On Concessions and Consequences
From Port Sorell and around the river is Narawanpatu National Park, a place that Jacqui would really like to go, a place with animals of all kinds to see in their natural habitat. For myself, I have a few issues with going off around to the park and the planned journey afterwards. We had a few discussions about it, trying to understand our points of view. It is not going so well.
Frustrated conversations. Heated explanations. Jacqui wants to go because it was one of the top three national parks in Tasmania. I don't want to go because it is a few days without civilisation, on roads we don't know, where we would have to carry food and water. I think it is too much, too soon. Jacqui thinks it will be beautiful, so it would all be worth it.
We look over maps. We investigate the gradients and the hills we have to climb. After a long day riding our legs feel dead, combined with the information of distance and gradients the path to the national park seems too difficult. Not so much the getting there, but the where we will go after. Even going another way towards the east coast seems daunting, and “just like that” we seem all out of places to go.
After some thinking, Jacqui suggests another route, back to Devonport and through to Sheffield. It is a plan we both seem at ease with, heading toward some nice towns, with some historic places to see around that area.
So we ride again
They say the air in Tasmania is fresh and clean, and you can notice it as well.
Heart thumping in my chest as we climb up another hill, the gradient reading on the GPS says "4%" after climbing up a 6-8 percent grade. Legs ache and we continue to push, Joash is yapping in the bike carriage, playing a game with some Zoobs, and Adeline has finally fallen asleep, her head tilted against the plastic window. I take a huge gulp of air, my muscles relax as I let the air flow out; yes, the air is certainly fresh and clean in Tasmania.
It was a long climb out of Port Sorell with all our gear, and Zeke and I are waiting at the top looking back toward the national park, and out over hills towards Devonport, which we still cannot see. We can see the others, coming up toward the top of the hill. We climb as we can, going up hills at our own pace. We do not fight for first place, we just fight to get to the top.
The wind is pressing against us for the ride back toward Devonport. Pushing us back from where we started, like the wind was willing us to stay on the coast. We ride into the wind, savouring the down hills and pressing through the ups. The wind blows, from any direction to slow us down. We see the water, as we crest the top of hills, the wind is blowing with nothing to stop or slow it from the northern coast.
The sun beats down against the tarmac, the heat bouncing and hitting us from all angles. The shade, which there is plenty, was taunting us from the other side of the road, the sun not low enough to coax the shadows over to our side where we are riding. A sheen of sweat coats our skin and when the wind blows it keeps us cool, and it also works against us.
Elijah, who has been on the tag-along bike first up this morning, tells Jacqui, "Always, we are going up or down."
Say Sorry, One More Time
I will forever be sorry for my next mistake, and Jacqui will probably not let me live it down, either. I have a good reason for my decisions, but it doesn't make up for all the hills we have had to ride, when we didn’t need to, after riding up hills all morning. I could be certain that this will become a choice I made that will come up in future arguments, and used against me.
At home, the water is southward from our house, and while I know that east and west are still the same direction, I have been disoriented since our arrival in Tasmania. We have ridden with the Tasman Sea to our right, and while I thought we were riding east, we were actually going west. This is important because of the location of East Devonport.
There is a sign at the roundabout that points to East Devonport and another that points to Devonport City. I check the map, a blue line leads us around the roundabout to the left, up a hill, and to Devonport City. So I lead off to the left, just like the map says, and I do not go to East Devonport, because that is on the wrong side of the Mersey River (at least in my disoriented mind it is).
Jacqui yells out, but I have checked the map and I am sure this is the way to go. If only I had known we were heading for East Devonport. We are riding up another hill, Jacqui is at the back planning on how hard to kick me in the shins.
Just so you know, the road to East Devonport rolls along the coast, has no hills, and would suit out tired legs. The way I have lead (or followed) climbs two short and steep hills to get us to the same place. The Same Place.
Finally, after a long morning of riding, and two unessecary hills, we roll down into East Devonport. Nathanael looks down the hill, turns to Jacqui, and says "This makes it all worth it."
Jacqui looks back at him, and through gritted teeth, and with a angry hiss says "No it doesn't." It also doesn’t help that we were not going to the National Park, and that was because of me, too.
Luckily for us (me, lucky for me) we meet a new friend at the shop where we are buying lunch. She chats to Jacqui about our future path and points us down the road we should ride, with less hills.
Return to Latrobe
It feels strange to return to a town we bypassed a few days ago. I never thought we would get back to Latrobe, but with our changing schedule, we have found an easy camp for the night.
As I set off to find food, Jacqui takes the boys down to the old wharf for a swim. It is a wonderful location, the estuary from the Mersey River runs right down here, and a deep part of water is inviting the boys for a swim. To add some fun to a great swimming hole, some people that our boys had been playing with at Port Sorell had a family day down at the same park and were already jumping into the river.
A bridge that crosses the river is a jumping platform, as long as the boys check for kyaks and canoes first. The old wharf is a jumping platform, a quick run, a small leap and a big splash into the refreshing water.
More than an hour was spent jumping, and yelling and splashing about in the water. It was a great way to finish a long day, but may not have been the best way to rest for tomorrow. Though sometimes, while it is not resting, forgetting about tomorrow is the best kind of rest.