The other week I went on a 500km cycle from Port Douglas to Mission Beach in Queensland. 

Tim gets high

Cairns 

Arriving mid-afternoon, I cautiously booked into a six-bedroom dorm at the massive Gilligan's backpackers hoping that I wouldn't be kept up all night by young drunken Germans arriving back at all hours.  I went upstairs to my room, unpacked and made my bed, taking immense pleasure in the whole ‘I'm not in Sydney working my ring offness' of it all. I made a decision then and there to get an early night and stay off the booze so I could begin the ride fresh and rested. 

A few minutes later some Aussies arrived fresh from a two-month stint on an isolated exploratory drill rig, full of cash.  Great.  The next thing I knew it was 4am and I was shouting a left wing sermon to some army officers from Townsville over the thump thump of the sound system of a packed nightclub.  They must have been from some secret Siamese twin division because they all seemed to be arm in arm with an identical brother.   They obviously weren't catching my drift, and ramping up my argument by gesticulating with the half eaten Big Mac I produced from my pocket didn't seem to help the situation at all.  In fact it only seemed to have an impact on two rather large men dressed in black who quietly escorted me from the premises.  I arrive back to the hostel and succeed in waking all five other guys up, rather chuffed that I still had the stamina to out-drink any foreign backpacker or drill rig guy.  Sleeping was difficult however given the helicopter that seemed to have landed under my eyelids.   

Cairns to Port Douglas 

The next morning I have the strange experience of waking up in a completely deserted room.  With the benefit of a few moments of reflection I wondered if it was actually more likely that its ‘strangeness' came from the fact I felt like fucking shit. 

In full adventure mode, I packed up my swag, got together all my stuff and hitched a ride up to Christopher Skase's Port Douglas.  After finding the ride's base camp I pitched my tent and reminded myself how adventurous I was. 

Port Douglas to Mossman 

This'd be an awesome wheelie if Tim's foot wasn't on the ground

But nevertheless the first few kilometres were a breeze.  I sat tall in the seat, hands free, and listened to the sugar cane swishing in the wind by the side of the road while trying to look suitably athletic to the passing motorists.

It was not long after this however that I began to feel a little discomfort in the bottom region.  A few kilometres after that the discomfort had risen to genuine pain.  And a few kilometres after that I was beginning to ask whose fucking idea it was to come on this fucking ride in the first place. 

Mossman to Mareeba

I don't remember much about that day except I spent the last 10 kilometres swearing.

I make it into town and go straight to the pub.  I drink at least six drinks and feel a bit better. Then I arrived at the chemist.  After almost crying to the pharmacist I received some Panadeine, some anti-inflammatory pills and a tube of ‘Vagisil' – which I'm told is usually for women but is so good at numbing you could sleep through giving birth. 

Mareeba to Malanda 

My mood seesaws as the waves of pain and endorphins wash over me.  I fall asleep through sheer exhaustion at lunchtime and wake up burnt and dehydrated.  I arrive in Malanda at 4 o'clock and head to the pub.   

I engage some locals in conversation.  I ask what they thought of Germaine Greer's comments on Steve Irwin's death.  Then I recount a story of a producer friend of mine who worked with Irwin and said the man did indeed just jump on any piece of fauna he came across – without any real reason – and that coming up with valid explanations for Irwin's on-camera antics in post production was half the struggle of working with him.  That caused a stir.  But nothing compared to the reaction I got when I reminded everyone Irwin was an AWA pioneer – and how I thought it was shit he took advantage of teenage burger flippers at his wildlife park.  Given I was standing in the electorate which had a week before returned the only One Nation candidate in the Queensland parliament I decided a brisk retreat to the campsite would be a good idea. 

Malanda to Ravenshoe 

It rains during the night, and my tent leaks, adding a layer of pain to my already unhappy state.  Lining up for the toilet first thing in the morning a friend walked past and asks how I'm going, I reply ‘I'm feeling great I'm first in line for the throne'.  If only I'd realised that ‘joke' was to be the highlight of my day.  As the pain increases over the next kilometres I desperately try to remember the symptoms of dengue fever in case I have to fake them so I can join the back up bus for the sick and injured.  

We arrive in Ravenshoe, the town with the highest pub in Queensland.  It's been raining all day so the offer by the publican to let people sleep on the veranda for $10 is welcome.  What he didn't tell us was that there would be a band on the veranda playing till 1am – and as this happens about once a decade, everyone would be there.  So us cyclists go to bed while literally metres away a pulsing crowd yahoos to a cover band. I can honestly report to that never in human history have so many people been so excited by so little. 

Anyway I'm woken up more than once by locals prodding me with their foot and yelling, ‘Tim from Big Brother, you're Tim from Big Brother'.  As sleeping is impossible, I decide to engage the locals in conversation.  And I found to my surprise some of these bumpkins presented to me some of the most cogent arguments for the reintroduction of eugenics I have ever heard. The only thing was they didn't even know they were doing it.  

Ravenshoe to Innisfail 

I quite enjoyed this day, given it had 90 kilometres going downhill that we'd just spent half a week earning.  But I don't want to spoil this tale with happy little travel anecdotes. I can't anyway, I used them all in my article for the Qantas inflight magazine. 

Innisfail to Tully 

A tents moment. Sorry, but Tim didn't send in any captions. That crap pun'll learn him.

Tully to Mission beach 

The last day.  I limp into Mission beach a broken man, get a room at a youth hostel, and sleep for 17 hours. 

Mission Beach 

For two days I'm in bliss.  I get to wash my filthy clothes, clip my nails, and cut my hair.  But after two days I begin to go slightly mad. 

I have seven days in this place and I'm falling into the exactly that vortex of boredom which always seems to engulf one when on holidays.  I retreat to the local library to read The Australian and The Economist.  I set myself a challenge to read the entire Weekend Australian – and I mean the entire thing – it takes three days.  Things are getting bad.  There was nothing to do. I was making excuses to have a beer earlier and earlier each day. 

I began to make notes, but when I read them back they simply sound like extracts from Sartre's Nausea. 

Because I'd been in the hostel for longer than three, days I was an old timer.  I started to get into fights with the other backpackers.  While watching Steve Irwin's funeral in the common room I loudly complain that Bindi Irwin ‘has a bloody seppo accent'.  Unfortunately some Americans take exception to this and the debate degrades to me accusing them of personally killing Iraqi civilians.  So I had to snub the Yanks for the rest of my stay, which proved somewhat emotionally draining. 

It reminded me of my 1998-backpacking trip around Europe and the Middle East.  Every couple of hostels you'd come across some dude in his forties or fifties who had more than a few marbles rolling around up top lurking and leering at you when you got changed in the morning, or getting drunk and making racist comments in the kitchen at night.  I began to realise I was becoming one of them. 

So I hitch back to Cairns and have an encounter with the worst airline in history, it's called Jetstar.  I could rant about how shit they are – but it's enough to say they cost as much as everyone else but offer none of the same services.  They absolutely suck. 

So what did I learn from the whole experience?  Well, never to talk about Steve Irwin to anyone, to try riding my bike a few times before riding 500 kilometres in seven days, and that having too much to do is nowhere near as bad as not having enough.