What the hell are you doing, Tim? (pt 2)

This will be a long post and it'll still only go part way towards explaining why I'm doing this little ride. It's taken from my diary written about a week after the hospital visit, just after we got the pathology results from the surgeon. It gives a bit of a re-cap of the last post and goes into what happened afterwards.

2045, Tue 24 Nov 2009

Last night sucked, but nowhere near as much as today did.

A cold front smacked up against the side of the state around 3am and blew its guts out for several hours. I found myself in the kitchen for a while, having a glass of water and watching the trees getting flayed under the mercury vapour glare of the streetlights. Cous Cous kept me company in exchange for a generous handful of cat biscuits.

Back in bed and lying awake, I hear Lauren burst into a fit of giggles in the middle of her dreams. She carries on for about half a minute, dissolving into her weird characteristic whoops before quietening down and sleeping on. I stay resolutely and reluctantly awake, full of fear for tomorrow's pathology results. In daylight, I can, with the assistance of sunshine and antidepressants, foresee a smiling surgeon saying, “All clear!” before we romp off down the street for a celebratory coffee. But at 3am, all I can envisage is a doctor swearing under his breath at a page of pathology notes before asking for Lauren, Carol and me to be shown in for the delivery of bad news.

It's rare for my night time anxiety sessions to be anywhere near the subsequent truth. Reality is usually more boring and less catastrophic. For one shitty, shitty time, today, it was spot on.

Lauren was admitted to St John's private hospital at 7am last Thursday. The intended procedure was a superficial parotidectomy - the removal of a gland in her neck that had become the host to a tumour over the last few years. The parotid thingy (I know now this is the salivary gland) lives up under the jawbone near the front of the ear, so the growth that began there when she was still in high school had only recently made itself known as a small bump under her earlobe. Needle biopsies were taken as a matter of course. The first echoes of her diagnosis came in the results of those, which suggested she was in the 5% of cases where the malignancy of the tumour could not easily be determined. Removal was a necessary precaution.

At the hospital, the friendly and generous nurses gave us an idea of what to expect. Lauren's surgery would take about one and a half hours, two at the most, with an hour afterwards in recovery before being returned to her room. Tension ramped up for Carol and me, waiting in the empty hospital room, every time the nurses stopped by to tell us it would be another hour. Some six hours later, they finally wheeled in a pale and still girl, who paused for effect before offering us a finger-wave as a sign she hadn't yet lost her sense of humour.

Before she returned, the surgeon had stopped by to tell us what was happening. The tumour was larger than they thought, he said, and she'd had some problems with bleeding. It was, however, all taken out as promised; it had just been a more extensive and delicate job than he was expecting.

After two nights inside, Lauren was able to leave the hospital. Her speed of improvement had been remarkable and she even came with me to the wedding reception of close friends only hours after discharge.

At the surgeon's clinic this morning, we were welcomed by the screams of a toddler prevented from navigating the stairs by her mum. Lauren disappeared to have her sutures out and we all came in to admire the extent of her scar. Twelve stitches in total, over a distance of some ten centimetres, joined the front of her ear and an arc under her jaw to the rest of her face. Her left upper lip still drooped, paralysed from some trauma to the facial nerve. Carol clucked happily, impressed by the scale of the wound and the neatness with which it had been concealed. Simon, the surgeon, appeared at the door then and invited us into his office for a, “...little chat.”

The name of the carcinoma escapes all of us who were there, but I won't forget the atmosphere in less than a lifetime. Lauren, leaned forward in her chair, nodded in a show of attention, but her eyes were dull with disbelief and fear. By the time that the three of us had worked out that 'carcinoma' meant 'cancer', we were in a huddle about his desk, clutching each other's arms. The tumour was a rare form of cancer; slow growing, thankfully, but one Simon had never seen before. He explained there was a chance that there were some rogue cells remaining around the tumour site, so Lauren would need radiation therapy to reduce the likelihood of regrowth.

We lasted long enough to pay the bill until we started to cry. The three of us went home and sat stunned for the whole afternoon, not knowing what to do. How on earth are you supposed to plan your afternoon when you've just been told your girlfriend is a cancer patient?

