A Morning of Farewell and a Bicycle Museum
At 7 a.m., I woke to the cool morning air. Today, my host’s wife was leaving early, so before she stepped out, I managed to say a short but heartfelt “thank you.” These moments of parting have become a ritual in my journey—brief but tinged with a quiet sadness.
While her husband prepared to take the dog for a walk, I checked my phone’s charge. He then led me into the storage shed, which turned out to be like a bicycle museum. The walls were covered with gears, tools, and spare parts, each carrying its own story. Usually quiet and reserved, he came alive when speaking about bicycles. His face lit up with a boyish smile, and his voice carried genuine enthusiasm.
We spent more than half an hour talking about tools, tricks for the road, and ways to solve problems while traveling. Sharing his passion reminded me how bicycles are not just machines—they are vessels of stories and personalities.
Preparing the Garden on Wheels
When he returned from his walk, we shook hands firmly, a silent exchange of respect and gratitude. Then I turned to final preparations for the trailer. To keep the flower boxes from shaking loose on uneven roads, I secured them tightly with duct tape. With every small adjustment, the “moving garden” was taking on a more reliable, travel-ready shape.
By the time I finished packing, the clock had passed 10 a.m. Still, there was no rush. My goal for the day was Orbost, 70 kilometers away. With a deep breath, I pressed down on the pedals.
Relentless Hills
Almost immediately, the road threw me into a series of steep climbs. Downhill relief lasted only seconds before the next ascent began. My legs burned, and the trailer’s weight pressed heavily with each push. It reminded me of the endless ups and downs of the Nullarbor Plain. Yet unlike then, the wind today was calm—a small blessing that made the effort more bearable.
By midday, I had covered only half the distance. The sky began to shift colors as the afternoon deepened. Strangely, as the light changed, my body also seemed to find a new rhythm. My legs felt lighter, and I entered a quiet focus where the only thing that mattered was the steady turning of the pedals. At last, the town of Orbost appeared before me.
Searching for a Campsite
Seventy kilometers behind me, my body was heavy with fatigue. Still, I rode past the town, searching for a safe place to sleep. The fields stretched wide and open, with nothing to shield me from view. A hint of unease crept in, but my intuition urged me to keep going.
Fifteen minutes later, I found it: a small clearing hidden behind a patch of trees. Relief washed over me. Here, I could rest without worry. I pitched my tent and prepared a simple dinner of canned fish and oatmeal. Modest though it was, the meal filled my empty stomach, and that was enough.
The Highs and Lows of Tomorrow
As night settled in, I studied the map by the sound of distant cars and the steady chorus of insects. Tomorrow’s route would bring triple the elevation of today—sixty kilometers of constant climbing and descending. Beyond those hills lay the border with New South Wales, and with it, the promise of new scenery and encounters.
Closing my eyes, I could still feel the day’s pedaling in my muscles, a faint rhythm echoing within. Slowly, it guided me into sleep, carrying me toward the challenges and surprises of tomorrow.
