The Abyss
Sitting astride my bike, its
motor humming and rumbling apprehensively, me admonishing myself: What were you
thinking?! Ahead of me a bridge lies submerged in water deep enough to bring
this journey to an unceremonious end. Behind, a few thousand kilometres of
hard-earned road, the last five hundred or so unforgiving for its hardened
corrugated dirt surface. I wonder wryly when the North Queensland Peninsula
Developmental Road might reach completion.
It’s hard to know exactly how
deep the water goes; and I’ve never actually ridden through water before. If
I’d considered every possible manifestation of seemingly insurmountable
challenge, I’d not have left the house, I tell myself. I suddenly feel that
familiar feeling of impending doom; like I’ve just been caught smoking or
expelled from school; that feeling of climbing a mountain's edge, caught frozen
with the realisation that I’ve climbed too high to safely descend and
psychologically unable to go any further; like my life is about to end.
Moments from the last three years
course through my mind: my father’s falls becoming more frequent; my
frustration at his stubborn willfulness; the joy brought to him by his grand kids
presence; the satisfaction I experienced by being there with him; my feeling of
having failed him; his stoic and calm resignation as he neared the end.
Suddenly adrift in the world, untethered by parental responsibilities, my
response was to augment my state of uncertainty. I craved open space and
solitude. I needed to be stretched, to make room — for what I wasn’t sure.
With this seemingly
insurmountable abyss in my sights, time slows to a protracted pulse. I dismount
and remove my helmet to take a moment to consider my next move. I am captured
by my surrounds. The road is a magnificent rumpled red, a reflection of the
corrugated cloud sunset above. I smile at its rugged beauty and how it betrays
the mental and physical torture it delivers. Trees tower and surround, mocking
with their dry indifference to my plight. The air is still and warm, the only
movement being the river’s flow descending through the valley on the left of
the road. It’s so clear and fresh and corporeal — I want to dive in and be
held. I notice, for the first time since leaving Brisbane a few weeks ago, I
feel completely alone.
I estimate that the water, at its
deepest, is about as high as the base of my fuel tank, and just below the air
intake box...I hope. If it takes in water, the bike will be rendered useless
and require significant repairs. I think to myself, I can turn around now and
avoid this ominous pass, forfeiting the Cape York leg of my trip. I also know
instinctively that I will invariably arrive at this rite of passage again and
again if I am to continue.
It’s time to decide.
I mount my bike and secure my
helmet while considering the potential traps that lurk ahead: I could lose
balance, dropping my bike, due to the pressure of the water’s flow; the water’s
higher than anticipated and the bike dies midstream; but worse still are the
myriad unknown possibilities that I can’t even anticipate. A cacophony of
possibilities engulfs my head, entangling with a lifetime of experiences that
both exacerbate and challenge my visceral dread.
I’m reminded of a quote by Ralph
Waldo Emerson that seems to have reified in my psyche: ‘Once you make a
decision, the universe conspires to make it happen’. I decide to ride ahead.
