The regulations of the E.P.A. need tightening.
The regulations of the E.P.A. need tightening.
In Marginata shade, with the depleted ozone
at Malvolio Road, the sandy verge is compacted
by sandals and sneakers, citizens sing
get up stand up, stand up for your rights
and a mum tells her son off for breaking black boy fronds,
and the patrolling police ask us to stay off the street
and the Federal Member for Fremantle stands with us, getting grey sand in his shoes
with his Ray Bans in his back pocket. Meanwhile architects
and planners present their proposals to Barnett government
ministers their most important work, the Roe8
Highway Extension. The images projected on the screen
are so realistic you might think the project is already built,
the families in the photos appear so happy,
the cockatoos in the sky plentiful, the cars few
and freewheeling and the diagrams so convincing:
arrows show traffic flow and hydrology flow
and mitigation movements and meanwhile in Coolbellup
Janet works at the IGA to pay her rent, cutting open
cardboard boxes and stacking shelves. Janet knows
where every single item in the entire store goes.
On the eighth of December 2016 the temporary fence
went up across the road from her house,
and on that day, for the first time in twenty years
the family of bandicoots Janet has fed and watered and loved
stopped visiting. Two years earlier, on Kings Park Road
The Premier Colin Barnett had an idea, at the meeting table
The Premier Colin Barnett had an idea,
his idea and his alone, out of his own head Colin had an idea
where the idea came from no one present knew where,
but they heard him out, Colin was so moved by his idea
he had to borrow the architects’ notebook and make sketches;
if the people of East Fremantle don’t want Roe highway
straight through their suburb, we’ll build a tunnel,
a five kilometre tunnel underneath White Gum Valley,
that’ll show ’em, said Colin. The Premier himself was so impressed
with his ingenuity he had a sip of water from the small tumbler
in front of him. The idea was so spontaneous that those present
at the polished jarrah table didn’t know what to say,
a junior engineer was sent to draw up some plans.
That day, at Coolbellup IGA, Janet helped her neighbour
Kate find some polenta in aisle three and got a special
treat for the bandicoots’ breakfast.
J. P. Quinton – Malvolio Road 12th Dec 2016
In 1962/1963, aged 16, Bon Scott was sentenced to nine months at Riverbank Detention Centre. He was charged and convicted for stealing petrol, giving a false name and unlawful carnal knowledge. Below is a series of images from Riverbank in Caversham, Perth Western Australia.
For a google map of where this is, click here. Riverbank is the square courtyard building if you zoom in.
The entrance and admin building:
The central courtyard:
Entrance to cells:
The cell block corridor:
Inside a cell:
A prisoners drawing:
The dark cell block corridor:
The courtyard under croft:
Dining room entrance:
The metalwork shop entrance:
The recreation room:
The cricket nets:
You can read about Bon Scott’s experiences at Riverbank here.
Any questions or comments? Please write below.
One of the psychological tricks to ‘a ride’ is how you gain perspective on what that amounts to. A ‘good’ ride or a ‘bad’ ride can be determined by the literal/material elements that constitute the sequence of route planning, getting ready, leaving home and returning, and everything in between. That sequential array can go splendidly and the stars can align – no flat tires, don’t get lost, strong tailwind – and you get home concluding yes, ‘that was a good ride’. We/I belted along, felt strong, had a few laughs, some coffee and returned home safely, without injury. A ‘bad’ ride involves something like a torn tires, five flats, a terrible headwind that switched direction when you headed home, a crash, bearing busting precipitation, cold, inconsiderate drivers and so on. The trick I’m talking about is convincing the mind that those ‘bad’ rides are in fact the ‘good’ rides. Uneventful rides are generally forgettable. Uneventful rides rarely test our resolve. My contention is what we mostly consider ‘good’ rides, uneventful rides, are the ones we learn little about ourselves.
On long Audax rides we often praise or criticise ourselves and other riders on a attribute basis, not a moral one. We save the moral inquisitions for friends and family. Riders are either strong, or determined, or fast, or slow, or steady. These attributes can be generally said to cross over into our lives off the bike. If this proposition is accepted then this is the testing ground in which we are constantly assessing ourselves while ‘out riding’.
