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RJ Sauer

@rjsauer

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Writer | Director | Bikepacker. Domestique to @olivertheraven
Cinematic doppelgänger: @rjsauerfilm
@salsacycles @7meshinc @jublocanada @burleydesign

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Proceed With Caution // We felt at home climbing around the yellow, forestry gate obstructing our road forward. This was a staple of international bikepacking where backcountry wilderness met resource extraction. A figurative and physical limbo under an archway into an unexpectedly symbiotic labyrinth of gravel trails. Even Ollie, at the age of four, understood green means go, red means stop and yellow means proceed with caution. Yield but don’t capitulate. Climbing over these cautionary gates was a bikepacking rite of passage and and an invitation into a new world free of cars and urban infrastructure.

This world beyond was a detour off the Tasmania Trail but a “popular” bikepacking route, especially given its proximity to the renowned mountain bike park in Maydena. Sadly, the park, and everything around it was closed for the day. But that was fine for us. This was a destination for our future, when Ollie would strap on body armour and face shields and trade bike trailers for full suspension and reckless abandonment.

Like our home on the west coast of Canada, this area through the heart and soul of Mt Field National Park was ripe with historical protest in defence of wildlife and old-growth preservation, spearheaded by the Bob Brown Foundation. So this was a place I wanted to experience.

The route had us ferrying through the inauspiciously named Styx Valley, a winding river of crushed gravel through the shorn hillsides of controlled deforestation. Before long we discovered an ideal campsite along the shores of a river and settled in after an impressive sixty kilometres of riding.

In the middle of the night we woke to the sounds of a feral animal disgorging themselves. Once we oriented ourselves in the darkness of the tent we realized the sounds were coming from within. We fumbled for our headlamps and illuminated a milky white liquid funnelling from Ollie’s mouth and coating our sleeping bags. I took them down to the river for a wash and hung them to dry over a makeshift curing teepee under a campfire. In our Odyssey, it was clearly the river that paid the toll. taken in Mt. Field National Park, Tasmania by @rjsauer

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10 months ago

Shadows // We meandered under an umbrella of Swamp Gums and Mountain Ash. The warm sun extracting the sweet smell of eucalyptus. Ollie road his bike as we approached Mt Field National Park and our camping spot for the evening.

He slipped casually off his seat, side saddle while in motion, landing on his feetm running out the final momentum of his bike before approaching casually like nothing happened. ‘Whoa dude!’ Yes, I sound like a surfer-dad when talking to Ollie. ‘How’d you learn to do that?’ Ollie looked at me as if my question was ridiculous, the way he usually does when I ask questions. ‘I watched you. I’ve seen you do it 100 times.’ I was proud and terrified. He’s actually watching and learning from me? Oh shit, he’s watching and learning from me. There were a flood of memories and my hands felt caked with the molding clay of responsibility. I was about to spit some built up phlegm but caught myself. He was watching. Always watching.

The sun rose behind us as we weaved along quiet gravel road. Our shadow stretched long ahead of us, pivoting at our anchor point as we carved the best line. ‘Dad, your shadow is bigger than you.’ It was a pragmatic observation but in the moment felt more profound. Rather than taking a philosophical approach, I responded with simple logic about the lower the sun the longer our shadows. From there we experimented with how shadows are created based on our position and the sun’s apex and why they suddenly disappear. ‘Opposites,’ Ollie concluded. ‘The shadow is at the opposite of the sun’. ‘Yes, yes it is.’ An astute observation for a four year old.

