Long drives through the Australian outback give ample time to pause and think. Recently, on the road to Karumba, I was reflecting on the role of tradition in sport. I was thinking that traditions and ceremonies help engender mythology and reverence for sport. In AFL football, this is in evidence during the Grand Final and, more pertinently, the annual ANZAC Day game between Essendon and Collingwood. But an interesting feature of the ANZAC Day game, along with many other “traditions”, is that it is a relatively recent phenomenon. With the AFL set to introduce a game of football on Good Friday, I began thinking of how a game of sport can create its own tradition while conflicting with the religious tradition of the day.
I should note quite early that despite being raised with a Christian framework, I do not support their traditions. Quite the opposite. I retain no reverence for Good Friday and would like nothing more than to watch an interesting game of sport on that public holiday. While holding this strident belief, I understand that not all others do and for the AFL to be successful in their venture they must appease a great many people.
Another challenge for the AFL is to make the fixture equitable. A regular criticism of the ANZAC Day game is that the two clubs who benefit most are already rich and powerful. A game on Good Friday would have to be shared for it to be accepted competition-wide.
While musing on this very point, my mind went to the other side of the world and a vastly different winter sport – ice hockey. Each year on New Year’s Day, two teams duke it out in the annual Winter Classic. This tradition is hugely popular and is an unqualified success. There are two interesting points to note. The first is that this is a very recent tradition with the first Winter Classic being held in 2008. The second is that two different teams play each year.
These two points should give the AFL confidence in establishing a new game on Good Friday. It is possible to create new traditions using different teams each year.
But the Winter Classic is successful for other reasons. Firstly, it is held on a public holiday where there are few other distractions. Check. But, most importantly, it is successful because it celebrates an aspect of ice hockey that had been phased out of the NHL. In an incredibly professional sport, all games of the NHL season are played in purpose-built indoor arenas. All bar one that is. The Winter Classic is played outdoors, celebrating a traditional aspect of the game and the way that most people still learn to skate and play hockey. Celebrating the heritage of ice hockey has certainly helped make the Winter Classic a success.
The ANZAC Day game works because it incorporates the military traditions of the day into the ceremonies of the game. The day is a celebration of our military history and of our national game. But incorporating the Christian traditions into a game of football is problematic and, quite frankly, should not be attempted and should not occur. Not, I might add, because of deference to religion but because of deference to football and multi-culturalism. The day cannot marginalise those of us that do not believe or believe in something else.
Creating reverence for the day will be a big challenge for the AFL and it will be undermined with criticism that they are not showing reverence for the Christian faith. At this point on the drive, I interrupted the hum of the tyres and told Mrs Bugler of my thoughts. Mrs Bugler proposed a neat solution to some of the problems.
A former employee of the Royal Children’s Hospital, Mrs Bugler drew my attention to a very successful tradition, the Good Friday Appeal. If part of the game was based around raising awareness of and funds for the Royal Children’s Hospital in the Good Friday Appeal, the AFL would at once co-opt an existing tradition and create a broader and worthwhile cause for the game. After all, one would think doing some good on Good Friday would have universal religious appeal.
Envisage a situation in which players from both teams (different each year) spent the week leading up to the game volunteering at the Hospital. In your mind’s eye, see tin-rattlers outside the stadium with thousands of fans giving generously as they excitedly walked toward the ground. Imagine, if you will, a proud Gillon McLachlan handing over an over-sized novelty cheque to the Royal Children’s Hospital worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, a percentage of the day’s revenue raising. How could you criticise the AFL for having a game of football on Good Friday when it is doing so much good for the community? And the opportunities for marketing this relationship are endless. Thank you, Mrs Bugler.
The simple beauty of this suggestion becomes greater as you think more on it. The idea is transportable in that interstate teams could do similarly in their own city. It is not tied to a particular ground and I’m confident other hospitals would also appreciate the benefits. The Good Friday game could travel, much like the Winter Classic does each year to a different outdoor field.
The modern success of the ANZAC Day clash stemmed from the first game in 1995 when Essendon and Collingwood fought out a storied draw in front of a packed crowd. This stroke of luck must be acknowledged in the creation of tradition. Without that stroke of luck the day may ebb and flow, more like the fortunes of Melbourne vs Collingwood on Queen’s Birthday. Mrs Bugler’s suggestion does not necessarily create a Good Friday mythology or heritage like the Winter Classic or ANZAC Day. But it does enable the AFL to use existing traditions to build its own tradition while appealing to a broad audience on a religious holiday. Hopefully, with all teams in concert everyone could benefit. Especially the kids.
The two people I cycled most regularly with often espoused the virtues of mountain biking. Ostie spent much time on his road and commuter bikes, but professed to having a deep love of thrashing his mountain bike on trails. Daniel took to mountain biking after retiring from running. He raced underneath the Westgate Bridge and enjoyed the competition, especially at night. Despite the peer pressure, my experience off-road was extremely limited. But it was inevitable that at some stage I would have to take a bike off the tarmac.