One of the benefits of cycling is that we can still think while doing it. We run scenarios through our minds like repeats of television shows identifying where we went wrong or how to address an issue with someone. In concert with these thoughts is the generated association with our bodies. Through our bodies we ‘exercise’ those thoughts. Often by the end of a ride we feel better about a certain issue and maybe ourselves and others. In fast group rides or longer rides we can enter a state of mind where we are kind of ‘not thinking’. This meditative state is usually achieved, in my experience, through paying close attention to detail. Mindfulness to the minutiae leads to a dreamy-world of time distortion where an hour feels like five minutes. Ironically this state can be achieved during intense physical exertion or unavoidable exposure to inclement conditions. A level of tiredness usually helps. Perhaps it is because Audaxer’s spend so much time on the bike that the recognition that “this is a moment” takes place. Occasionally we feel attuned and at piece with our surroundings.
Four of us set out to ride a touch over 500km in the twenty four hour period. We didn’t plan on any sleep but instead to take longer breaks to stay in line with riding the mandatory 25km in the final two hours. Our route – entitled the ‘Tony Gillespie Celebratory Route’, after Western Australia’s outgoing club president – would head south east from Perth. We rode down the freeway into a slight headwind, chucked a left at Lakes Road and then up the rolling Del Park Road to Dwellingup. From Dwellingup we headed due east to Quindanning Pub where I raided the cookie jar. Further east we found the turn off to Darken where I started to tire. I hadn’t ridden much in the previous 4 months and the more my back muscles and legs protested the more I drifted mentally into the territory of “treat this as training”. Having found a rhythm we soon discovered the Darken servo shut, putting an end to our hopes of pasta. 60km to Collie where the road was filled with fellatio and cunninglingus; a kind of ritual in these parts. Must have something to do with mining and smelters.
At Collie we waited an hour in the warm confines of the McDonalds. Perry, Steve and I all agreed it was the best McDonalds we ever had. Maybe this was the most transformative aspect of this years Oppy? Greg, with his metaphorical blinkers on, couldn’t quite grasp the notion of finishing together, at a certain time, and decided to “soft pedal” off into the darkness. We never saw him again.
Good old Mornington Rd has taken on a semi-mythical status among WA Audaxers as one of the most enjoyable around. The surface is smooth, there’s hardly any cars and there’s good forest wither side to protect you from wind, even though there wasn’t any at that time. Perry touts the road as his favourite despite the fact the first time a ride was to include it, he rode around in circles for an hour on a freezing cold Collie night trying to locate its coordinates. He gave up that time and now is quietly pleased with himself every time he discovers the road is still there. He had employed his headlight on this stretch often illuminating roadside shrubs whenever a rustle was audible. He’s a touch paranoid about bounding two legged mammals after having a run in with them last year. This meant when the descent started, a gap, like reality and a politicians promise, opened up between Steve and Perry and I.
Water bottles filled at Harvey there were no more hills to worry about, just growing tiredness and we all appeared to go through episodes of apathy. 100km to go at the Forrest Hwy toilet block where some German tourists asked what we were doing and then dutifully appeared unimpressed by our efforts. Two areas of lights along the hwy. The second, at an overpass, marked the beginning of the freeway bike path. I was a long way from experiencing a kind of misery, but I wasn’t having a ball either, to be honest. Each distance marker was acknowledged and measurements of effort distributed accordingly. Recently I’ve ditched the cycle computer to focus on where I am at, so the off-ramp signs were analysed over and over. At one point my internal monologue went something like: “Perth: 71km, Safety Bay Rd: 15km. I could make it to Perth easily, but I just can’t be bothered riding to Safety Bay Rd.”
Perry and Steve were snacking on pancakes from Hungry Jacks when I arrived. Yes, we ate a lot of shit on this ride, but these were our only options. Shit. The store is open 24hrs but only the drive-thru overnight. I was forced to stand around for ten minutes while the tills restarted, but who am I to complain? People are dying in hospitals. 40km to go. Only 40km of 500km. The longest both Steve and I had ridden in 24hrs. All we had to do now was get on and pedal. Sunrise as smoke from some bushfire filled a trough where the morning before a horrific accident had occurred. We were early so I putted along like some geriatric in a flat-batteried golf-cart.
In Freo some triathlon event was being held, complete with roadblocks. We took some circuitous route to the cafe and sat beneath the pine trees and shook hands and congratulated ourselves and I know I didn’t wonder what all the unvocalised winging was about: I was rooted. Soon after the sissy’s from the other team arrived, looking fresh from showers and sleep. They rubbed it in by having enough energy to smile. Across the park a myriad of triathletes of all shapes and sizes pounded and/or square pedalled up and down the Esplanade. “That looks like Hell” I thought to myself.