What the hell are you doing, Tim? (pt 1)

Many posts ago, I suggested that I'd give you some background on why I'm off on my little expedition. I was hoping that by writing it down, I'd be able to better sort it out in my own head and explain with clarity what I can't sum up in 25 words or less.

It's something I've been avoiding because it's easier to catalogue what I've been doing than how I've been feeling. I am, despite my appearance, a man after all.

Back in October last year, my head was in a confusing place. I had told my employer that I wanted to resign after five years as a consulting engineer. My immediate boss - a remarkable human being - offered me a 12-month sabbatical instead. Maybe he knew that when things aren't right in my head, I usually choose flight before fight, then come back to equilibrium with renewed perspective. Maybe he's just a really great bloke.

Either way, I was packing up my rental unit in the northern outskirts of Hobart, with the idea of heading back to my parents' place in Queensland, which I would use as a cheap base for international travel. LT and I had tickets booked to explore Thailand together for a month, before diverging to pursue our own travel interests for a bit. She was planning to take a live-in Thai massage course, while I hankered after a trip on a small motorcycle around southeast Asia. Doing some conservation volunteering was also on the cards if time allowed.

Looking back, it was a shaky plan, because I had no idea where I would live or work after travelling. I can see now that it must have been difficult for LT to listen to my travel/work/life ideas and not have much of a clue how she fit into them. To be honest, I wasn't sure either, but the urgency of my need for change didn't allow me to fully consider her feelings. Part of the romance of travel, for me, is in rising to challenges independently; discovering who you can be in unusual places, alone. Just how to fit that love of solo travel, which I've had since high school, into a stable and loving relationship, was hard for me. The sort-of-plans I had laid were my best solution at the time.

Against this setting of me packing up, selling possessions and scaring the crap out of my girlfriend, LT went on a routine trip to the doctor. Almost as an afterthought at the end of her consultation, she showed the doc a small bump that had appeared under her left jawbone. I don't know exactly what the doctor said, but LT was told she needed some tests done to check the lump's identity.

The pathologists stuck a needle in it, took home a little piece to examine and gave us some annoying news: LT needed the lump excised, because the nature of the growth couldn't be confirmed by biopsy alone. A surgeon was found, a surgery date was set and we waited, a little nervously, to get the damn thing out and get on with life. I extended my stay at work and in my unit so that I could be around when the surgery took place.

The day arrived and we drove to St John's Hospital early in the morning to be admitted. LT's surgery would be the first of three for that day, so she, Carol and I settled in for a nervous wait.

I'll describe what happened after that in a "part 2" post, because this one already has too many words and only one token picture.

Over the Snowies

Today's map.

Barrelling east on my own, the trip took on a new feeling. I wasn't so worried about setting the right pace or stopping often enough for Trav's hamster bladder, but neither did I have anyone to share the excitement with any more.

I'd set myself the task of getting to Bega, down near the NSW south coast, where the cows smell like cows and cheese is in endless supply. On the map, it didn't look too far - maybe three hundred and something kilometres - so I planned to take a few scenic detours here and there and generally enjoy myself.

I crossed the border into Australia's most annoying nanny state and followed the Snowy Mountain Highway through hundreds of tortuous bends to Thredbo. On the way, I stopped for a glimpse of one of the engineering wonders of the world: the Snowy Hydro scheme.

A little later, I stopped in the bush to make tea and enjoy the mountain creek at Tom Groggin.

The Snowies seem to sneak up on you. After 160km of endless climbing and descending through valleys and cuttings, you suddenly feel the air temperature drop and see tall, orange alpine guide posts appear at the sides of the road. Without taking one of the chairlifts that climb the slopes near Mt Kosciuszko, you don't have an impression of being particularly high up at all. It's not until you meet the alpine architecture of Thredbo village that you are really convinced this area is a ski resort during spring.

Thredbo was populated with builders making repairs before the ski season, plus the odd, famous-looking, downhill mountain biker. Nothing much was open and the whole place felt a bit like a pair of fake breasts. The initial impression was strangely artificial and it wasn't any more appealing up close. There was lots of scaffolding supporting the four-storey chalets that make up most of the town and, without snow, it just didn't look right. After touring the streets, I ordered a sausage roll at the bakery and tried to avoid having it stolen by the local currawongs.

