Life On Mars
A word or two about Hobart.
As we flew in early on Saturday morning I was struck by a sense of déjà vu; this is Ireland; or at least, Ireland with just a hint of Cape Town. As we’ve come to know this charming town the similarities don’t end with the rolling green hills, the wiggling skirt-hem coastline or the conviviality of our hosts. The architecture smacks of a bygone age. Weather-worn pubs rub shoulders with modest shops wearing hand-painted signboards, wide streets weaving an undulating path into the surrounding hills. Those hills roll into mountains, whose craggy countenance hints at the presence of giants and Lore. Being here has stirred something in me. More than nostalgia it’s an appreciation of what we lost in the accelerated whirlwind of ‘progress’. As technology and social pressures swarmed our values eroded, leaving a twisted morality and an ugly sense of entitlement. Check out
El Gordo’s erudite piece on the demise of British culture. His Swiss adventure appears to have revealed much the same to him as Australia, and in particular Tasmania, has to me. The country of our birth has lurched into the future with a succession of madmen at the wheel, like an old open-backed truck stacked to the hilt with our national heritage hammering headlong up the rickety mountain path to The Future. Community spirit, appreciation of what we have and common courtesy to our fellow man have all tumbled off the back to lay abandoned on the dusty trail. Here at least they seem to cherish these essentials like family heirlooms. People greet one another readily, faces as open as their out-thrust hands to welcome friends and strangers alike. It’s refreshing, uplifting. My imminent return to icy, spiky Old England will feel like a harsh slap on a cold winter’s day.
Our journey started somewhere in the wee small hours of Saturday morning. We bundled our luggage into a seven-seater taxi and endured a breakneck Hollywood getaway to Sydney airport. Our crew comprised of me and the Mighty Plodder, MLCMan and his wife Jane, Christopher (MLCMan junior) and his fiancée Tash. Stephen (another stallion from the MLCMan stable) would join us in Hobart from his home in Adelaide. Having cruised through check-in and security we boarded one of JetStar’s shiny new A320s. SP and I lucked out, gaining exit row seats and thus a rude amount of legroom. Parked right next to the emergency exit I hoped my door-removal skills would remain untested. There was drama of a different kind to come. As the aircraft left the gate and lumbered towards the runway a kerfuffle broke out just behind us.
‘Ladies and Gentleman we have a passenger on board who has become unwell. The cabin crew have decided to return to the gate to allow paramedics to make an assessment before we can continue on our journey to Hobart.’ And that was that. It turned out that an asthmatic female passenger had asked for a slug of oxygen. The cabin crew had opted to deploy CYA (Cover Your Arse). Said passenger was clearly not happy with the decision. As we arrived back at the terminal she strode off, rather like a footballer who’s been subbed against his will, showing all and sundry what fine fettle she was in. The delay cost us an hour which thanks to MLCMan’s meticulous planning we could afford. Two hours later we were touching down in Tasmania.
Having secured a hire car, a stout golden people carrier with bags of room and the engine of a Kiddie’s Go-kart, we set off into town in search of race numbers and lunch. Tagged and sated we hit the road to Mount Wellington for a P2P course fly-by. As the battle bus laboured up the ever-steepening trail the nature of our challenge became clear, as did a nagging worry that had been forming on the edge of my consciousness for some while;
I haven’t done enough training. That thought came into sharp relief as we passed the 9K point, a sharp right-hander whipping into a series of tight, cruel bends. The car tilted further back and I closed my eyes. Bugger. Oh well, it is what it is. Best start prepping the old race head; eat plenty, start slow, get slower. We stopped on yet another sharp corner to take in the view and stretch our legs, Jane sensibly pointing out that should the weather change (as it is wont to do in a Hobart heartbeat) we might not get the chance tomorrow. That and the fact that our lungs would be somewhere up around our throats at this stage might distract us from fully appreciating our surroundings. As we drank in the stunning vistas my bruised spirits lifted. Sweeping plains of green speckled with occasional dwellings reached out towards distant hills and mountains. I felt better, the strong sun on my back warming my enthusiasm, tired legs stretching, lungs feasting on the cool clean air. But ... whatever was that hissing sound?
In foreign, densely foliated climbs the sudden arrival of a low, persistent hiss might well be cause for alarm. Before I could think ‘snake’ Chris piped up with the answer.
‘We’ve got a flat.’
Sure enough the front nearside tyre was sagging into the tarmac. Double-bugger. No sign of a spare or even a space-saver. Pah. After a good deal of chin stroking and tyre prodding we assessed the puncture was slow enough that we should press on before stopping off at the in-town car rental outlet on the way home. The remaining ascent rekindled my Fear. The road rose inexorably, piling on the gradiant as we passed the sixteen kilometre point. The fabled Pinnacle, a white man-made spike some thirty metres tall, sat just above us and to our left, yet we still had five klicks to go. At this point the route stretches into the west before twisting back on the long, steep run in. Harsh, very harsh, reminiscent of La Tour’s cruel denouement at Peyragudes. But once the summit is claimed ... what a treat in store! Heart-stopping views in all directions, distant inlets and harbours woven into fields and hills, strikingly similar to the vantage from a-top Croagh Patrick from a couple of thousand feet higher. Tolkien and Lewis must surely have stood here. The cold nagging wind reminded us of another challenge for tomorrow. Whilst the forecast suggested we’d stay dry and, for the most part warm, it was going to be right bloody nippy up here.
An hour later, rental car exchanged for a shiny silver Toyota decked out with four perfectly rounded boots we landed at our digs, a delightful cottage perched high on a hill street that could have been plucked from the heart of San Francisco. The sight of SP lumbering through the front door with one huge paw wrapped around a case of Coopers warmed the cockles. As Chris fired up the Barbie thoughts of demonic, relentless hill climbs receded, replaced by gentle banter and tinkling laughter. The skies over Hobart blushed pink as day made way for night. A rather short night for some as it turned out.