Thought I’d upload my dissertation. Please download A Tour of Ashfield Flats here
You can think of Audax rides a little like racing car driving. Some riders run a multiple stop strategy, some riders a no stop strategy, some riders a couple of stops strategy. Some riders will refuel; the equivalent of a wheel change, some will stop for an hour to what amounts to a full service. Some riders carry a boot load of clothes and food, some will closely examine the route sheet figuring out where to buy food. Some riders ask their girlfriends or wives to drive around after them with food and clothes, in exchange for cunnilingus. Most of the time you don’t need that much gear, but it doesn’t take much for everything to fall apart. Haven’t packed a proper rain coat and you slow down pretty quickly when you freeze on a descent. Get two flat tyres and the idea of sitting roadside hoping a patch will work isn’t that appealing. These trials don’t seem like a big deal when you imagine them from your couch, but if it’s 11pm and 5-7 degrees outside you quickly discover if you’re unprepared.
For most riders doing their first 600, simply finishing is the goal. After a couple of successful completions you figure out where you’re strong, where you could do better. Most beginners tend to break too long and too often. Some veterans like resting long and often. After a while you set yourself new goals, new challenges beyond just finishing. My aim this time was to see what happens. Having completed a 1200 six weeks earlier, I didn’t know if my energy reserves had been restored. They weren’t.
It was great to have some new faces line up for the Bunbury 600. Unfortunately I didn’t get to ride with them for very long. May be they have the bug now and will expand their long distance goals? The route was from Perth, east for a bit, through Serpentine, south to Yarloop, through Australind (yes they are good kebabs Danny) to Bunbury. This was the the end of the first 200km. Two riders stopped here. They were to skip the middle 200km and rejoin for the final 200 back to Perth. The conditions up until this point were superb. Strong tailwind, overcast, mostly smooth roads. Scarp to our left, grazing cattle either side. Tony was cruising around in the support vehicle, listening to John Butler with his arm on the window sill, offering words of advice and the odd sticky bidon. His enthusiasm knows no bounds and is infectious.
Back up a little. From Perth the riders split up into three basic groups. The fast group, the medium group and the cautious. At the back of the field was Greg, running a ‘no stop’ strategy. He didn’t even bring a change of clothes to have a shower at the back packers. The middle group, consisting of myself, Sean and Perry rolled along nicely. ‘Light em up’ Rob was clever to stay away from me so as to avoid being characterised in my report. Up front was where all the action was taking place. Guido, a fast, strong rider I’ve never ridden with before, had dragged a couple of newbies with him to Pinjarra, the 100km mark. All good. You’d hope anyone signing up for a 600 can squeeze out a 100 before breakfast. It’s usually after the 100km mark your endurance begins to be tested. Another little test Guido seemed to be running them through was navigation. After Pinjarra they missed a turn, rode a extra 6km down the road, retraced their steps and caught up to where I was taking a piss. They overtook me at 37km/h and I thought sweet, sprint to catch up, sit on and watch my heart rate go back down to 120bpm.
One of the new guys was struggling at third wheel, but then, to my amazement, he goes to the front for an all out pull. About 2km later he drifts back, rooted. Guido goes to the front for a little bit. Then another new guy in yellow has a short pull before drifting back and asking if I was doing the 600 or a local out for a cruise. Perhaps I looked too casual. We turned a corner into a head wind and both of the new guys fell off. Guido and I rode through Yarloop and took turns to the highway together where I dropped off to take it easy.
Fast forward. Guido rushes through Bunbury. The rest of us restock. Greg rolls through without even cleaning his glasses. I caught up to him on the other side of Capel and we rode together into the dark to Collie, the temperature dropping significantly. Must have been bonfire night as heaps of people were out toasting marshmallows under the stars. Over a dam bridge, fire light in the distance, owls hovering overhead. I get to thinking; you don’t see your home. Your head is full of issues. I’m sure if someone came from overseas they’d be much more descriptive. They say once you name something you don’t see it properly anymore. Having done a fair few of these rides in the south-west, I guess I’m slowly starting to call the area home; you see details, but you underestimate their significance.
Thanks to Greg’s meticulous planning and route knowledge I now knew we were on the steepest part of the route and would soon cresting the highest point of the ride. I prefer not to know about these things, but some people like to break the route down. On the main drag in Collie Tony waited for us with warm soup, camp chairs and encouragement to take a dump on the steps of the council chambers. It’s here that Tony tells us that at 325km Collie would have made for a preferable first night rest stop. But the first day distance might have put some people off. Spanner in the works occurs when his first accommodation preference is double booked and in great haste he must try to find a last minute alternative.
