BurbleChaz

We have far too much fun to blog about it all. If I wrote about all the awesome stuff we do, eventually you’d read a sentence starting “I sat down to blog about it…” and we would enter some terrifying loop of metacircular nonsense from which we would never escape. Well, that’s my excuse anyway.

First – a couple of pictures of Brisbane taken from the 28th floor of a building I work in:

Today, my plan was:

1. Climb Mount Coot-tha on my bike again
2. Descend the track to Gap Creek
3. Climb the track back to the top
4. Descend back to the car park

Summary: Partial success. 2 out of 4 ain’t bad.

Dropped Sensible Cyclist at Botanical Gardens, where she found an orchestral concert in progress. Climbed to the Lookout in a nosebleeding personal best of 17’06”. Climbed on to the start of the Kokoda Track to Gap Creek. Descended 20 metres. Saw this:

Looks flat? Look again

It doesn’t look too bad, does it? Now – look at the horizon. Now look at the trees. The furthest part of the path is 50m away. Yes, that is a 20m drop. Bugger that, I said, and finished the road circuit.

Then we went to the pub.

Bit of a catastrophe last night – ran out of wine, and had to buy a bottle at full retail price. Off to Vintage Cellars this morning, then. One benefit of owning a car is that I don’t have to carry a 12-pack of wine all the way home. This is negated by not being able to do any wine tasting. The Sensible Drinker tried a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and pronounced it to be reminiscent of nettles, chillies and feline effluvia. I was not able to offer any other perspective. Since she says that about every Sav Blanc she tastes, I feel that little was learned. Back over the bridge, down to Buranda for some shopping and home again. Busy we are, of a Saturday Morning.

Half an hour later we’re in the monster truck, bikes in the back and headed North. We are investigating the whole of the Moreton Bay Cycle Path. This endeavour would be somewhat easier if the track were either complete or continuous. As it is, we’re selecting sections that are long enough to justify the journey, and trucking the bikes to them in turn.

Deception Bay is a small town about 30kms North of Brisbane. I’m not sure that’s far enough. We stumbled on a very convenient parking spot right by the cycle path, hopped on our bikes and pottered off. The path is lovely, new, well maintained and runs along the bay and through some woodlands. It has dogs. Many, many dogs. These run the full spectrum from “large, amiable mutts” to “nasty, yappy runts”. Few have owners who seem to care. The dogs treat cyclists as a welcome break from the usual chore of chasing pelicans. Speaking of which – PELICANS! also, a heron. Pictures below. The bay is a Mangrove Swamp. It’s broad, shallow, and exudes a miasma of decay. Overall, not really our sort of place. Additionally, I shall not be a snob by alluding to the ratio of blazers to string vests. That would be cheap.

Yesterday’s ride was a little disappointing. Our goal was to see some more of the Moreton Bay coastline. We drove to Lota and picked up the cycleway where we had turned back last time. After 200m of boardwalk, the rest of the path was alongside a major road. About 5kms later we ran out of signage. We pottered on a bit until it started raining. Backtracking, we found the last sign on the cycleway. The colour code shows ‘Existing’ and ‘Planned’. Ah. That’s your problem right there. In proper Australian fashion, the beautiful, large expensive sign failed to point out that the path beyond that point was entirely mythical. They do this on the roads, too. “Lane ends in 3 meters”. “No possible route to <your destination> from here.” “No U-Turns – road ahead impassable”. Next time we shall try the section at Deception Bay, if only because it’s an awesome name for a town.

Our new plan is to go to a new place every weekend until we run out of places, fuel or enthusiasm. Since all these are still in good supply we mounted up and pointed the wagon North. The target was the Glass House Mountains.

I could burble on at length about how we investigated the area, moan about the temperature falling below 25 Celsius (really!), drip on about how the first place we stopped was full of trail bikers and their noisome effluvia, or describe how cool the view is from the lookout. But all the important bits are fully documented here. Go on – check it out. There are kangaroos!

