I am, I am riding it to the National Citroen Meeting in Dubbo at Easter."

Of course, once you say something like that, a silence descends, and there is not much you can do, because it is out there ... and nothing was going to be the same again.

And there I was, day 1, undertaking a side journey just to increase my options. I thought to myself, that if I depart from my home to the east of Perth, and travel to the West Coast before returning home, that I left my options open to continue later and do a coast-to-coast trip if such an idea appealed to me.

Getting out of the city is one of the most pleasurable things that I can do. Just to get away from the high density populous and enjoy space. It was with great relief that I finally threw my leg over the Velosolex and pedalled down the driveway at 5.50a.m so as to beat the traffic and commence my departure from the city.

I had been looking forward to this departure for a long time, yearning for the solitude and giving me a chance to undertake two tasks, other than the Velosolex ride.

I had acquired some audio instruction CDs for learning Spanish, and I planned to learn enough Spanish to be able to explain to a Spanish speaking person what I needed, if not be able to understand them in return. So armed with my trusty MP3 player and a seemingly endless supply of AAA batteries the tuition commenced.

In the silent times, I planned to spend some time soul searching. I had reached a point in my life where I really needed to make some directional decisions. The primary one was whether I was going to continue living in Australia, or try living in another country. I had hoped to spend some time thinking about this the November prior, during the Sahara crossing, however, Luk, my excellent companion on this adventure had parried with endless conversation, which had priority over my thoughts of a country thousands of kilometres away.

Hyden is a wheat belt town in Western Australia and is actually on the most direct route from Perth to the East coast. The next town on that route is Norseman. These two towns are separated by a dirt Highway stretching 300km across the country, with no towns or services between.

The blacktop actually runs north of Norseman to Coolgardie and then West to Perth, which adds over 100km to the journey. It would appear that the there are more votes along the blacktop, than in the sparsely populated towns on the Hyden strip, because even though common sense tells us that a shorter route has to save everyone, the Hyden-Norseman road remains unsealed.

My experience riding a Velosolex on dirt roads had been limited to riding through road works without incident. Accordingly I did not give it a second thought planning a 300km leg on the third day, along the dirt highway.

The funny thing about gravel roads is the slew factor. This is normally a factor that a practiced hand can deal with whilst undertaking a plethora of other tasks, without second thought. However, when riding a front wheel drive bike, it is like trying to control a fire hose on full blast by holding the fire hydrant.

Of course every other time that I have travelled this road it has been smooth beyond belief, but now it was corrugation city, but other than the fracture of one spoke on the rear wheel, all was well.

Living in Australia, the sun in my friend. I adore the heat that it provides and the long days of sunshine that we are blessed with. This does not mean that I allow the sun access to my skin, however, as I have had too many skin cancers removed, to rate a tan as anything but bad judgment. Generally I wear long sleeve shirts, wide brim hats and cover my skin with fabric.

As I prepared to slide into my bivvy bag for a well earned sleep, I noticed two sun burn bangles, one on each wrist, showing the intermittent gap between my gloves and sleeves. Nonetheless, I smiled and slid into bed before feeling a searing pain on my mid thigh. A closer inspection revealed a weeping burn about the size of a 20c piece. The mystery was all solved the next morning when I dressed. Funnily enough, there is a hole in my jeans, at mid thigh level about the size of a 20c piece.

I was imprisoned by a band of highwaymen, four or six, I do not really remember. I was lashed to a tree with strips of hide from a decomposing carcass and the questions were coming from all quarters.

It was like they were speaking another language, and despite my best efforts I could neither understand what they were saying, nor provide them with satisfactory answers. It was immediately apparent that they were not happy with the progress and were getting angrier and angrier.

The next thing I knew I had been knee-capped by an axe wielding ruffian, then there was something on top of me, and I had been confined in a very small place, with no air. I had a fairly good idea that my legs were still there, because I could feel the pain, but I had no idea where I was. After some consideration, it appeared that I was in my bivvy bag, and once I had extracted myself, there was no axe wielding highwayman, just enough wind to blow my Velosolex over onto my legs.

