Buderim. There is only one way to say it and I have just mastered the pronunciation at least. Jim lives as you know by now, at Mountain Creek. His charmingly named road, Karawatha Drive about 3 km in length, eventually gives way to a far more adventurous road.......the road to Buderim.
Buderim, I found out the hard way, is on a plateau. All roads out if the charming, well ordered village have warning signs to drivers, especially those with large heavy vehicles...'low gear for the next 2 km'.....and you know what that means, it's steep. Access to it, no matter which way you choose, is the same lung bursting tortuous steepness. Now the bike that Jim has organised for me is quite fine. A mountain bike with ten gears. However, it lacks the 'chicken shit gear' as I call it which my Specialised has back home. I'm not ungrateful, but when I told Jim I was 'going to' Buderim, he failed to inform me that it was in fact 'up to' Buderim. We've been there since in the car. Mostly in second gear. There was not a chance on this bike of tackling the incline. He also failed to warn me of the impending weather as I set out on my daily ride, to the now dreaded Buderim.
As I cycled along, the sunny tropical heat with its encompassing stifle was working overtime. Above, dark gloomy clouds formed banks of blackness. The rainforest on my left became still, the birds silent. For good reason. Just as I reached the bottom of the gradient, the heavens opened..the rain came down in rods. Quickly there were rivers of it coming down the road towards me as I toiled up the initial gradient. Trucks and cars coming in the opposite direction slowed to a crawl, an artic rumbled past its driver standing on the brakes.
Determined, but foolish, I pressed on, immediately soaked, shoes filling up on the pedal. Standing up, the back wheel was failing to grip on the saturated surface and thoughts of pushing up rapidly filled my mind. The rain now began to hurt as it pelted down, hit the road and bounced back up. In the hazy distance this Pom cyclist made out a familiar shape...a wheelie bin. It was about half way up the precipitous incline. That wheelie bin became my marker, my target, my saviour. At that bin I would at least rest. My lungs were now at bursting point, straining to take in humid air amid the torrent. Pommie pride took over, I would get there, not far to go now. Standing on the pedals and moving as efficiently as a one legged man at an arse kicking contest I finally made it. Wheelie bin heaven and shelter under a spreading tree.....then the Pom saw what it said on the bin..............
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