Fluff; harbinger of tragedy

Exams are looming, theses are almost due and assignments are abundant, so it is no wonder that most of us are becoming a little more superstitious than usual. One delightful little superstition, that is unique to the ANU, is linked to the so called ‘fluff of doom’ phenomenon. Every year at some time in October or November, the row of trees near union court drop their fluffy white spores, which drift gently to the ground and dance in the wind with the grace of snowflakes. By the end of the day, the ground is covered by a fluffy white blanket of snow-like spores and the hay fever sufferers walk around with red eyes and red noses; they curse Canberra spring under their breath. Anyway, legend has it that if you haven’t started studying by the time the fluff falls, you will fail your exams. On Wednesday the fluff fell, much earlier than usual, its arrival a massive kick to the self confidence of students. However, if you aren’t superstitious and don’t suffer from hay fever, it really is a spectacular event.

If the fluffy white spores are like snow, then the next day was a blizzard of seeds from another variety of trees. It was a very windy day, and thousands of flat sharp seeds blew all around the campus. Walking to class was like walking through a severe snowstorm. This week, only the aftermath remains. Like an unsuccessful invasion, tiny seed warriors lay sprawled in piles all over campus along with their fluffy brethren, not to bother us again for another year.

Anyway, I should get back to talking about the bike ride…

Day 2
When I can’t muster the motivation to get out of bed in the morning, I focus everything and spring out of bed like a madman in a sudden burst of energy. That’s what I did that morning, except I was zipped up in my sleeping back, so it didn’t really work properly, and all that happened was that I writhed in my sleeping bag, but was still stuck inside. Eventually though I got out, and as soon as I stood, my leg muscles screamed in complaint, “You want me to ride another 80 odd kilometres? You must be mad!” of course it wasn’t in words, but rather spasms of sharp pain, but nevertheless the message was clear.

We shared a modest breakfast, got ready and we all groaned in discomfort as we sat back on our bikes. By 8:30am we were on the road, pedalling out of Cowra. The day before, we’d all found it hilarious and inspiring when Kiwi played ‘Bicycle’ by Queen, but today when he played it, we wanted to pelt him with rocks. After the angry curses of the mob, Kiwi quickly played something else.

We cycled along, passing much the same scenery as the day before, stopping every now and then in rest areas or simply in the driveways of farm properties that all had insipid saccharine names, like: hill view, rock haven, green pastures or happy meadows.

If all roads lead to Rome, then you could say that hardly any roads lead to Boorowa, but the ones that do are all frustratingly hilly. One hill was particularly demoralising; it seemingly kept going. Just when you thought you’d reached the top, you’d come around a bend to see the road steeply sloping up to the horizon. I’d had quite enough, so I abandoned sticking with the pack and took off by myself. I feel the best way to get up a hill is to do it as quickly as possible. I zoomed past the other riders and several of the more competitive ones followed. I pedalled like a madman, huffed and puffed like a steam engine, and finally reached the peak, where there was a pull in area and a well earned rest. I skidded my bike to a halt and smiled in accomplishment along with the other ‘breakaway’ riders. We waited for the others.

After a few minutes, it was clear that the hill had claimed a casualty. Zane, not far from the top, snapped the rod that joins the pedals together, hence rendering his bike unusable. The support car collected his bike, but not him, no, Zane, being the proud man that he is, jogged the rest of the way up the hill. We all clapped and hummed chariots of fire as he came in, sweat pouring from his face. During the break we fitted him up with a replacement bike and we were all ready to roll again.

We were going at a steady pace, so we put off having lunch until we got to Boorowa. Finally, after a long day of cycling, and covering around 85 kilometres, we arrived and rolled through the streets of Boorowa. The tiny town had a festival atmosphere brought on by, of all things, a festival, specifically the ‘Irish Wool fest’. As we rolled past one of the many pubs, several drinkers enjoying their lazy Sunday afternoon spurred us on.

We arrived at the church where we would be spending the night. It was the same place we’d stayed at last year on the ride when we had passed through Boorowa, so I couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. We were all rather famished, so the first thing we did was scoff down a simple lunch. We brought the bags inside and all claimed a spot on the carpet for the night. Within minutes of settling in, the girls all had their phones out and had befuddled looks on their faces. “I’m not getting a signal.” “Me either.” “Who are you with?” “Optus”… “Telstra”… “Vodaphone”… “Orange” laughter. None of the carriers had a signal, except for the CDMA network, but who has that, honestly? So we faced the prospect of no communication until the following day. The girls had been through a lot: no showers, having to pee in bushes by the side of the road, having to put up with being outnumbered by guys, but this was too much for them; they were distraught. Actually I was a little annoyed as well, but only because it meant I couldn’t get a message out to my family or my caring girlfriend that I was ok. I was hoping that they’d figured that there may be no reception.

