Life on two wheels on the Gold Coast, cont'd:
Other road signs offer some enjoyable departures from standard-issue Canajan practice, such as photo #8. My own experience suggests that this one should also warn innocent ‘roos and koalas of the dangers posed by a rampant SUV or ute.
(A current ‘Strayan Dad Joke asks why the latter creatures are not true bears: It’s ‘cos they lack the necessary koalafications.)
Photo # 9 below shows a road sign only very distantly related to its Canajan counterpart—you won’t see this in the Gatineau Park. On the day I took this photo, an overnight rain had left puddles everywhere, and ten days earlier, 400 mm of rain in 36 hours (no typos there, please note) had given the forest a thorough soaking and left the creeks a-spilling. In the years I’ve been riding on this particular road, this is the first time I’ve seen the needle in the “Low-to-moderate” zone. And any slice termed “Negligible” need not apply for inclusion.
Wot?? Hills on a coastal plain?
To the west of the GC lies the Great Dividing Range, and to the south, the NSW Border Ranges. In the Coast itself, there are a lot of short-but-steep hills, where myriad streams from the hills have cut deep into the sandy coastal plain. And, the ridges between some of those streams and small rivers can be a challenge to a cyclist emerging from winter. A few years ago, the cold and snowbound winter months in Ottawa (from, say, late November to the end of March) posed no particular problem for exercise – cross-country skiing, skating and hockey took the place of cycling and hiking for keeping my legs and cardio-vascular system in shape. In recent years, osteoarthritis in both hips has stopped me from skating, and ruled out all but very gentle cross-country skiing. This past winter, I started using a stationary trainer bike, but it left me a long way short of where I wanted to be.
Two of my favourite rides are along and between two creeks in the south-central region of the Coast, the Tallebudgera and the Currumbin (love the names!) The height of land between the two is no more than a couple of hundred metres at most, but the connector road is narrow and steep-ish, with paved shoulders tiny or nonexistent. So, for most of the climb I used a paved walkway that’s safer but steeper than the roadway – 12%-plus, by my estimation. For most of it, I was down to my low x low gears on the Eclipse, 22 at the front x 34 at the rear. I was knackered at the top, but rewarded by the rapid descent. The only “but” was an SUV driver who simply couldn’t stand the embarrassment of being behind a bike doing 35-40 km/h, so just had to overtake me on the downhill, round a blind corner on a double white line. I reckon he beat me to the T-junction with the Currumbin Valley Road by a good two seconds, so the appalling risk to himself and others was clearly worth it.
The Currumbin Valley Road is especially attractive, its dense shade and decent surface making for a delightful ride. (Photo #10) It rises gradually alongside Currumbin Creek, and about ten kilometres from the coast, a left-hand turn takes a rider onto and up Tomewin Mountain Road, a challenging climb to the NSW border. Tomewin road angles up the outer eastern slope of the caldera of an ancient volcano. Riders pass through eucalyptus forests and bamboo groves, and the view south and west from the top is magnificent. On this ride, though, I chose to forego the climb – my right hip was already aching and grumbling, halfway through an 80-km there-and-back.
I found a quiet spot for my lunch break in a park beside a lagoon in Currumbin Creek (photo #11) – quiet, that is, until a commotion of swans decided that it was just the spot for a raucous policy discussion on whatever it was—cygnet-rearing practices, seasonings on the wee river creatures they were inhaling, entry fees, etc., etc. Remarkably, they maintained their serene physical postures throughout the colossal racket they made.
-- concluded on the next post --
