Leaving Albany Behind
March 23 marked the day I finally left Albany. From here on, there would be no large towns for quite a while—just a few small communities scattered along the way. I had heard that one of those towns had a hot shower available, and that simple thought became my motivation for the day.
The idea of stepping under warm water after days of rough cycling felt like a small luxury, something to look forward to as I turned the pedals.
The Hard Road Ahead
The road was far from easy. The constant ups and downs drained my energy, and the strong headwind made every kilometer feel twice as long. I took breaks whenever I could, sometimes just to borrow a restroom, other times to sip a little water.
At one point, I rode into an area that had clearly been devastated by bushfires. The landscape was covered in blackened trees—branches stripped bare, trunks scorched, and an unsettling silence hanging in the air. It felt as though the land itself was holding its breath.
For a moment, I slowed down and took it all in. The power of nature, both in its beauty and destruction, has a way of putting life into perspective.
The Blessing of Water and a Hot Shower
After hours of cycling, I reached Welstead. I stood there, exhausted, when an older woman approached me. She offered me water with a kind smile. Just water, but on a journey like this, that gift meant everything.
And then, at last, the hot shower I had been waiting for. It was free, simple, but so warm that it felt as though life was flowing back into me. I stood there, letting the heat wash away the fatigue, silently thankful for this small miracle.
Afterward, I stopped by the town’s general store. It reminded me of a countryside convenience store in Japan, filled with everything from bug spray to fishing gear, all mixed together. The storekeeper even handed me some fried potatoes, and I savored every bite.
The Long Straight Road
After resting for about an hour, I set off again. From here, the road stretched endlessly straight. There was no cycle lane, but also almost no cars. Just me, the wind, and the road.
Eventually, I reached a small crossroads town called Boxwood Hill. I had hoped to camp there, but nothing was open, and there was no shelter from the wind. Reluctantly, I decided to push further.
By this point, I had already cycled over 100 kilometers, and my legs felt close to giving out. Finally, I came across a small grove that offered some protection from the wind. I pitched my tent and unpacked.
A Quiet Evening Gifted by the Sky
Among my belongings were about twelve bottles of water—more than I really needed, but since each had been given to me along the way, I couldn’t leave them behind. I drank slowly, grateful for the kindness of strangers.
As evening fell, I noticed a soft light shining into my tent. I took out my camera, zoomed in, and it looked as though something was descending from the sky—an almost otherworldly sight.
An hour later, the sun sank gently toward the horizon. The sunset was quiet, glowing, and it felt like a reward for the long, difficult day.
Night came quickly, and as usual, I grew sleepy before 8 p.m. Life on the road is simple—ride, eat, rest, and sleep. But it feels just right.
Tomorrow, I’ll continue past Boxwood Hill toward Jacup, ready to see what awaits on the road ahead.
