10 // Demonic

I swing my bike down the gravel bank and off the road when I sense the flood of lights approaching, and the rattle of the road train roars closer. Once the monster has passed, I tilt the bike back up the bank and onto the tarmac. I’m on the first day of my journey from Perth to Sydney, and it’s been fourteen hours since I hit the start button on my computer. It will be another three before I reach my first stop. The shoulder of the road appears and disappears as trucks continue to convoy past, and I zigzag in and out of traffic. I lose my front wheel on one of the turns and find myself sitting in the dirt, in the dark, 360 km deep, with road trains hurling past me. My right cheek is corked, missing a bit of skin. What the f&^ am I doing out here…

Photo by: Phillip Sage

The morning comes—it's 4:30 am—and I’m kitting up in my motel room. I ease my body back onto the bike a few minutes after 5 am and make my way to a 24-hour service station in search of food. The trucks in the morning are calmer, but my body is tired. The exhilaration of day one is behind me, and I’m starting to come to terms with the thousands of kilometres ahead. After a few hours, the headphones come out—a small distraction from the headwind and the endless horizon stretching out before me.

It’s day three. I’ve reached the Nullarbor and hardly realize it until a friend messages: ‘At the start of the Nullarbor, soon to be NULLABLOORED!!!! Have fun! Stay safe xoxo’ Every message, comment, and cheer is so, so appreciated. I say goodbye to Phillip, who has been trailing my ride, capturing glimpses of this vast country. By this point, I’ve clocked over 700 km, and my body is starting to resemble a pufferfish as fluid retains in my muscles. Now, I’m truly on my own.

The evening falls, and I’m closing in on Balladonia. A road train skims past me with mere centimeters to spare, forcing me off the road at speed. I puncture my front wheel on the rocky bank in the darkness. I yell, “FUUUUUUUCCK YOOOOOOOOU!” so loudly that parts inside of me rattle that I didn’t know could. Demonic.

Photo by: Phillip Sage

I’m not intentionally focusing on some of the early lows, but there were so many intense moments of fear and vulnerability that I wanted to process. It’s hard to describe the immense vulnerability of tackling something like this alone and how empowering it can feel to take a deep breath, brush yourself off, and keep going. Most of the really low, scary moments occupied barely 1% of my days. The rest were filled with hours of simplicity: pedaling, eating copious amounts of food, singing aloud to music, waving back to the hundreds of caravaners and truck drivers who cheered me on, watching the sun take its full path, and the stars begin to trickle across the sky. I’d pause at various roadhouses, bakeries, and pubs, trying to take in the character and quirks that each place offered. I’m grounded in the privilege of it all—to choose vulnerability, to have this choice.

It’s been some time since I last scribbled down some words to share, but there’s something about long-haul flights and solo travel that invites these moments of reflection. Returning home from the U.S. for the second time this year gave me those hours. After being selected to represent Australia at the XCM Championships in Snowshoe, I tacked on some additional events and packed my bags to head overseas again, only a couple of weeks after finishing my ride across the country. I knew it would be a big ask for both my mind and body, but there was an element of stubbornness that drove me to get on that plane, despite probably needing to rest.

The week in Snowshoe had its ups and downs (think a minor bout of food poisoning, accommodation sagas, and a missing bike that saw me take an 8-hour return trip to Pittsburgh airport—yeah, all the stuff that doesn’t make the highlight reel). It was hard not to feel out of my depth on such a technical course, surrounded by some of the world's best, but I was proud of myself for persevering despite setbacks and feeling like a jetlagged sack of potatoes. I finished 25th, about ten places ahead of my starting position. I’ll take it.

Next, I shipped myself to Arkansas for the month to race Little Sugar & Big Sugar. I never thought I’d spend a month of my life in Arkansas, but bikes have a way of introducing us to unexpected corners of the earth, and it’s always special to try to integrate into a new community. Through the cycling community, I connected with a lovely couple, Robin & Jay, who kindly offered me a place to call home, meals, and support during the races. During this month, I also managed to squeeze in an overnighter and rode the northern loop of the NW Arkansas High Country route. The night was so warm that I slept outside of my bivvy, only to wake up at 2 am to a local stray dog, Ricky, sniffing my face. Better than a raccoon or a bear, I guess!

The races finally came, and I was stoked to find myself in the top 10 at Little Sugar (100 km MTB using some of the endless singletrack Bentonville has to offer), with only 15-20 km to go. On the home stretch, the infamous Arkansas rocks sliced my front tyre like an Amazonian machete. The tube I put in gave out with less than 7 km to go, and I called it a day to begin recovery for Big Sugar the following weekend. While it was disappointing not to finish and secure a result I would’ve been happy with, there are always positives to take away. It felt good to be up there with women I look up to and respect.

Little Sugar was over, and the generally quiet town of Bentonville, where I’d called home for the last month, started to fill with endless gravel cyclists. It was great to catch up with Lachy & Rach straight off the back of their lap of Australia. We had a small trauma hug, and it meant a lot to share memories that are hard to convey unless you've been out there—the velcro roads, endless winds, nerve-damaged hands, the trucks.

I went into Big Sugar (100-mile gravel race) feeling more confident and calm. I had chunky Tracer Pro tyres, inserts, and enough sealant to question my air-to-sealant ratio. I felt really good during the first hour or so and it was easy to stay towards the front and follow the moves. But then the race fell away, and my mind said, “No more.” However, my tires remained inflated, so I’ll take that as a win.

On paper, I fell short of what I flew halfway around the world for, but I can appreciate that it’s been a big year. I’ve landed on three national championship podiums across various disciplines, run in my grandfather's memorial fell race, returned to Unbound to finish the beast unscathed, hosted a little overnighter with a rad bunch of women (and Brad), made it across the country on two wheels, and represented Australia on the MTB—amongst all the other random stuff in between. But my most significant achievement? Finally seeing a moose in the wild. It’s been a long, two-year journey, and I can’t thank my friends and loved ones enough for sticking with me on this goal.

Sarcasm aside, the year is now rapidly coming to a close. I’m patiently waiting for the batteries to recharge after so many adventures, races, and work. I do sometimes feel like I’m in a quarter-life crisis, wanting to say yes to everything, fill the minutes, and take every opportunity like it will be my last. Despite all the highlights I cherish and love to share, there are so many quiet hours. The hours spent working at my desk, drawing lines, typing emails. The days I barely get off the couch, watching Netflix, drinking tea, recharging. There are a lot of them, and I’m enjoying them while my batteries recharge and I begin to dream about what comes next…

Brad