Don't you just love the way your mind incorporates real things into your dreams?

At about this time, unbeknownst to me, some 800km to the east, there was a Japanese Cyclist who had departed early to beat the winds on the Nullarbor. Whilst he was cycling along, a Road Train overtook him and when doing so, the arms of angels reached out in the form of vortexes entwining the cyclist and grasping him from his saddle and sliding him beneath the trailers of the Road Train.

Some days later, when I learned of this even, part of me was jealous. I see life as merely a stage in a game, and when you have completed the stage, you move onto the next stage, but until then we do not know what the next stage is. The Japanese Cyclist had passed this stage, and he had moved on, and I still must have a lot to learn in this stage.

Back on the blacktop, heading due East, all was good. The engine putted away and there I sat, with the saddle beneath my thighs, to give my legs a rest. The freedom was bliss, relatively no traffic, perhaps one vehicle per hour, soaring over the smooth bitumen when it dawned on me. If I was going to live in another country, it would have to be a sparsely populated country with boundless open spaces, or I would feel like a caged animal. The open spaces, and freedom the Australia gives me is not comparable to anything I have experienced in Europe, and I don't think that I could live without the sense of space.

WHACK

It felt like I had been hit in the cheek with a whipper snipper. My eyes began to weep and the tears ran over my cheeks and into my ears, whilst I listened for oncoming traffic. I could see nothing but a blur as I pulled both brake lever and thumbed the decompression lever to a halt. As I fingered my numbed cheek, the remains of a grasshopper. That really hurt. Yet onward I ventured, with the added duck and swerve to my soaring to prevent further grasshopper incidents.

It seems that on the road, there are two distinct groups of two wheeled travellers. There is the cyclist group and the motorcyclist group and a vast chasm between. The Velosolex is like a chameleon which allows me to integrate with both groups with ease. I did smirk at times, when seeing things like motorcyclists chaining their vehicles, I mean, come on, tis is Australia! I still do not quite understand the rationale of riding a Goldwing motorcycle towing a trailer, it sort of defeats the whole purpose, but hey, live the dream.

Eric is an American Cyclist that I met on the road. He to was suffering from one broken spoke, yet we both assured each other that it really was not a problem. Eric explained that he had only 1km of the longest straight road in Australia to complete, this being a length of blacktop west of Ciaguna stretching 147km without deviation. He was ecstatic because he had had the best tail wind of his life, on a road that stretched such a distance. Unfortunately I did not share his passion, as I was travelling in the opposite direction. But, at least it was not raining.

I was hoping to reach the Ciaguna Water Tanks, however the sun set behind me and I rode on into the twilight. It was not long before the twilight departed and my vision was reduced to what I could see in the single beam of my headlight. The kangaroo activity was extreme and I was actually enjoying getting quite close to them as they darted to and fro across the road.

Realisation dawned when I nearly collided with one, that it was time to retire. It was not the fact that I had not seen the kangaroo, nor that I could not negotiate my way around it, it was the fact that the kangaroo had come from my rear, passed me, then cut me off, that drew me to the conclusion that I was out of my league. Hence I settled down in a nice bush camp.

I was oblivious to the fact that some four days prior, Cyclone Larry struck Northern Australia, yet as the effects of Larry spread outwards, the rain commenced and I had a dust free bush camp.

By now I not only knew of Cyclone Larry, I had been riding into his effects for 12 hours, dripping wet, only to cover 195km in a day. But at least I did not have any other problems. I was beaten by the light again and elected to retire to another bush camp only 30km short of a roadhouse.

During the night the rain fell, without relief. As the rain fell it landed on landscape, and me in my bivvy bag, and the Velosolex. I was not aware of the water on the Velosolex as it made its way down the frame to the stand, and from the stand to the ground below. Then as the water accumulated in the ground below it undermined the surface structure and the stand sunk from the surface, to the point where it was not working.

