I don the bike gear, leave the
key under the mat, portage the bike down the stairs, click in and turn the
legs. I push through the back streets of Hawks Nest, round the curve leading to
the Singing Bridge over the Myall River, roll down the arc into Tea Gardens.
Yesterday’s ride, the first for
far too long, in the heat of the late morning on a slow, mottled surface,
dead-legs me. Today is better, the air cooler, sun nowhere, the road surface
kinder. Not so the first climb out of Tea Gardens after 6kms of pancake. It
ramps up to ten per cent, gets me standing on the pedals. I drop height quickly
on the other side.
I ride reasonably hard for 30
minutes before turning the bike around. This is an hour and no more. It’s
tempting to push too hard, too early, but this is novice training after so long
away. I need legs that can go again tomorrow and the day after that. I need
legs that want to pedal, not groan at the thought of it. I need to harden up
the arse, gone soft sitting on chairs at desks.
The ride back is pleasant
enough. The ten per cent hill is ten per cent the other way, seems a little
longer. I detour to the riverfront in Tea Gardens, check the eateries. My good
woman and I eat out tonight after three days serious food deprivation. We are
determined to lose weight, regain some shape. No amount of fruit fills me.
Not much is open at six fifteen
on Monday night in Tea Gardens; nothing is open in Hawks Nest except the
restaurant at our resort, somehow unappealing. We pull up at The Boathouse at
7:45 to be told the stove has been turned off. The pub is the only option. The
food is good pub fare, local blackfish for me, doughy calamari for my good
woman.
For the first time on this
holiday I go to bed not feeling hungry, ravenous. Before bed we soak muesli for
breakfast tomorrow. Bring it on.
Rock on.
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