AN ULTRA MARATHON CHRISTMAS.

Throughout the day I polished my bike, adorned it with headlights and flashing red bulbs. Then far after nightfall, I rolled out of my carport and headed for the coast. I followed the sounds of the strong offshore winds interlaced with the movement of the ocean meeting the shore. As I rode closer, a certain luminance of the crashing waves caught my eye and opened a connection to a place where I knew more than names.

I remember waking last Christmas in crystal silence. No wind. No birds. Nothing but the far away sound of a road train hauling its ass - laden with something important - going somewhere fast. I still recall my disbelief, my inability to define the difference from the day before or even the entire month before. The sun was refreshingly cool; it carried the scent of heat, the essence of desert travel. The beauty and wonder of far off exotic places was underneath and all around me. I was inside it, but yet its mystic did not consume me.

I was a long way from home and I had a long way to go before I rested. Truly rested. Nonetheless, I rejoiced in a dream come true morning, no headwinds. Suddenly, I was a boy again, I believed in a God, I believed in Santa Claus. They had combined to stop the evil deterrent of relentless pounding headwinds. So stunned was I with this new development that I had forgotten to mobilize from my sleep. I scrambled to make up for my mental lapse.

I assembled and swallowed my morning’s ration of vitamins, minerals and supplements. I stuffed away my swag, smeared sunscreen and insect repellant over my exposed skin. I bolted down everything in the trailer, adjusted my riding clothes and made my way east towards the grand city of Adelaide. I have to now admit, even if I didn’t then, that it was hardcore. Everything was; the winds, drinking warm bore water, sleeping on the ground, punctures in 110-degree heat and the mathematics of my travel. My sunscreen, combined with sweat and the collection of airborne red dust, clogged my pores trapping more heat under my skin. I craved ventilation. I craved to make sense of my newly discovered insanity.

There was no such thing as tomorrow, everything happened in the moment, in every single pedal rotation. The luxury of anticipated relief was inconceivable to fathom. Today, tomorrow, next week - there was no distinction. As my wheels rolled, out of habit, I studied my environs. Searching for wind clues, my whole body a barometer. Every dead blade of a twig, any weed, anything anywhere that could be touched by wind I scanned over and over. I tried to convince myself there was no wind; my speedo indicated I was doing much better. It was true; I wasn’t dead, yet. I wasn’t dreaming, this was Christmas 2002 and there was no wind.

Like a solid stealth slug in the stomach, I noticed the first breeze taunting the twigs. My delirium overrode reality and I carried on in abject denial. The first signals I ignored but still somewhere, not too far from command central, they registered. Ten minutes later the breeze stabilized and strengthened. Gusts arrived, sweeping the land but still I prayed that it was just a shift of the globe, an anomaly. It wasn’t really going to blow in my face all day; the world just couldn’t be that cruel.

“Pitchewwwww.” Puncture - rear tire. I wobbled then stopped on the side of the road where I disconnected the bike from the trailer and carried the bike so to avoid the destructive needles lying in wait in the scrub. I replaced the rear tire and tube. Then as I developed a tinge more acceptance of the circumstances, I replaced the front tire and tube as well. I was stalling, trying to catch my breath, trying to accept that I was in a hell bore of headwinds and ill-advised dreams. Mine, that was that. Little fire ants, seemingly numbering in the thousands, arrived to hasten my departure. The instant I got on the bike the wind began to growl and  and beat not only my progress back, it crushed my heart.

I was sick of spirit. There was absolutely nothing to do but to keep going, no matter how hopeless it seemed. Single kilometers stretched out over an eternity. It was unnatural to go so slow on such a riding machine. There was no doubt that I was being persecuted, singled out and tortured by someone or something very sadistic indeed. Almost every single rotation of the pedals now drained me. The pedals forced me to dig deeper for the roots of my power; I could feel the cost of my motion and dreams. It was an exorbitant price. As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky.  I just wanted to cry, but men don’t do that.

I came to a roadhouse. Closed. Water tap shut off from the inside, the cheap unmitigated bastards. My whole world was a ghost town, not a creature was stirring, not even a kangaroo! Traffic was nearly non-existent and those that did pass by seemed to view me as some kind of freak. People shut their blinds when I rode by, doors were wide open but nobody was home. I met a man who wasn’t there. The children were nestled all safe in their beds, while visions of swimming pools danced in their heads. I was a stranger in a strange land and everyone wanted to keep it that way. Everyone but me. I wanted cold clear water and food of the chewing kind but none was to be had.

I left the township behind and rode along the highway. It was a freak out; I had been here too many times before. There were three towns all in a row about 45 miles part. Each town exactly the same, the game was grain, only the faces changed behind cloaked doors and drawn shades. The similarities, the silent whoosh of the wind, the hunger and heat haunted me. My mental demons danced and stomped in maniacal glee as their songstress sung of sinister cynical scenes constructing the very death of me.

On my treadmill, I pedaled until I came across a phone booth out in the middle of oblivion. There was a rented campervan parked there. Surely, I thought these people would bridge me back to reality, possibly even share a cold drink of water with me. I had such aspirations. I stopped, they were German. They spoke German, smiled a lot and whispered in German to each other. I made sudden movements to see if they were afraid. If they hadn’t been by then, they were now.

Again, against the infernal headwinds, the consuming heat and my self-destructing implosion of self, I hit the highway and rode slow. This Christmas, this horror behind the handlebars, still echoes in me.

This year brought new obstacles and new salvations. I had dreams that manifested from the bike but they were complicated with a strange ailment. I was still far from home but in more comfortable surroundings. My acquaintances required only smiles of recognition for we had no history. My life of yesterdays called from across the waters at which I was at the edge.

It wasn’t so bad. I couldn’t complain, riding my bike alone by the sea, trapped by the shores of very old dreams. While in other worlds, bombs were killing and people often fought blinded with hate and stupidity. Life seemed like newsprint faded and crumpled into papier-mâché. Every year it was more of the same.

I rode past 5-story, glass-balconied, concrete housing that realtors described as absolute beachfront villas. People partied on, one bloke screamed at the top of his lungs, “ Bleeping Merry Christmas Mates.” Traffic was considerable for such an hour of night and I weaved through the streets seeking more to explore the back lanes along the shore. Above, the southern hemisphere was alive with stars. I rode past homes streamed in flickering, jovial lights. I began to ride now, the temperature perfect, I followed my bike and let it take me to places I have never been. I forgot about sick and relished the flow; I was alive and I dreamed of family and friends. I dreamed that some day soon, before it was too late, I would ride in my race, discover my place and know my own face. I will see you at RAAM.

Merry Christmas to all and all my good mates. Ride safe people.

P. Stone