For the second time the Velosolex elected to join me in my nocturnal repose, however this time I had camped further enough away to be free of injury. In fact I was so far away, that by the time I got up, traipsed across the mud, righted the Velosolex, rested it against a tree and returned to my bivvy bag, I was wet, really wet.

By now I had realised that I needed to find a solution. So all my wet stuff (yes that would be everything) went into my bag. It then donned a pair of hiking trousers, and a wind jacket, both of which were of the quick dry nature. This allowed me to travel as before, in the showers, but allowed me some relief during the fine patches, as the whole ensemble dried in about 10 minutes when paraded before the headwind.

Head down you notice different things. The most common item on the side of the road is the elasticised strap with hooks at each end, often known as an occy strap. Given their prolific nature on the side of the road, they obviously do not hold down whatever they are supposed to hold down, so it does amaze me that anyone uses them at all.

The best thing about travel on a bike is that you are in the picture. You are not looking through a windscreen for a view like on a television screen; you are part of the act. This means that you can enjoy things just that bit more, like the unbelievably floral scent of the bushes that have been rained upon.

Almost another 13 hours later, and only 212km, I pulled into the Eucla Hotel, for a one night stand with a clothes drier, and a soft night in a hotel.

After a motel sleep, I awoke early packed and departed. Whist the weather was no better, I now had the quick dry system down pat, and this was the first day with no headwind. Onward I ploughed through fog and rain, with practically no visibility for almost 200km with an average speed of 33.4km/h.

I stopped at the Nullarbor Roadhouse for a coke. The Nullarbor Roadhouse marks the western border of the treeless plain (from the Latin: Null Arbor). Then off I rolled, loving the sense of speed, tucked low, wind in my face, sitting on the bag behind my seat in a total crouch. By now the close proximity of the two stroke engine had effected my hearing so much, that to my biased ears it sounded like I was riding a Harley Davidson.

Ten kilometres from the Nullarbor Roadhouse, there is a tree on the left hand side of the road. That should not be there, I thought. Then I thought some more, because the Japanese Cyclist would not have seen the tree on the treeless plain, because he met his end another 9km on, and during that thought, I hit the pothole.

Now this is not your African pothole that eats two Citroen 2CV wheels and breaks your suspension, this is a tiny pothole, but nonetheless, there was something seriously wrong. This was plainly evident to me, because my back wheel was not turning.

On close inspection, I had buckled my rear rim, and broken four more spokes. Fine I thought, I will walk back to Nullarbor Roadhouse. After three paces I thought that that was not such a good idea, because the back wheel was not turning. So then I though I would swap the back wheel for the front wheel and wheel it in on one wheel ... then I thought, no I am just going to have to fix it.

Now, never having done anything more than looked at a bicycle wheel before, I needed to beat the tangential learning curve. So I took all the spokes off the rim and straightened it. I then redistributed the spokes evenly around the rim and put the five broken spokes in my pack before reassembling the wheel and playing the spoke tightening game to make the rim go this way and that. All said and done, I was back on my way within two hours.

Unfortunately the next cattle grid was not as sympathetic and before I realised it I had broken another spoke and was looking at the same job again for the second time in one day.

Not far from Yalata I elected to limp into the Roadhouse to seek refuge for the night, only to find that Yalata had been condemned. Accordingly I continued to limp on until almost 10.00p.m. before reaching Nundroo. After 13 hours in the saddle and 16 on the road, I was happy to seek the comforts of a soft mattress.

The limp continued the following day, as did the rain.

I could not venture to guess how many times I have crossed this country, by this route. No doubt it started as a screaming child vomiting in the back seat until my parents found Junket tablets. Travel sickness gone there have been train journeys, crossings as a learner driver, and probably a crossing every year since then. This being my first crossing outside a vehicle so to speak, I was very happy to experience two new things. The first was the smell again, not the floral smell of natural bush, but this time the smell of the eucalyptus trees carrying on the wet wind. The smell of the Australian bush when it is wet is a truly indescribable experience, and makes up for the wet feeling allover, almost.