Eventually, with a much better grasp of the local geography, we found a place for me to saddle up and play. The Sensible Cyclist opted for some gentle photography and reading while I plummeted down a lovely gravelly wet muddy forest road. Mud! Happy! Also, some very deeply-rutted uphill. Then more mud! I hacked about in this terrain for a bit having a total blast. With mud! I haven’t seen proper muddy trails in ages. I climbed to a local peak, and stopped to dump CO₂ and drink water. Spotted some butterflies making sure there will be more butterflies. I was slightly surprised when three bloody great trucks appeared coming the other way. Had I pondered more on the overall state of the track, and the tyre markings this would not have been such a surprise. Real mud is made with heavy trucks.

I turned to follow them back to the car park. This was an interesting experience. It turns out that off-road 4x4s are very, very slow compared to a mountain bike. They chunter along at about 15-20km/h and come to a grinding halt any time there’s anything they consider technical. Seriously – they stop, get out and chat about stuff that I happily do at 30km/h while jumping off the peak. I can only assume that this is because I am awesome.

I arrived back at the agreed location feeling tired, muddy and very happy. I was ready to share tales of endeavour, effort, setback and triumph. What I got was “No you can’t have a hug! There’s mud in your hair.” Some people just don’t understand. I mean, it is the wet season.

Anyway, enough burblage. Time for some pictures (which is the only reason you pay the entry fee, I know….)

I like to have climbed hills on my bike. Note the precise verb tense, please. I don’t enjoy the actual climbing bit. That’s nine parts pain and one part misery. Still, we’ve been to Mount Coot-tha (you’re still pronouncing it wrong) for the last few weekends, and I hadn’t actually bagged it. This state of affairs clearly could not continue. The bikes were in the car from yesterday’s jaunt, so after a hearty breakfast we pootled over to the botanical gardens at the foot of the mountain. In the interest of honesty, I feel compelled to point out that Mount Coot-tha rises to a prominence of 287 meters. In many other areas this would barely amount to a hill. That’s what a billion years of continuous erosion does for you. But, it’s called Mount Coot-tha and that’s good enough for me.

The photographer dropped me at the Botanical Gardens with hearty best wishes and promises of ice cream later. I pointed my awesome bike at the hill and started turning the pedals. Grind, grind, grind.The weather was fairly cool – about 30 degrees, and I had three liters of water in the Camelbak. The climb is not very steep, but is is relentless. You can always see the next few hundred meters to a curve. The top has to be around this one. No? Surely this one then….

It’s a long time since I did a reasonable climb. After fifteen minutes I was getting in to the zone – that weird place where all that has ever been, all that there is, and all that ever will be is the pain, the road, and the next turn of the crank. Nose down, brain off, keep making circles. Then the top arrived. Eighteen minutes 46 seconds, just to keep me honest for the future.

I spent a few minutes at the top, upsetting tourists with my thousand-yard stare and body odour before pottering off again. Remarkably, I was still feeling pretty good, so rather than plummeting straight back the same way, I continued on round the rest of the circuit. One little detail had eluded me. ‘Peak Lookout’ does not necessarily mean ‘Summit’ in the strict gravitational sense. More up, then. Followed by some level. And some down! To a local minimum, succeeded by – guess what! – more up. I think I climbed over 500m in total before the tight- twisty 3km descent. I would like the record to show that I did not at any time overtake any cars on the way down. Scared a few, though. Also, I did not at any time reach insane illegal speeds over 70kph. That would be silly.

Back at the car 45 minutes after departing, 12kms, 15 kph average. Tiny bit on the smelly side. Clean t-shirt on, potter around the gardens for a while, eating ice cream and letting the endorphins ebb away. Then back home to get the third t-shirt, number two having absorbed a little more of my bodily exudations than would be acceptable in a pub environment. Which kind of gives away where we spent the rest of the afternoon, undoing all the good work.

When I weigh up the feeling of smugness I have after a climb like this against how it feels at the time, I find that the balance is tipped by the amount of beer I’ve had. Anyway, pictures!

