My head was buzzing with exhaustion and adrenaline. I lay there for what seemed like an age, and I would have preferred to stay down. I was defeated and angry and the abrasive combination of tears, sweat, and concrete dust tore at my eyes. My left leg throbbed ominously, and I didn’t dare look.
It had been a fine enough afternoon until I left work. As always Kingsford Smith Drive was packed full of toxic vehicles belching fumes and stirring up dust, and the only safe route home was through the mud and grass; over ancient tree roots and broken concrete. Constantly up and down square gutters not designed for humans, let alone bikes.
The wind was behind me all the way down the main road. It was comically strong; the trees were bent double, gentlemen lost their hats, and the womenfolk fought to keep their dresses below the knee. I had the inkling it was going to be a hard slog home, but I couldn’t believe how strong the wind was when I finally changed directions. It was like trying to climb backward up a water slide; no sooner had I picked up speed I was pushed back down again. It was frighteningly loud, and frustrating almost to the point of despair.
I stopped to catch my breath at Toombul. After fighting to get down a hill. The wind stopped briefly, so I set off again, but it was a struggle to get anywhere.
After going under the rail bridge to the airport, I headed downhill onto a dangerously narrow bridge across Kedron Brook. I could only manage about twenty kilometres per hour, so I stupidly stuck to the edge of the road to let the other vehicles past. It was probably the worst thing I could do in the area, because it was out in the open, directly exposed to the ocean wind, and going so slowly it was difficult to keep my balance.
A hust of wind took my wheels and I hit the edge of the road. That was really the end of it; I picked up a wobble and decided it would probably be better for my continued survival if I fell over the railing on the side of the road. So I fell over the railing on the side of the road.
I finally got up and inspected the damage. The brakes were wrapped around the metal barrier, and my shin had three nasty red gashes. My thigh was all purple and bruised, but remarkably nothing but skin was broken. Even the bike was fine, although I think I may have busted the gears somehow as the chain seems to be scraping on something.
I’m particularly angry that while there’s a perfectly good footway across the bridge in question (albeit covered in cracked and warped bitumen), it has bollards at either end and a vehicle barrier so you can’t get back onto the road. If I wanted to cycle (or even walk) across it I’d end up in an overgrown grass ditch with nowhere to go.
The conclusion I draw from this is that Brisbane isn’t really made for cyclists. It’s getting there very slowly, but some areas are so hostile it’s incredible. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ve certainly lost some of my confidence to cycle to work — especially if I’m going to sook about a bit of wind — but there’s really no alternative I can think of. Public transport is completely out of the question, because I’ve better things to do than spend twelve hours a day between work and transit.
Pout.
Simon Pascal Klein
Tate Johnson