A Rail Trail Christmas

We decided to ride the Brisbane Valley Rail Trail after friends of ours, John and Sue, passed through Yamba on their way home from completing it. They spoke about it casually, almost deceptively so. Sue rode an e-bike, John didn’t, and together they described long gravel paths, small Queensland towns you would never otherwise visit, and the quiet satisfaction of moving through a landscape under your own steam. It sounded restorative. It sounded manageable.

Those two assumptions would later be revised.

I had just started a new job when we booked the trip, but the company shutdown over Christmas and New Year created a rare pocket of uninterrupted time. With the dates locked in, the practicalities followed. Airbnbs and Motels were booked. Accommodation and dinning availability over Christmas was cross-checked. I built a spreadsheet to train myself up to riding 80 to 90 kilometres a day, despite the inconvenient truth that I had not been riding much at all. A new gravel bike was purchased. Optimism remained high.

Then, three weeks before we were due to leave, I fell ridiculously sick with influenza A. This came on the heels of a family holiday in Japan and recalibrated my confidence quickly. I told people at work that I would probably follow the trail by car instead as I had barely walked long distances since getting the flu. I framed this as pragmatism rather than fear. But as departure approached and I began to feel human again, we agreed to try the first day and see what happened. If I could finish Day One, I reasoned, I could finish the rest.

Day One was 85 kilometres. Around the 55 kilometre mark, my body began to lodge formal complaints. Turning back was not an option. That would have meant riding even farther. If the second half of that day were filmed as a PG-rated movie, most of the dialogue would have been replaced with beeps. But we kept going. The car stayed in the car park. I finished the day having ridden farther on a gravel than I ever had before.

Day Two looked easier on paper. Sixty-five kilometres, not eighty-five. What the numbers failed to convey was that the final 20 kilometres were almost entirely uphill. Bikepacking adds roughly 10-12 kilos of extra weight, which is manageable on flat ground and deeply humbling on loose gravel climbs. The trail rose in long, grinding stretches, punctuated by sharp dips (which used to be short bridges for the train) that punished momentum. Every incline felt personal. By the final third, I was stopping every five kilometres. I have never felt more relief than I did when the Airbnb finally appeared.

By then it was late afternoon on Christmas Eve, and there was still one task left. Everything would be closed the next day, so we kept our bike kits on and rode into town to buy food. Three and a half kilometres each way (yes, every half kilometre counted at this point), groceries loaded onto already tired bikes. It was not optional. Christmas would require provisions.

Christmas Day became Day Three, and Day Three involved no riding at all. Which meant we skipped the final 25 kilometres of the ride, which was well worth it for a full day of rest. We stayed put, sore and grateful. Our carefully chosen “easy” Christmas meal was a pasta bake. As I emptied the jar into the pot, I paused. It smelled wrong. Bryan looked at the label and then at me.

It was tomato sauce. Australian tomato sauce = Ketchup. 🥫

This is the part where I should mention that I have lived in Australia for over twelve years and love to cook. There is no legitimate excuse. The only explanation we could agree on was that several sustained uphill climbs had temporarily deprived my brain of oxygen. We ate it anyway.

Days Four and Five were the return journey, and they felt like a gift. Mostly downhill, still demanding, but lighter in spirit. The same distances that had felt overwhelming on the way out now felt achievable. We rode more smoothly, laughed more easily, and remembered why we enjoy cycling in the first place.

Somewhere near the end of Day Five, Bryan casually reminded me of something important. Everyone assumes this trip was his idea, because he’s the experienced bikepacker and I’m usually just along for the ride. But this one was mine. He didn’t say it triumphantly. Just gently. A factual footnote offered at the right moment.

Thanks, babe. 🙄

The Brisbane Valley Rail Trail was harder than I expected, in ways I had not fully respected going in. But it offered something rare. Time off grid. Space to reconnect. A reminder that limits are often further out than they appear, especially once you commit to moving forward rather than turning back.

Even when Christmas dinner tastes like ketchup.