Kirsten Simpson Photography

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That Dotted Line: It used to mark the limit for us. That ragged line of torn bitumen putting an abrupt end to a beautiful climb. No man's land held no allure for us – its surface an ugly pock-marked rouge overseen by a shot-blasted lichen covered sign shouting “GRAVEL!” We’d even seen the other side - gazing longingly (knowing the exact measure of kilometres and a precise quantity of metres gained) but knowing it was out of our reach. We had traced the twisting Dotted Line on the map – but the conventional coffee shop wisdom was that it was out of reach on 23 millimetres of rubber. So we worked around it. Return routes on shoulders strewn with debris and grey junk kays on monotonous highways. Unfortunately even with circuitous workarounds we still knew that we were missing out. That Dotted Line was so small – yet it prevented so much. Stories filtered in third-hand. We heard of a guy who knew someone that had done it. He did not head the capitalised caveat “GRAVEL!” – instead he skimmed potholes and ascended That Dotted Line. So one day, armed with a battalions equipment and the bolshiness only fear of the unknown can bring, we crossed That Dotted Line. No punctures. Bike intact. Job done. Dirt be damned. Before we even finished the ride, we were excitedly joining the dots on new loops, new routes, new roads – all previously ‘inaccessible’. Exploration, adventure, quiet roads and immersive scenery is where it took us – and takes us. Deeper, and deeper each time. That Dotted Line is a part of our history – and the reason why we want to drag you with us this August. Don’t believe everything you hear over a latte.

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Filename
20130526_Hells500_48.jpg
Copyright
Kirsten Simpson 2013
Image Size
5616x3744 / 14.9MB
Contained in galleries
The Hells 500 Project
That Dotted Line: It used to mark the limit for us. That ragged line of torn bitumen putting an abrupt end to a beautiful climb. No man's land held no allure for us – its surface an ugly pock-marked rouge overseen by a shot-blasted lichen covered sign shouting “GRAVEL!” We’d even seen the other side - gazing longingly (knowing the exact measure of kilometres and a precise quantity of metres gained) but knowing it was out of our reach. We had traced the twisting Dotted Line on the map – but the conventional coffee shop wisdom was that it was out of reach on 23 millimetres of rubber. So we worked around it. Return routes on shoulders strewn with debris and grey junk kays on monotonous highways. Unfortunately even with circuitous workarounds we still knew that we were missing out. That Dotted Line was so small – yet it prevented so much. Stories filtered in third-hand. We heard of a guy who knew someone that had done it. He did not head the capitalised caveat “GRAVEL!” – instead he skimmed potholes and ascended That Dotted Line. So one day, armed with a battalions equipment and the bolshiness only fear of the unknown can bring, we crossed That Dotted Line. No punctures. Bike intact. Job done. Dirt be damned. Before we even finished the ride, we were excitedly joining the dots on new loops, new routes, new roads – all previously ‘inaccessible’. Exploration, adventure, quiet roads and immersive scenery is where it took us – and takes us. Deeper, and deeper each time. That Dotted Line is a part of our history – and the reason why we want to drag you with us this August. Don’t believe everything you hear over a latte.