I've been to Thredbo in summer before, so I left for Jindabyne straight after lunch. This was a great part of the ride. The road was smooth and fast, with most corners posted at 75kph - just perfect for cracking on at a steady 100kph (and evading the national park visitor's fee).

Thinking I had plenty of time up my sleeve, I left the highway at Jindabyne and explored the banjo-country backroads around Dalgety. Dalgety is beautiful. I know this because you can see all of it from the t-intersection at its heart. Its famous bridge spans the once-mighty Snowy River, slowed to a trickle by the Snowy Hydro scheme. Engineering marvels have their cost. What's left of the river is still beautiful, though.

By the time I was done with Dalgety, the sun was sinking like a stone and I was still miles from Bega. I charged for Cooma, stopping only to help an unlucky bloke with a new BMW bike that decided to quit in the middle of nowhere. If that's what you get for buying a $20k ride with more electronics than the space shuttle, I'll stick to my old Honda, thanks very much. After a quick chat and a check that he had enough food and water, I left him to wait for BMW Roadside Assist to fix his bike and erase the incident from his memory.

I burned on down the road with the shadows stretching long in front of me. I was getting tired and stressed, so when I finally descended the range into Bega I took the first campsite I could find. I set up the tent on my own, ran through the motions of dinner and a shower, then flaked out in the tent and waited for sleep.

On the Bright side (pt 2)

Trav woke up long after the duck lost interest and waddled away. It was getting on towards mid afternoon and the sun was swinging around behind the trees on the other side of the stream. We were aiming for Corryong, which is a bit of a gateway town to the Snowy Mountains over the border in NSW.

We refueled and, after a minor navigational kerfuffle, we headed over the pass at Mt (she's a) Beauty and down into the valley on the other side. Stuck behind somebody who was obviously doing their tax at the same time as driving, Trav unleashed all eighty-something horses from the FZ and pulled off an overtaking move like no other. Caught in the resulting sonic boom, with a less powerful bike and smaller testicles, I opted to stick behind the octagenarians in their Daihatsu until we reached the lookout at the top. Trav and I were both nearly run over by a busload of pensioners in the carpark, which further reinforced my conviction that old people and altitude don't mix.

Unsatisfied with his gigantic breakfast, bakery conquest and subsequent picnic, Trav spent most of the time scoffing cashew nuts at the lookout. I felt for a moment like I was travelling with a motorcycle-riding squirrel.

In the valley, the roads opened out and the Reverend was far more in his element. Maintaining 100kph through all but the tighter corners, I was having a blast, cranking the bike over and flying along in the setting sun. At a rest stop, we chucked a frisbee and kicked the footy for a bit, carrying on like a couple of hooligans. Trav gave me the compliment of a lifetime when he asked which foot I normally kicked with, because I was so bad it looked like I was using the wrong leg. Thanks man.

Camp that night was at Colac Colac caravan park, in the luxury of a cabin so that Trav was assured of some shuteye. It was a beautiful little place, about 5 minutes out of Corryong.

That night we hit up the pub for some tea. Trav's homo-neuroticism kicked back into play when we waltzed up to the bar, realised we couldn't have any alcohol on the bikes, and ordered juice. I did offer to buy him a Bacardi Breezer, but he asked me, using some very short words, to cease and desist with this line of japery.

I had whiting and chips, while he devoured a roif n boif. Then it was time to play pinball. I love pinball machines, so when the latest Indiana Jones adventure was just sitting there unplayed I wanted to give it some love. Right near the end of the first game, which was going fairly well, we were approached by a local swamp donkey who claimed to have the high score. She was of roughly cubic dimensions and spoke like the child of a coal miner and a dock worker.

Before I realised it, she had commandeered the machine and wasted my remaining credit on a game of which Indy would have been ashamed. During all this, the walrus in pink invited us back to the bar, while insinuating that any refusal of her services would result in instant diagnosis as a homosexual.

Unable to drink and reeling at the sudden ambush, we couldn't even reply before another hosebeast crashed through the door frame and shouted, "Youse poofs comin for a beer with us real women or what?"

"..." we were slack-jawed, hypnotised by the layers of fat orbiting her, like the rings of Saturn.

"Well arntcha? Poofs?"

