UNRIDDEN KANGAROO VALLEY
IT IS A HUMID LATE AFTERNOON deep in Kangaroo Valley, December 2021, 160km south of Sydney. From the books I’ve read, I believe I am the first person to ride this lost track, dug in the 1880s by cedar loggers. As I progress, I notice a sudden change in the ground in front of me. This is bedrock. Ahead, a treacherous creek stands in the way of my dream. I climb on a tall boulder and realise that I have no choice but to cross the intimidating, dark water. I memorise a path to the other side, one that avoids the vicious and deeply submerged rocks.
“Show me who you are,” I say to myself, trying to stay calm and composed. I pick up the bike, lift it above my head and step into the unknown.
My feet slide on the slimy bedrock. The water reaches my neck. Mid-traverse, with my arms rapidly fatiguing, I know I have just seconds before I lose the strength to keep my most important piece of gear, the sleeping bag, dry. The prospect of the bicycle falling on me and keeping me under water also crosses my mind.
“TRYING TO STAY CALM AND COMPOSED, I PICK UP THE BIKE, LIFT IT ABOVE MY HEAD AND STEP INTO THE UNKNOWN.”
From that moment I move quickly and with my eyes focused on the opposite bank, one last burst of energy propels me to safer ground. Having barely enough strength to place my precious cargo on the dry rocks, I take my shirt off, squeeze every bit of water from it and leave it on a tree branch to dry while I catch my breath. My dream is still alive. I quietly savour the successful crossing and ride upstream, in the creek, towards the spot I