The second perspective, was probably more to do with speed that my actual travelling position. I was astonished to find that there were caterpillars crawling across the road. I mean to put their journey into perspective, they were undertaking a remarkable crossing of 5m of bitumen, without knowing how far it was, with continual danger of imminent death, only to find more of the desert on the other side. Considering that this length of bitumen would normally be lying in the sun, for the majority of the year the heat would make the road a permenant barrier.

As I limped into Penong I observed two cyclists luncheoning in front of the General Store. After a quick introduction with Keith, he departed for Ceduna, and shortly after, so did Helmut, however we had arranged to meet in Ceduna for a meal together. Whilst this meant my shortest day yet, I needed the time to source some more spokes and work on the Velosolex.

Even in limp mode I managed to pass both Helmut and Keith, which only increased my admiration for these two solo travelers across Australia.

As the rain was continuing I elected to take the soft option and book a donga. Dongas are typically mine site accommodation, being merely a transportable room with a bed. When both Helmut and Keith arrived, they both booked cabins, complete with all sorts of nice things like bedding, televisions and all those fancy things. I do not really understand the rationale behind paying more for things that you do not use, after all, who cares how good the room looks if you spend the whole time with your eyes shut anyway? Nonetheless, both Helmet and Keith were doing the hard yards on the road, and well deserved all the comforts for the evening.

I had put down my spoke experience to two things, weight and corrugations. I rationalised that the corrugations on the road had probably exacerbated the state of my spokes by adding fatigue cracks to the steel that was over 30 years old. There was not much that I could do about that now, so I looked at reducing my weight. I had already disposed of 1.5kg of food after the first day, deciding that I did not really need to carry it. I had used about a litre of oil which helped, and used half of my batteries. I elected to leave the 2 litre water bottle in favor of a 600ml bottle, and only carry enough fuel for each specific leg. By carrying the fuel in the Solexine container, the fuel weight was over the front wheel, which again assisted removing weight from the rear wheel. I calculated that I had dropped my rolling weight down to about 146kg, however as soon as it rained I was bound to be carrying a few more kilograms of water.

With spokes replaced and wheel rim re-straightened I departed again for another wet day. By mid morning, having been propelled along wet, I was thinking that bringing some sort of wet weather gear would have been a good idea. The first day that it rained, I had donned my Poncho. Now drag cars use parachutes to slow down on the drag strip, and a poncho makes a fairly good parachute on a Velosolex, I was just missing the engine so gave up on any protection from the rain from that point onwards.

When I arrived in Minnipa I elected to take my first hot drink for the trip, and that is when I realised how cold I was. The first indication was the burning sensation on my cheeks when I entered the roadhouse, which was filled with a comparatively blistering heat, to that I had experienced on the road. Now when I ordered my coffee I had no idea what was to come. I took my first sip and immediately felt pins and needles through my mouth and cheeks, and instant chill blains to my face ... it was a long coffee.

Back on the road, I felt the familiar feeling of power drop that indicated that my fuel had run out, so I refueled from the Solexine tin, only to find that the tin too had succumbed to a fatigue crack ... so much for only carrying enough fuel for each leg. Predictably I ran out of fuel about 12km out of Wundinna, disengaged the motor accordingly and pedaled in.

Back on the Highway I was in for another new experience. Habit has you cleaning your windscreen every time you refuel when you drive a motor vehicle around this country. Of course on a bike, this is one chore that you no longer need to do. As I drove through a could of insects I was reminded of this, and just smiled. That was right up until I realized that the insects were flying ants and a few of them had made their way into my clothing. A few body bites were quickly over intensified by a bite to my ear ... how did he get in there?

Up until I stopped for fuel, I was unaware of the one failing of my wet weather attire. I was wearing quick dry hiking pants, having given up on underwear because it took too long to dry. I fulfilled my normal refueling routine and walked into pay, to be confronted by a boggle eyed road house attendant. When I looked down, I noticed that wet hiking pants are also see through ... c'est la vie.