Well, this is going to seem a bit repetitive, my little bandicoots. Problem is, we enjoyed last weekend’s tour so much we decided to do it again. In a sorry attempt to pretend we’re not merely seeking another rut to fall into, we had a Purpose. (Note the capital ‘P’ there). Our goal was:

• Embark on an expedition to find Ultimate North (of the cycle path)
• See if the Farmer’s Market was still there
• Go shopping at the vast shopping megalopolis we passed last week.

Executive Summary: Path goes 300m further than we’d already been, Market is once a month, and Hah! We suck!

Elaborating a little, we set off for Wynnum at a reasonable hour, with The Better Driver at the controls. We identified the Enormous Shopping Center, including lane changes, traffic lights and panic navigation modes. How hard could it be to miss such a vast megaplex?

On to Wynnum, bike out, and off to the Far North! A pleasant ride, some way inland from the sea with sports grounds to one side and mangroves to the other. After a few hundred meters the path ran out at a bird hide. The signs marked “Start of the Moreton Bay Cycle Path”. Our search for the Ultimate North had ended after four minutes. Franklin and Nansen never had that happen.

We pottered about for a bit, and stumbled onto the boardwalk through the mangroves. Once a party of interested, intelligent and very noisy children had moved off it was amazing. It’s a raised path through the margin between a tropical bay and the land. The sheer amount of biological activity is astonishing. Things hiding, hunting, growing, eating, escaping, and becoming lunch everywhere. Pictures below.

We pottered back past the car, along the foreshore and on to Manly, where there was no market. Oh well. We disrupted a wedding photoshoot a bit. This is a weird Australian cultural thing. On your wedding day, you exist as a prop for photography. They drive you all over the place, posing you in unlikely situations, inappropriately dressed, creating a portfolio of images for you to remember the magical day you didn’t have because you spent the entire sodding time being poked, positioned and abused by people with cameras. Smile!

After a lovely ride of about 14kms, we headed back to the Colossal Shopolopolis. Our navigation seemed a little off when we found it 3kms from the beach, rather than the 10 we’d expected. No matter – two excellent supermarkets, many other shops, and all the facilities you’d expect. Far superior to the central city one we’re used to. Shopping complete, we headed back home. Five kilometers later, we drove past the shopping center we’d intended to go to. Damn. The navigator’s credibility will take some repairing. How was I meant to know they had *two* huge monuments to Mammon five kilometers apart on the same bloody road? Not fair.

Anyway: Pictures.

Yesterday (after the disappointment at the market) we went to Manly. That’s the Manly in Queensland, not the one 1000km south. Important for route planning, that is. It’s a small town on the shore of Moreton Bay about 15kms east of Brisbane. We liked it. Plan was to go back today.

This morning started with good intentions, but quickly degenerated into full english breakfast. Oh well. It’s only a diet. I can restart one of those any time. After a slight pause for digestion, we threw* the bikes in the enormous truck and headed out. There’s a cycle track all the way around the shoreline of Moreton Bay, and we wanted to have a look. In a moment of inspiration, I suggested mounting one of our myriad small cameras on my handlebars with the GorillaPod. Amazingly, this works.

Owing to delays caused by egg, mushrooms, bacon, beans and sloth we rocked up in Manly (Wynnum, actually, but too much verisimilitude does dreadful things to the flow of these rants, so I won’t mention it here) around noon, just as the temperature was climbing to its peak. Spiffing. Bikes out, and off we go.

20 metres later, the smart one stopped us and suggested we might want to go back to the truck and get (a) the camera, (b) my gloves and (c) her cycling computer. So we did. We’re still fine-tuning this operation. Off we pedaled along the path, dodging sunburn, dogs and demented two-year-olds. Rather than bore you with more verbosity, here are a few of the 109 (yes, really) pictures I took from my bar-mounted camera. The funky angles are all there for Valid Artistic Reasons, and have nothing to do with me mashing the ‘Take Picture’ button with gloved hands on a moving bike. So there.

*As in, placed very, very gently, snuggled into blankets. That’s $4000 of hardware I’ll have you know