Now, if Bunbury is a shit hole, then the Wander Inn Backpackers must be the lower intestine. In all my travels, and I have stayed in many, many hostels, this was easily the worst. Tony seemed to take great joy in telling me and Greg that, as ‘hard men’ of Audax, he didn’t think we’d mind joining in ‘jumping on the grenade’ with him. The latter meant sleeping in a room with about eight other 20-30 yr old boys who seemed to have been living there for a about a month, their stinky clothes and belongings all over the joint you have to kick out of the way to get to your bed. Half a dozen of them were sleeping off their hang overs at five in the afternoon when Tony ‘checked in’.
At least I had that to look forward to as I changed into warmer clothes, the temperature dropping to 5 degrees in Collie. 80km to Bunbury and Greg and I had a good ride together on what must be one of the best roads in the south west; Mornington Rd. A quiet, smooth mining road that rises a few times before falling off to the Hwy. A light on in the middle of a paddock and your ask yourself what living in the country would be like.Greg and I knew our way there having done the same route for the Opperman earlier in the year, an event now known as Subway-gate, due to Tony’s nauseous insistence that “you blokes go on, I’m just going to have a nap outside for a while”.
A major lightning flash exploded on the horizon over Bunbury, symbolic in retrospect as we were pedalling by a power station. At about 11:30 I said goodbye to Greg and he turned around, back into the night to take on the final 200km back to Perth. The Wander Inn might be a cesspool, but it does make miracles happen. I walked into the backpackers and was getting my bearings, (having been openly laughed at by some of the inhabitants, as I must have looked like a large black dildo in my cold weather outfit) when to my amazement Perry was in room 20 getting his clothes together. This made no sense because he was behind us when we left Bunbury for the first time, we didn’t see him in Collie, and he didn’t pass us on the way.
I popped a sleeping pill hoping it will kick in by the time I had a shower. The room was as Tony described it and the lingering smell of beer breath and well worn nylon socks tickled my nostrils. I entered the shower like a overly nurtured silver spoon fed teenager sprinting across coral reef. There were three hooks for your clothes, hair all over the basin and toilet cubicles just big enough to bang your head on the door. I set my alarm for five am and let the pill work it’s magic. Three hours later I was woken by a snoring competition clearly won by the guy below me impersonating darth vader with double bronchitis. After trying to go to sleep twice I thought bugger this and started to get going. I walked out the front to try to find the kitchen when the door locked behind me so I had to walk out onto the wet street (in just my bibs) and reenter through a hole in the alley fence. Gross kitchen located, I quickly decided just to get going hoping an all night servo would have coffee chill. I packed my bag and put it in the room with the key for Tony to load in the morning.
On my way out two of the new guys were rolling in and I said good morning. The stretch from Australind to Forest hwy along the estuary is one of my favourites. The night sky clear although evidence of consistent rainfall that Greg copped. A long straight road heading into Yarloop, the high beam headlights of a car shine bright for 5km, the glow of the refinery over the horizon, the direction I’m headed. Through a dairy farm I have to pick a gap through cows crossing the road. Although the road was covered in shit, I was happy to be out of the hostel. And then…classic…a fist pump with no finishing line in sight; I’d forgotten to turn my alarm off. Like some friend or loved one thinking of you from the other side of the world, I kept getting these little thoughts that made me chuckle and I thought it was perfect revenge to get back at the snorers. Poor old Tony told me later that he’d practically jumped on two grenades as he had to lie in bed with his fingers in his ears trying to sleep. To his amazement no one else in the room seemed to be effected.
With little sleep I struggled home. I was stiffer than a sunbaked biscuit. I had no energy reserves and was running only on what I ate. I struggled to ride faster than 25km/h and couldn’t get my cadence over 90rpm. For some reason you get into a frame of mind where you’re always pushing the pain barrier. To make things worse I got a flat tyre at the start of the freeway that I couldn’t be bothered fixing, but of course had no choice about. Heaps of casual Sunday cyclists were out having a good time in post-Giro glow, whereas I was in a world of pain. Rolled into Deep Water Point solo, and to no reception, and felt like John Eyre walking into Albany having just walked across the Nullarbor. I need a significant other with a driver’s license, I guess.
Please read my Blackwood 1000 ride report here.