Tire consumption was knowledge that had evaded me until I departed. In one day, being day 4, I consumed about half the tread on my front tire, which I could not explain. I then telephoned Mark in Melbourne and asked him to freight me some new tires, which he organised for me to pick up from a service station in Port Augusta. I then experimented with riding techniques and found that if I rode on the white line, being a painted surface instead of the comparatively aggressive surface of the bluemetal embedded in bitumen that my tires did not wear anywhere near as much. Nonetheless, if it were not for the consistent wet weather I doubt that I would have made it as far as I did on my first set of tires.

All said and done, I managed 3000km out of a front tire, before the tread was reduced to the replacement marker. The rear lasted another 1000km. I compared this with the tire consumption experienced by the cyclists, and it was comparable, though reversed as their drive wheel is the rear wheel.

I do not know how Mark managed it, but he sent the tires to a service station that was located opposite a cycle store, so dropped the rear wheel in for "professional" straightening, whilst I walked across and picked up my new tires

 There are parts of Australia, where occupational health and safety recommendations are to drink a litre of water every half an hour. So on a twelve hour shift, miners are expected to drink 24 litres. The basis for this recommendation is the speed at which dehydration occurs means that after 40 minutes, the effect of dehydration on the mind limits your ability to determine that you need a drink.

Of course there was absolutely no fear of dehydration for me on this day, with the most persistent rain my primary concern was drowning. The rain was so persistent that the power assistance of the carborundum roller on my front tire was totally ineffective and after disengaging, I pedaled up Horrocks Pass, over the ranges.

Generally snakes are very timid creatures, whom favor fleeing over any other action, and only fight when cornered. On the Barrier Highway, I came across a young brown snake on the road, who was having a bad day. In what must have been Jack Russel style bravado, he elected to take on a both the Velosolex and I. I thought I had allowed enough room for a clear passage by, however the baby brown had other ideas, indicating his intention by entering strike posture. Accordingly I lifted my left leg, and his strike was evidenced merely by a slight thud, as he impacted somewhere on the Velosolex.

Considering his bravado and his Highway position his life expectancy was considerably short so I elected to return for a photograph so his memory lives on.

One of the great things about travel, is the ability to observe others. When I stopped at a roadhouse, there was cause to smile at the perspective of the road house owner. On his social hierarchy, there was nothing that deserved his scorn as much as someone wanting to pay for 1.6 litres of fuel. I was soon elevated from the depths however, as his next customer was a goat carter, wanting to pay for a tank full of diesel. Despite the enormity of his purchase compared to mine, the roadhouse owner elevated my status to that of normal customer compared to the "piss stinking goat carter".

After crossing the South Australian - New South Wales Border, I rolled into Broken Hill. It chilled me to the core to see such a high density of people, I mean there were even traffic lights! Whilst I had planned to stop in Broken Hill for the evening, for a well overdue shower, I could not steel myself to do it, and continued to roll on.

Again the sun set to my rear, and the twilight disappeared, yet in this barren land there was nowhere to stop. I observed a glow on the horizon, which slowly grew bigger, until I arrived at the Little Tobar Roadhouse which was amidst it's annual party which drew people from everywhere. There were a host of people from White Cliffs, and a heap of locals from Wilcannia, probably 1000 in all for a sausage sizzle, fireworks and a party.

Once the fireworks were over, most departed, leaving a trusty few around the fire. Bill is a Wilcannia local whose bottom lip is so predominant that it is his namesake. It seems that Lip's father was a man who was handy with a guitar, and wrote a few songs. In the style of Slim Dusty, Lip belted out some excellent local tunes. Despite the local content of the verses, I can only seem to remember the first two lines of the chorus;

Whenever he got tired, Mu would call out, 'Anyone know how to play the Guiiitar?'

As the night drew on and I retired in my bivvy bag on the ground, I heard one of the Whitecliffs lads respond to a complaint from his grandson, 'It is cold and the ground is hard' The complaint was silenced with, 'Whinge and I won't bring you out again.' Needless to say, all slept well.

After almost continual listening to Spanish tuition via my MP3 player, I had got to the point where I would have a thought in English, and my subconscious mind would translate it to Spanish.