An early stop on the Bugling odyssey was the Gippsland town of Maffra to visit a college friend of Mrs Bugler’s. As luck would have it our hosts, Julie and Steve, both loved mountain biking. Further, not far from Maffra on Blores Hill are a number of well-maintained trails suited to beginners through to the more experienced. Naturally, conversation got around to cycling and I expressed an interest in trying out my cycling ability on Blores Hill.
Although Steve’s gear was a touch smaller than I would have liked, his bike is top-of-the-line. Due to a broken hand, his hard-tail 29-er was not being used. For the unfamiliar, a ‘hard-tail’ means the bike has only suspension on the front wheel, and ’29-er’ means it has 29 inch wheels. This style of mountain bike is relatively new but increasingly popular. For a newbie, it was a perfect steed on which to try out the trails of Blores Hill.
The first things that I noticed about mountain biking on the Blores Hill trails were that I had to concentrate every second without taking my eyes off the trail, and I was constantly on the brakes to wipe off a bit of speed. The technical nature of riding on the trails meant that I barely had a moment to blink. I managed to successfully negotiate my first few trails and was enjoying the solitude and beauty of the forest at Blores Hill. For the most part I was competent. It was only when I tried to climb up a steep trail over large uneven boulders that I came unstuck and had to walk.
After testing myself out on a variety of trails, I was thinking that although mountain biking is technically harder, physically I was not as exhausted as I would normally be after an hour or so of cycling. On cue, I went past a resting rider. He was the only other cyclist I saw that morning and he was quite a bit larger than me. But just as I was patting myself on my back for my superior fitness, he flew past me on the next trail. Quite obviously my technical abilities were restricting me from working harder and going faster.
Our time in Maffra came to an end, and the Bugling odyssey continued into New South Wales. The Sapphire Coast is a beautiful area and we had a legion of places to set up camp. We chose the seaside town of Tathra. A short drive away down a dirt road is a place worth going for a picnic and a swim – Mumbulla Creek Falls. Hidden in Biamanga National Park, the waterfalls have created a natural rock water slide that ends in a deep pool. The daring can also jump off a rock platform about 5 or 6 metres above the pool.
Some swift internet searching revealed that Tathra had mountain biking trails almost on top of town, and the local bike shop hired 29-ers. A stroke of luck for the Bugler. To get my money’s worth for the bike hire, I planned on two rides. The first involved some negotiation with Mrs Bugler and a plan was formulated. It was decided I would ride to Mumbulla Creek Falls and Mrs Bugler would meet me there with a picnic and the mini-Bugler. They would take the highway and I would take the road less-travelled on the 29er.
The ride to Mumbulla Creek Falls from Tathra is one of the toughest and most scenic I have done. It is only a touch over 30km but the ride begins at sea level and meanders through the hills of Mimosa Rocks and Biamanga National Parks. On sometimes steep, dirt and gravel roads I ascended about 900m. Exacerbating the physical difficulty of this was the personal isolation. I was on very unfamiliar territory and spent much of the time not knowing if I was following the correct uneven gravel road. As I kept climbing, nagging doubt contributed to my tiring legs. I definitely earned my slide down the rock into the pool and the ensuing picnic.
Early the next morning, I stretched out my stiff legs and attacked the trails in the hills behind Tathra. Climbing through the quiet streets to Bundadung Trails, I began to regret my decision to go cycling. But I was already out of bed and had to return the 29-er later that morning so I took off down Anchors Away trail.
The conditions were very similar to Blores Hill and I again enjoyed the solitude and the natural beauty of the area. But my tired legs meant I was counting the time and kilometres. Suddenly a tree interrupted my tribulation. Squeezing through a tight gap, my handlebar clipped the tree and I came off. Both the rental and I escaped unscathed and I remounted. Funnily, the little tumble improved my mental state. The next hour passed rapidly as I re-concentrated on cycling the trails and got lost in the reverie. Before I knew it, I was running late for breakfast.
Two formulae are often quoted when talking about the correct number of bikes to own, n+1 and s-1. ‘n’ refers to the number of bikes you currently own, and ‘s’ refers to the number of bikes that would cause separation from your partner. Thus, the correct number of bikes to own is one more than you currently have but one less than would result in separation. Even with the crash and the exhausting ride out to Mumbulla Creek, I enjoyed my time on the 29-ers. But I also enjoy being married and only a year has elapsed since I purchased my road bike. Perhaps with some more mountain bike hiring and more subtle hints, n+1 < s-1.
Despite owning a four-wheel drive car for over six months, I had rarely taken it off the tarmac. Jokingly, I had slipped it into 4WD a couple of times when driving up a steep hill or down a gravel road. But I still didn’t know the difference between 4WD, 4HLC and 4LLC. Twice I had changed the mode into 4HLC and 4LLC – once on an inner-suburban street in Melbourne, and once when I got stuck in the sand near Myall Lakes in New South Wales. This second “incident” didn’t inspire Mrs Bugler with confidence, especially when I proposed taking the Canyonero onto the largest sand island in the world – Fraser Island.
