tasmania-2003

Our last riding day was scheduled to be our third big day in a row. It was definitely cold, but sunny and warming quickly. It featured a nice set of rollers into Hobart.

It was scheduled to be another big day; almost 140 km riding and 800 meters net altitude gain. We would be riding through Queenstown, a copper mining tow where the copper smelters released tons of sulphur into the air, which then fell as acid rain.

Since Tammy had the bright idea to do 60 extra klicks, we had to get rolling pretty early. Claire continued to waffle throughout breakfast [Ha ha!] on whether she would do the extra mileage, and even after we were on the road she hadn’t totally made up her mind. But when it came time to make the decision, she turned the same direction as the rest of the gang. We were going to be isolated from humanity for almost 100 klicks, until we rolled into lunch at Zeehan.

The morning started with a beautiful hike up towards Cradle Mountain, then a fast short ride into the small village of Tullah.

The morning after the first day is always the hardest. Fortunately the next two days weren’t all that big; we were scheduled for about 60k today, up to Cradle Mountain, the most popular national park in Tasmania.

As is the norm when I tour with a group, I was running late and wound up being last on the road. The hearty breakfast had energized me, so despite my legs being somewhat tight, I was able to catch up with the rest of the Bay Area group, and we rode together to the top of a moderate rise, where we learned that “Fatigue Can Be Fatal.” (This became my mantra while battling 60kph headwinds a couple days later).

Our first riding day featured mostly mellow roads, encounters with actual Tasmanian Devils, and a wilderness lodge where we got to see a platypus, wallabies and possum.

Flying into Launceston, Tasmania, is, in itself, an amusing experience for a city boy. The airport is tiny, and “baggage claim” consists of going into the garage and waiting for the truck to pull up. It’s a city of 50,000 people, second largest on the island, but very small by any American standard. (Of course, that was the point). Here I met up with our guides, a father/son pair, Bob and Damien, with the improbable surname of “Boocock.”