I say subconscious mind, only because it is a term that is in common usage, and not because it describes what I believe. It is my opinion that we have two levels of thought. We have the thought that we control by concentration, yet is governed by impulse, and we have the thought that is programmed.

The programmed thought area is an excellent area if we use it well, yet most do not. There is a theory that we become the average of those with whom we associate. This is probably based on the continual exposure to those people programming our upper consciousness.

Unfortunately most people seem to leave this programming to television. Given that television is all about ratings people allow themselves to be programmed by hype, exaggeration and predominantly fiction this is a rather scary phenomena.

What ever happened to critical thinking where we multiply the value of the information by the veracity of the source and again by peer review rather than taking it on face value.

Instead the Active Thinkers are left to counter arguments from the 'It was on Television so it must be true' faction.

I was packing up from my bush camp when a traveler stopped for a break and a chat. He was keen to know if there was another roadhouse before Wilcannia, and I assured him that there was. He stated that he wanted to refuel before reaching Wilcannia because he did not want to stop there, as his friends had told him that it was the worst place to stop.

Of course this was contrary to my experience with the Wilcannia locals, two nights prior, and my refueling experience the previous day. Accordingly I inquired if the opinion of his friends was based on their personal experience, considering the extreme and emphatic nature of their protestations. I was met with a blank face so I tried again, 'How would they know?' to which he replied that, 'It is always on the TV'

Just the way he said it, I knew that TV was now a proper noun, even if he did not know what a proper noun was, so I said, 'Well, would love to stop and chat, but I have to stare at this white line for 12 hours"

As the kilometers rolled by, I noticed some old vehicles pass me by in the opposite direction, of a marque that I could not distinguish. My attempts at hand waves to the first three cars went unacknowledged so I presumed that the Rolls Royce car club was on an outing.

I then tried the whole arm wave, still without acknowledgement. Accordingly I resorted to veering across to the other side of the road, which was rewarded with a reaction from the driver. Not a very positive reaction mind you, but certainly signs of life.

As I drew into Nyngan, I observed the last Rolls Royce on the side of the road. An elderly couple traveling with their daughter had suffered a rear tire delaminating, which was going to win them the 'back scratcher award' if they made it to their next rendezvous. I stopped to lend assistance, and whilst I was jacking the car up, removing the dead tire, refitting the new tire, and placing the dead tire in the boot, I was informed of the Rolls Royce trip to Darwin.

It became evident how self absorbed these people were when they suggested that I move my 'car' off the road so that it was not hit by passing traffic. I replied that my bike was there to stop the oncoming traffic from hitting me, nonetheless, the task was completed and they were on their way totally oblivious as to what had occurred.

When I arrived in Nyngan, I could hardly walk, and I was assured that I was suffering from Bot Rot. I have no idea what 'bot rot' is however I did know that my underwear and my buttocks had initiated an impromptu union where the seams of my underwear made its own way into the cheeks of my buttocks. The partnership was swiftly severed with a sharp movement that was accompanied by sounds that are commonly associated with hair removal.

Double Gs are the seed of a weed that is known around Australia under different names. The seed has four spikes distributed so that no matter how the seed lands on the ground, it has one spike standing straight upwards. Eradication is hampered by the fact that the seeds can lay dormant for up to seven years before germination.

It would seem that the Nyngan area has a proliferation of Double Gs as evidenced by my back wheel wobble indicating that my back tyre was under inflated. By the time I had come to a stop, I the rear tyre was totally deflated and I was running on the rim breaking more spokes.

Over the course of the day I repaired two punctures and replaced five spokes.

As I moved closer to high residential areas, the traffic increased and the quality of driver decreased. I noticed that there are several forms of travelers.

There is the traveler who assesses the situation and passes at an appropriate speed and at a logical distance.

There are the blinked camper drivers who are under the misconception that when they pass you with their vehicles with only 10cm to spare all is well, totally oblivious to the fact that they are towing a monstrosity that exceeds the width of their vehicles by up to a meter.

