Holy shit I had a productive day. I dont know that I have had such a productive day in many years. I was up at 6:30 AM for no reason other than my body was confused at being thrust 21 hours into the future. Maybe since I missed a whole day I felt extra inclined to do more in this one.
First thing I did was unpack the bike.
Everything was still in one piece and no worries with that, so I walked down to the beach for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich and ate and drank lazily while watching the swimmers swim and the runners run and the lifeguards practice guarding life. Lifeguards here are very, very, dangerously serious about water safety. They don't sit around in hoodies and nurse their hangovers like those Jersey fuckers, they are AT IT; with drills, and sprints, and boat maneuvering, all kinds of shit.
Next issue: bike box. And chalk this up to the rental car companies not giving enough information on the size of their cars but I had to rent an SUV for a day so I could make sure the box would fit in it in order to deliver that box, at 9:30AM, to the brother of a internet friend. This man is Cody Crocker, rally car champion and owner of the most awesome Australian name ever. It is so fun to say I said it maybe 50 times this morning. So, I had to meet Cody Crocker at a dock in Woronora, a suburb about 45 minutes south of Sydney.
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| STAY LEFT. STAY LEFT. STAY LEFT. |
Next, I had to return the SUV to the airport for the next car, a compact, that I was renting for the duration of my stay here. I knew a compact would be fine as long as I didn't have the box to lug around (hence: Cody Crocker.)
Dee, the manager at Europcar, was as sweet as could be and gave me a nice upgrade to a Skoda Superb, all leathered out at turbo-charged and perfectly adequate for the bike box plus my gear. Oh well, sorry Cody.
While waiting for my shark-colored Skoda to be cleaned, a young woman labored past me, looking quite hot and straining under the weight of her backpack. And there is only a few ways to do this without sounding horrifyingly creepy, but I managed to ask her if she might want a lift into the city without her grabbing at her rape whistle. The reason I asked is because I remember just how shitty it is to be in 95 degree weather trying to find the fucking bus to the fucking hostel.
So Natasha, a student from Annecy, France, and I, drove into Kings Cross. I think I may have taken her to the exact same hostel I stayed on my first night in Kings Cross in 1990. I was pretty sure. The Cross is still littered with strip joints and bars and hostels, and I remembered everything about it. I told her some stories and tried not to sound like an ancient sailor.
Once she was safe and sound, I got myself to the mall for a mobile phone and a US to Australian charger for all my electronic stuff.
I took my dinner at the Coogee Bay Hotel, right on the oceanfront. I had a margarita pizza that sucked and three or four Victoria Bitters which were beautiful. I let the ocean breeze waft over me, and tried to keep my jaw off the table. Nowhere have I seen a more steady flow of beautiful women than this place. I was so stunned by one brunette I felt my armpits begin to whet. Wetten? I dont know how to complete that sentence correctly.
When I arrived back to my rented cottage, my hosts invited me in for a drink. And I accepted. It was a perfect day, it really was.
Tomorrow, I begin the trek to Adelaide. A couple of days in Wagga, a couple in Mildura, and by the 22nd I will be 850 miles west of here, with at least two or three bike rides under my belt. I'm eager to meet some cyclist internet friends there and see the Tour Down Under.
Mark my words: this will be my home someday. I felt it 20 years ago and I feel it again.
See what I saw today:
