10 July 2018
A sense.
I turn my head to see a bus move up beside me. I breathe in, as though the intake of breath will reduce my physical presences and I edge ever so slightly towards the white line to squeeze myself tightly into the designated space on the road. I glance up from pedalling and see a face grinning at a window, a hand waving. I manage a half smile, but outwardly it must seem like a grimace – this is almost the top of a hill, after all. The face, although slightly obscured and only briefly glimpsed, is clearly excited; round, with warm eyes behind glasses and exuberance in the crease and lines. I smile inwardly – another tourist enamoured by some tree ferns and thick, tall trees. I let the bus go on its way, moving out into its wake.
I pedal on.
I’m almost back onto the Tourist road – Perrins Creek Road is deceptively steep in the final kilometre. I pick up the pace – easier now at the intersection – and cut the wide corner. I work my way across to the far side of the road and settle into a faster rhythm. There’s a strong odour of onions, brought on by workers with tractors slashing indiscriminately at onion weed on the red-soil bank. It is overwhelmingly sharp. But there are no cars in sight and I work my way up to Olinda. It is as I’m straightening towards that Bavarian bastion of the hills, the Cuckoo Restaurant that I both see the bus and the group of people cascading out its door. I recognise the bus as the same one encountered on the way up Perrins Creek Road and it is at this point that I hear a shout. The excited face from the bus window now has a body and is running alongside the opposite side of the road and he’s just as excited. Both his arms are up and they’re pumping the air and urging me on. He seems to have mistaken me for someone else, but he is not perturbed by the many others who are standing around. I have a Tour de France moment and my pace quickens simply through this gracious encouragement. I grin, not grimace, flap my hand and nod to him in acknowledgement. I do not know his name or where he is from, but I laugh at his infectious enthusiasm. My instant fan has buoyed my ride by a simple gesture, although he runs nearly the entire frontage of The Cuckoo. It doesn’t take much to change a disposition, a perspective, if only for a lone rider pushing up a hill.
Downhill now.
The other side of Olinda, towards the turn-off to Skyhigh. This is a tricky bit; I need to turn into Ridge Road and it requires braking, steering to avoid potholes and indicating for any traffic, all whilst doing about 50kph and holding firmly onto the handle bars. As I navigate this quite well and take the left turn, a car, having turned into the side lane on the left, decides to veer to the right, effectively making a u-turn in front of me. There is no indication from the driver. I slow, but clearly the driver doesn’t see me. I have to brake hard trying to bring the bike from about 40 kph to a near standstill and swerve to the left to avoid the car. The driver notices me. No hand up in apology, no recognition of the near collision. I think of the encouragement from the tourist earlier. I realise I have a choice.
I raise one hand and pump the air. I ride on…
Cycling and Life 
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