And there are the justifiers. No matter how unsafe the undertaking, once they have justified their task in their own mind, they undertake it without fear of the effect or outcome. Justifiers can drive anything.

My first experience with justifiers was with the Truck Driving Justifier who is happy to drive in the left lane without any change of line, with the justification that 'This is my job, I am in my lane, and I am doing everything right.' Fortunately they are in minority and most truck drivers are considerate and treat you as any other road user.

The Car Driving Justifier is in the majority of drivers in NSW. Once they have justified themselves that roads are for cars their irrational antics begin. Anything other than a car needs to be cut of, swerved at, beeped at and screamed at.

Given the abundance of Car Driving Justifiers in NSW, I resorted to driving in the center of the lane. This alleviated most of the problems, with the attitude of a road user, most resorted to legally sanctioned overtaking, by using the other lane. I gave up when I was overtaken with only millimeters to spare by a Police Vehicle. He was probably a driving examiner.

The paradox is that the same drivers, who are happy to drive within millimeters of a cyclist, drive on the other side of the road if there is cattle or a kangaroo within cooee. Somewhere in the warped minds of these drivers, they give a cyclist riding on a highway the credit of having more commons sense than an animal. Hellooooo? How one of these outback cycling wayfarers could every actually mount a rational argument for the sanity of the undertaking beats me ... which does not say a lot for the drivers.

The last refueling stop was the country town of Narromine. Considering the punctures, spoke replacements and traffic conditions, I am prepared to admit that my patience was probably a little shorter than usual. Regardless I do not suffer fools gladly.

Whilst refueling the BP Service Station I heard some Goat Carter's Wife scream, 'OI!' I looked around to see which dog she was screaming at, to find that she was attempting some primitive form of communication with yours truly.

I suggested to the Goat Carter's Wife, that unless I was urinating on her leg, the appropriate means of address would be in English at an audible level so as not to cause offence.

She then drawled, "Eh You can‚t do that."‚ I asked for some quantification of exactly what she would not permit me to do, to receive a response which I took to mean that I could not place petrol in unapproved petrol containers.

I glanced down at the Solexine tin, brightly pained green with the BP logo and after some pointing at the word Pétroles‚ she appeared placated. Not so. As I filled my reserve petrol bottle, she stated that I could not put petrol in an unapproved container.

I turned to the Goat Carter's Wife and explained that the red bottle, with a flammable liquid symbol on it and flammable liquid warnings in four languages including English, indicated to me that it was an approved container. I did concede that this warning was not written in the dialect of Oxymoron‚ however if she was prepared to grunt at the appropriate times I would correspond with the manufacturer on her behalf and make a formal request for future production.

And so, I rolled out of the country town of NarrowMind.

On arrival in Dubbo, I claimed a spot in a local caravan park, then ventured around town to purchase those essentials like, soap, deodorant and a tent. Now for a few relaxing days before the meet.

For the Velosolex geeks, I had traveled a total of 3476km on 49.4 liters of fuel averaging 1.42 liters per 100km. The Velosolex rolled for 167 hours in 14 days with an average speed of 21km/h.

1.1 Preparation.

How one prepares for trips like this is really a matter of personal preference. First I undertook normal service work on my Velosolex, and ascertained that on average she travels 75km on a litre of fuel, and averages 30km/h. Basically I replaced everything that was made of rubber (given that the rubber was all original and over 30 years old).

The next step was a couple of road trials each of 200km, and the associated repairs and fine tuning. Punctures seem the most common fault, and accordingly I added Slime to my inner tubes. For safety I have gone with flashing LED lights front and rear, and a High Visibility Vest.

Refuelling posed a problem, with some legs anticipated over 300km without services. Accordingly I purchased an original 2l Solexine Can and mounting bracket and a 1l reserve bottle. This gives me a total of 4.4l and a range of 330km, dependant on terrain and wind conditions.

Originally I planned to upload photos and reports en route, however my Archos PMA430 ceased to operate last week, so updates will be via more pedestrian alternatives.

1.2 Packing.

When planning for any journey, the most important thing is what you take with you.

Here is what I ended up with: