Primary School teachers would sigh with resignation and pour another cup, while office girls would make hastily adjusted plans, those pants rather than that dress, such is the impact of the howling Northerly wind. What looked like a brown mist was the freshly ploughed soil being picked up by the ton and sent rushing back towards Parkes, Forbes and beyond where they might have even thought it was a good day for drying.

The wind whistled, what I thought were Kangaroos crashing through the scrub were the limbs of trees falling. Briefly the sun came out to see what all the racket was, thought better off it and went back to bed. Even my personal totem, the Pink Galah was nowhere to be seen lest he lose his feathers completely.

At times I was reduced to no more than walking pace, using my position on the bike, running through the gears I used every available advantage that presented itself. A slight downhill, a little cover from those trees, sometimes I had a cross breeze accompanied by a sinister extra gush of wind that made the passing caravans slow and me wary .

Every ride has sections ; you break down the distance you need to cover by 4 then have mini breaks, keep the food water and resolve up  all the time the wind continued. Stopping at ye olde tea rooms in Peaks Hill I took time to smell the roses. Shakespeare was right, a roses by any other name would smell as sweet. Shakespeare also said things are neither good nor bad only thinking makes them so.

So I retreated from the wind into myself, passing through Alectown  which is most likely named after someone called Alec. I saw that the Solider’s Memorial Hall, it was up for sale in the 100 anniversary year of the the war it was built to commentate. I guess Alec and his friends had moved on and the hall was no longer the focus of community.

How many celebrations that make a life well lived had passed through its doors?  What crass advertising copy might now be used to sell the building? You own piece of ANZAC history, for a killing, the mind boggles!!

Pushing up the last of many hills into the wind, a couple of guys in a shire truck yell out “Where you headed mate?” I could have said anything, Tasmania for that matter, they just wanted to say “You’re headed in the wrong direction”. Then fall about laughing .

Now later in the afternoon ,the wind begins to drop and the fight is over the Sun decides to turn up. As I pull into a caravan park for a shower to wash away the road ,a couple of nomads say “we didn’t think you would make it” …. whatever that may means