No. No we weren't. We were overwhelmed by two of these locals on their own, let alone the prospect of their friends in the back bar. We fled through the dark to the safety of our cabin.

The post-mortem was conducted over the usual sauvignon blanc and rounds of Jelly Car.

Next morning, there was a slightly sombre pall over our usually cheery camp. It was time for Trav to revert to the world of 8-5, riding all the way back to Melbourne down the mind- and bum-numbing Hume Highway. After so many adventures in such a short time, it was really sad to say goodbye.

At the end of the caravan park driveway, we sat astride the idling bikes and chatted to avoid having to leave. I didn't really have the right words to thank Trav for just, well, being Trav and investing so much energy in coming along for the ride. I wouldn't have had a fraction of the fun in Victoria without him.

He turned right; I turned left. Throttles rolled on, not looking back, we were back to our separate journeys again.

On the Bright side (pt 1)

Today's map.

[This entry should be read in a shouty voice, to reflect my frustration at Blogger having eaten the draft I'd nearly finished yesterday. Not happy, Blogger.]

I woke after a cracking night's sleep in my double bottom bunk, which I tastefully dressed the night before with two doonas and a t-shirt for a pillowslip. From the sound of things, Trav had been up a while. The poor bloke had endured another rubbish night's sleep, which is the last thing you want when you're about to jostle a 200kg murdercycle down a near-vertical mountainside.

Morning, Trav.

The road to Bright, to the north of Hotham, was definitely an intense piece of bitumen. I rode lead for this section and tried to work up to a quickish pace, but my reflexes weren't cooperating and neither was the road. When I entered a corner aggressively and hit some runoff water, it was sufficient warning for us to stop, rest and ride the rest of the day in cruise mode. Gooning around during our break, Trav pulled off a very respectable running man in the middle of the road, to the surprise and delight of a passing cyclist who'd crept up on us silently.

 Taking a break.

Trav smells a pie.

How ants see me.

Bright, when it arrived, was flipping gorgeous. Deciduous trees line the long main street and the full cacaphony of Autumn colour was all around. People seemed friendly and laid back, with only the occasional tragically hip Melburnian disrupting the grey nomads and exploring families.

This is a street.

This is part of a tree.

This is a church. Old ladies go here.

Second only to urination, Trav's favourite pastime is looting and pillaging bakeries for their meat pies. We had barely parked the bikes before he was off down the street on a direct trajectory to the most likely baked goods outlet. Surprisingly, his plunder this time was a healthy-looking roll called an Awesome Foursome. Despite his breakfast of eight WeetBix, he declared - prior to midday and my third sip of coffee - that he felt like making things twice as awesome by ordering another one. Fearing that he would deplete the entire bakery's sandwich stock and start the pensioners to rioting, I suggested we walk around, find a supermarket and buy ourselves the basis for a picnic lunch. (It's mostly because I was feeling too tight to buy lunch at the bakery, to be honest. I'm not scared of pensioners, I swear.)

It was during our shopping that I started to notice that people - mostly female - were having a bit of a look at us. At first I simply assumed it was because of our padded leathers and dapper neckwear. Trav wears a children's Buff covered with cartoon crocodiles and I was experimenting with a black paisley bandanna. (Why? Have someone fire a locust at your neck at 100kph and tell me it doesn't hurt. Also it seals your jacket better and prevents sunburn.)

Asking Trav if he, too, thought the ladies' wry smiles were an outward manifestation of an almost uncontrollable inner lust, he was inclined to disagree.

"They think we're gay."

"Really? Nah, they were just checking us out."

"Nah, I reckon they think we're a gay couple."

The more I thought about it, the more I understood that two leather-clad men giggling and ordering chargrilled eggplant slices from the deli probably didn't project the most heterosexual image. By this time, though, the picnic was unavoidable and with it, Trav's paranoia over being seen as a couple was reaching new heights. We chose a spot in the park by the stream and carefully positioned ourselves a non-romantic distance apart. (If he'd had a choice, I think Trav would have sat on the other side of the stream.) We gorged on grapes, fresh bread (buns, in fact) and antipasto, then rested in the shade with our heads on our jackets. It was too blissful to give a damn what people thought of us.

 The straight way to eat grapes.

 Trav cutting the cheese, again.

 Hopeful gay duck.