To improve my skills, I investigated taking a course but couldn’t find one that fitted our itinerary. So in true Bugler style, I chatted to a couple of people, read an article or two, watched some YouTube videos, and declared myself prepared for three days of driving on/in sand. To be on the safe side, I bought some snatch straps and watched a couple of clips on how to use those too.
My education on sand-driving did teach me the importance of one thing – tyre pressure. The “incident” at Myall Lakes was solved when a couple of adventurous types drove up and helpfully let down my tyres. I was then told to “just drive out”. Which I did. Normal tyre pressure in the Canyonero is 29psi but on sand the advisable pressure drops to 16-20psi. This gives the tyre greater contact area with the ground, creating more grip and making it less likely to sink.
The Bugle family met Gen and Chris at Rainbow Beach for lunch before continuing out to Inskip Point to catch the ferry. As we neared the point, a couple of cars were pulled over with the drivers addressing their wheels. Duly, I did the same. I carefully dropped the pressure to 20psi reasoning that if I got stuck, I still had a few psi left up my sleeve. Chris did similarly. I slipped the car into 4HLC and we drove the last couple of hundred metres on the sand to meet the ferry.
The short ferry ride over to Fraser Island was brilliant. The sun was shining and all the passengers were excited, looking forward to their own adventures on the island. That ebullience continued as we drove onto the beach at Fraser. The first couple of hundred metres were slightly tense as we negotiated our way around the southern tip, but the beach widened on the east and the sand was hard and flat. With Johnny Cash playing, I accelerated across the sand and grinned.
The eastern beach serves as the main highway on Fraser Island. Being exposed to the elements, it is not the best for swimming or surfing. Some intrepid types cast a line in but we were in no danger of hitting a pedestrian. As we cruised along nearing the speed limit of 80km/h, the main dangers were the odd dingo and small river crossings. The advice was to hit the river crossings with some momentum, and obviously to not hit the dingos at all.
We decided to set up camp at Central Station due to its dingo fence and proximity to the major Fraser Island attractions. We turned off the beach at the hamlet of Eurong and began to negotiate the inland tracks. The speed limit dropped to 30km/h off the beach but the main limiter of speed was the tracks themselves. The narrow, sandy roads wound their way through the thick bush, up and down hills, over roots and through puddles. The Canyonero had no problems with the terrain, but the 8km trip from Eurong to Central Station took close to half an hour.
Our home for three nights was set amongst the tall trees and bushy ferns of the rainforest. The winds blowing on the coast did not make their way into the thick growth. Similarly, the sun set early and rose late, unable to penetrate the foliage until high in the sky. Our few neighbours were distant enough to make us feel comfortable, but not too distant to make us feel uncomfortable. In short, our campsite at Central Station was about as good as camping gets.
The mini-Bugler rose with the light in the morning. We breakfasted before all piling back into the Canyonero for a tour of Fraser Island highlights. Our first stop was Lake McKenzie. With the sun shining, the morning dip in the crystal clear, fresh water was refreshing and more invigorating than our morning coffee. The mini-Bugler frolicked in the white sand and shallows, warbling with the morning bird calls.
The afternoon touring session took us further north on the island and we returned to the “highway” for greater speed. We sped by tourist buses, more dingos and fellow travellers. Salt spray from the ocean washed over the Canyonero only to be rinsed off as we splashed through more shallow river crossings.
The Pinnacles were our first stop and furthest destination. After a whistle-stop look, we re-boarded and headed south to take in the rusting hulk of the wrecked SS Maheno. A fascinated mini-Bugler ignored the 3m rule and peered through the portholes to see the waves washing in. But not for long. Another quick ride and we were at Eli Creek for an afternoon swim. While the four adults waded the fresh water, the mini-Bugler once again splashed around and made the most of the stop.
The most trying four-wheel driving I did on Fraser Island was as the sun was setting. We wanted to see Lake Wabby and turned off the beach to negotiate the track to the lookout. Our map wasn’t to scale and we didn’t know how far it was inland. We crawled for close to half an hour before arriving at the lookout and as each minute passed, the sun set further. A sign at the exit said we had 20km to travel back along the track to Central Station. The hour drive was onerous as car members began to feel sick with the constant motion, and tiredness set in after a day of sight-seeing. Nevertheless, we arrived in time to feed a hungry hoard.
We resolved to spend less time in the car the following day. Chris and Gen were not so lucky, they had to take the long drive back to Brisbane. After a sad farewell, we relaxed for a midday snooze preparing for an afternoon hike to take a swim in Lake Wabby. It had tempted us with a glimpse the evening before.
The natural beauty of Fraser Island is known far and wide. Tourists travel the world over to take in the sights and swim in the lakes. It tempts the intrepid who head into the more remote north for some solitude and a break from the developed world. Similarly, it attracts the serious off-roader who likes to tackle dunes and difficult terrain. But it also holds a certain mystique for the novice, who dreams of flying along the beach in the sea breeze singing Johnny Cash. Just make sure you let down your tyres.