The Rainbow Connection

(continued from Icicle Ride and Numb and Number)

Jo's tumble provides good reason for us to get off the road and crawl into the van. "Are you riding with me too?" Dan asks me in a slightly scolding tone as he loads our bikes into the trailer.

"Yeah, I'm gonna stay with her 'til she's good to go," I reply, lobbing his little condescending look right back. What kind of person would leave their partner shivering, embarrassed, and temporarily paralyzed on top of a mountain thousands of miles from home?

Evidently, a Saffa would. While she is gleefully whizzing around Lord Wellington like a kid on a water slide, her husband, the young Eugene Levy, has fallen to the very back of the pack. He is standing motionless now by his bike with a dazed look on his face. He is suffering, but he does not seem to know why.

I know why. "Almighty Dollar," I mutter to Jo as we trade in our sloppy gloves for dry replacements and huddle together in the van. These guys know better. What kind of sick puppy throws a bunch of under-dressed novices into the Ice Capades? They could have started us out farther down the mountain. Like, say, at the timberline. I guess they are afraid someone might ask for a refund if they don't get the complete advertised experience. Me, I'm more concerned about getting more than the advertised experience: equipment, transportation, and gangrene. I'd pay double just to be back down in Hobart with some warm socks. Right now, I might as well be standing barefoot in an ice chest full of Tassie's finest.

After a fair amount of cajoling, I persuade Jo to ditch her damp fitted jacket in exchange for a dry, albeit less stylish, secondhand overcoat. Five minutes later, we arrive at "The Springs," the midway point in our ride. Evidently, many years ago, there was a hotel and spa there by that name. No actual springs of any sort are to be seen, but there is a fireplace in an outdoor shelter near the public toilets. The rest of the group is kneeling around it, warming their hands over an open flame.

The rest of the group minus the Saffa, that is. In her blind lust for speed and kicks, she did not notice the guide pull over at the Springs, and continued her downward fearless flight alone. Mark and Dan now have something greater to be concerned about than refund requests. Waiver or no waiver, dead bikers are bad for business.

I am busy quizzing the other riders. "How do your fingers feel? Are they numb like mine? This is crazy, right? Are you guys getting back on your bikes?" Everyone else, including the stranded rider we picked up, seems willing to follow instructions and promptly get back on the road. I, meanwhile, am trying to determine the true nature of my discomfort. Maybe it's psychosomatic, and I am dwelling too much on the pain. Maybe it's my general nature to question authority and not be a sheep. Maybe the other riders are wearing extra thermal layers and thick shoes. Maybe the Brit is accustomed to weather like this. And the Aussies, now wrapping up three months of winter, may be on top of it as well. As it turns out, none of this matters because Jo is still not ready to ride either. Once again, she is my salvation.

Back in the van, we manage to thaw out a bit over the next four kilometers . I can feel my legs now, and the general overall throbbing has subsided. Through the front window, we can see Mark rounding up the group by the side of the road near a clearing in the woods. The snow and rain has stopped, and the fall in altitude has pushed the temperature up by at least ten degrees. "All right, guys. . . " Dan says, turning to us and clearing his throat. "Mark is taking you all on an off road trail for a while."

"Can we join them farther along when they get back on the main road?" I ask.

"Well, I may have to go up ahead and look for the rider we lost," he replies.

"OK. We'll get out and take it from here." I look at Jo. She bites her lip and puts on her game face. The off road ride is fun, but sluggish. Jo's chain starts slipping, and then finally falls off. Eugene Levy has never ridden a bike with gears: "Do I still have to pedal after I change gears? Is there a clutch?" I show him how his gears work. I stop and help him up when he falls. I even trade bikes with him for a while to show him that his equipment is not faulty. I have felt the pain of humiliation myself today. Out of principle, I feel it is my duty to help.

Just when he seems to be getting the hang of it, Levy runs over a big rock and pops his rear tire. Mark stops the group for ten minutes while he changes the flat. . By the time we make it back to the main road, and then down to our last rest stop, the Cascade Brewery, it is 4:30. We are supposed to be finished by now.

We inhale some instant coffee and ANZAC biscuits (a cookie made with rolled oats and coconuts) and then, lo and behold, who rocks up but. . . the Saffa. "I got lost!" she exclaims, laughing. "And then I met this lady, and she invited me into her house, and gave me free coffee. And now, I'm getting more free coffee. This is great!" Do they not have coffee in South Africa? I glare at her, but her clownish permagrin remains intact. Neither she nor her husband, who is shivering over by the coffee urn, appear aware of each others presence.

The last leg of the ride is a treat. Finally, I am able to enjoy the ride unencumbered. Well, almost unencumbered. I am riding at the back of the line behind Eugene Levy, who occasionally and for no particular reason, veers out into the middle of the winding two-lane highway. "Car!" I yell as I hear the rumble of impending traffic behind me. No response. "Car!" I yell louder and repeatedly until finally, he veers back over into formation. Every couple of minutes we repeat this routine. Who is gonna look after this guy when this ride ends, I wonder.

I ease up on my haunches and feel the asphalt zip beneath me as the bike responds to every tilt of my hips and touch of my half-warmed fingers. As we zoom into town, I think to myself, now if we can catch a killer sunset over the skyline, this might actually be worth it. We pull up to an intersection, and I hear someone exclaim, "Look--there's a double--up in the sky."

And there it is--arcing across the full horizon from the hills of North Hobart, soaring over the river, and descending into the historic village of Battery Point--a perfect rainbow.
My visit Down Under has been Jo's birthday gift to me, and as I take in the best sight of the trip, it's like unwrapping the final package. Oddly enough, the last time I was so lucky was last year on my birthday. Jo took me to Biloxi, Mississippi, where across a beautiful sunset in a light rain, she presented a similar dazzling display that rose up out of the Gulf of Mexico and landed about fifty feet from us in the calm sun-struck water. It's a tradition I think I can get used to.



To continue to the next post, click here: (Homeward Bound)