The first thing on my mind was a shower, but the prospect of a country town festival was too much, so I headed into town with the others. We cut through deserted streets, dirt fields and past overbearing wheat silos before reaching a dog show, of sorts. Various teams in matching brightly coloured shirts with tasteless names like ‘The K9s’, raced their dogs through an obstacle course. We were all in our matching ride shirts, so several of the teams were eyeing us off as the competition, “Hey Brandine, lookie ‘ere and them blue shirts, they darn tooten don’t e’en ‘ave a dog b’ween ‘em, ah-hyuck.” Actually that’s a little too harsh, the people of Boorowa seemed rather cultured and nice, and the ones actually racing the dogs were yuppies from Sydney, with too much time and money on their hands.

Our favourite dog was a docile, awkward Irish wolf hound. They’re the ones that look like a large mutant dog-man beast; they’re massive. Surely, this obstacle course designed for little dogs was no match for such a creature, but we were wrong, very wrong. The wolf hound lumbered lazily and goofily and three little dogs finished in the time that it took to finish. Still, we loved it all the more, and became its only fans. We cheered and cheered for the goofy wolfhound.

When we got sick of that, we swarmed on the main street like a new gang announcing its arrival in a city. We missed the running of the sheep, where a herd of sheep are set loose and they run through the main street. I was a little disappointed by that. Little stalls selling crafts or food were dotted along the street and a sizeable mix of locals and tourists were taking part in the festivities. The thing on our minds more than anything else though were drinks and ice-cream, so a local pointed us in the direction of a good ice-cream store, even offering us tips, “It is better to get two scoops, since it is only $3, but one scoop is $2.50.” Who would have thought the locals would have such a grip on consumerism. Perhaps I should have argued with her that if your enjoyment of the ice-cream is a diminishing curve related to the amount eaten, then it’s possible that one scoop is actually more efficient, but I kept my mouth shut and instead said something appropriately stupid, “Mmm… ice-cream. I like ice-cream.”

One thing I’ve noticed with country towns, and perhaps Australia in general, is that they are all so celebratory of their heritage and history. At the festival, there were people dressed up in ‘olden day’ clothes and there were steam trains rolling through the streets. The town isn’t even 200 years old though. In Europe, people probably ride bicycles that are older than that. Australia is a very young country, and people can’t seem to come to terms with that. Imagine if Singapore (also a young country) did the same thing as Australia: at festivals people would dress up in clothes from the 70’s and talk about what life was like back then in the ‘olden days’. Well I guess it is important to remember your heritage to some extent.

We all got a little bored of the town, so most of the riders headed to the pub, but I thought I’d head back and take a shower instead. It turned out a few of us had the same idea, so we took a car down to the caravan park. I brought my ‘Bi-lo’ thongs and borrowed towel and walked into the caravan park’s amenity block and took a soothing shower.

I waited outside for the girls to finish. I waited and waited. Bored, I took a look at the surrounds. I loath caravan parks. They are full of annoying old people who clog up the roads lugging their caravans, and then when they reach their destination they live exactly how they would at home; complaining about young people and decorating tackily. My youthfulness was attracting attention and several well to do caravaners reported me to the manager. Minutes after standing there scornfully observing the surrounds, minding my own business, Tina Turner, the large middle aged grumpy manager of the caravan park, came barrelling out from her office accusing me. Tina shouted, “Can I help you?” I casually replied,“I’m just waiting for my friends. They’re in the shower. You know girls, they take forever.” Tina was not impressed. In a menacing voice she asked, “Well have you paid to use the showers?” I was feeling on top of the world and cool as ice after the shower, so I just calmly offered “Well no, but we’re on a charity bike ride and I believe we were offered a shower by the park. We left a donation last year when we used the showers.” Tina’s scowling face returned to normal and she muttered “Oh… yes yes” and walked away. I laughed to myself and waved to the group of old people who had dobbed me in. I tried to intimidate them from a distance as much as I could with my youth and found the effect I had on them hilarious. Finally, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, the girls came out of the showers reporting similar incidents with the old caravaners.

A while after getting back to the church, the rotary club arrived to cook us some dinner. Most of the group, including our leader, were still in the pub, so we had to talk to the Rotary club to keep them busy until our leader got back. I made the mistake of calling them the Lions club, who I’m sure are the Rotary club’s sworn enemy, oh well. Soon enough, everyone was back and the familiar sizzling of the barbeque could be heard.

After the dinner, the group wanted to go to the pub (again) to watch the rugby league grand final. I thought I’d go along for lack of anything better to do. Drunken locals crowded around the big screen with beers in their hands, laughing and slapping each other on their backs, several wore akubra hats. I was amused at the scene at first, but a short while later I got bored, so several of us decided to go to the café across the road instead.

The ‘café’ was more like an ‘open till late’ grease house and had the serving staff to match. They were large women who looked as gruff as men, with arms as thick as tree trunks. Their bulging muscles flexed as they flipped burgers or dipped chips into the deep fryer. I lost my appetite, but the others got milkshakes and we sat on the street and chatted.

After an hour or so the others emerged from the pub and we walked back to the church and turned in for the night. I slept well in the knowledge that there was only one more day to go.