My rides with Ollie, whether in Tasmania or on our short bike commutes to school were full of these conversations. They kept me on my toes, often exposing my lack of specificity with certain subject matter. ‘So the dinosaurs were made extinct because of a meteor’ Ollie offered. It caught me off guard and I found myself second guessing myself, juggling historical fact, mythology, science and ignorant rhetoric. ‘Uh, ya, and climate change and an ice age?’ I panicked. ‘Let me get back to you’. I wanted my conclusion to be air tight. I didn’t want my son spewing my misinformation. taken in Mt. Field National Park, Tasmania by @rjsauer

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10 months ago

The Journey Continues // I am not totally sure what led me away from this digital space for such a long time. Whatever the reasons, some of which I know, I will save for another opportunity to explore. But for now, not unsurprisingly, I found myself reminiscing this time of year and specifically, I drifted back to Tasmania and this story I never concluded. At least not here, in its virtual form. It felt fitting to do that now, almost a few years to the day as Christmas approached and we picked our way across the charming landscape of this small island region of Australia.

To recap. We had arrived in Hobart and successfully embarked on our family bikepacking trip fresh off the launch of our little film “Along For the Ride”. Our adventure included experimenting with a hybrid approach to our travel, which we thought provided a transitional opportunity for Ollie. So not only did I pull the Burley trailer, I carried Ollie’s bike on top and mounted an additional seat on my frame, allowing for a well-rounded, rotisserie of riding and transporting options that would hopefully stave off boredom, facilitate us making progress and patiently encourage him to ride on his own. As always, family bikepacking was full of lessons and a mechanism for growth. In this and so many unexpected ways, Tasmania refused to disappoint.

Now several days into our journey out of Hobart, with our pre-packed, Christmas bundle on its way ahead of us to the north (generously shuttled by ever-hospitable locals), we set out from New Norfolk, but not without one final stop. We were lured for breakfast at a shop in a quaint, converted church called the Quilted Tea. As advertised it provided multifaceted warmth, texturally through quilting and culinarily through its “tea”. Tasmania was always full of layers of hearty resourcefulness. Perhaps due to its small population and scale or its remote location, every stop and shop provided a varied collection of services and wares, perfectly convenient for a small caravan such as ours. taken in New Norfolk, Tasmania by @rjsauer

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10 months ago

Bloody Mess // The first few days of any trip are always a discovery period and a chance for us to find our groove. Mapping out new environments went far beyond topography and geography and lines of a map, there were unique cultural contours to navigate, even in a place like Tasmania with it’s baseline familiarity. I found this part the most rewarding. Through conversations, interactions and societal osmosis we picked up the special quirks and cues distinguishing this experience and place from any other. Even from mile to mile or town to town those characteristics could shift and change as we connected one region to another. The longer our journey and time immersed with the trial, the easier it became to identify the discrepancies.

With Santa’s sack presumably in good hands and traveling ahead of us, I felt I could settle in to the here and now. New Norfolk was our first opportunity to shake out the tent and set up camp. We were fresh. No scrapes or stains from days gone by, no scars of experience or grit and grime on the chain.

The adjacent campsite was a different story: clothes and gear were strewn about, hung out to dry and aerate with bikes tipped on end for servicing, their shell-shocked owners sprawled out in half-executed stretches on the ground. They were at the opposite spectrum, seasoned with days, maybe even weeks on the trail and travelling in the reverse direction. The ragged bikepacking duo had all the markings of a ravaged platoon, hobbled out from the jungle and recovering from a tour at the front. These battlegrounds from which they had emerged were the section of the Tasmanian Trail we were to confront the following day.

I turned to assess our own rag-tag outfit to see if we were up to the challenge. Ollie looked up at me with a blank stare, completely unaware of what was to come. He had attacked a pint of fresh raspberries and looked like a young Hannibal Lector after a “meal” and fine chianti. It gave me a strange confidence as although we hadn’t started our journey he was already a bloody mess. We were ready. taken in New Norfolk, Tasmania by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

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3 years ago

Survival of The Fittest // Bikepacking is really a human powered safari and a great advantage with our meandering pace is discovering new ecosystems and wildlife. From the trailer towed behind me, the curious ramblings of a yet-to-be knighted (sir) David Attenborough ensued, a four year old’s narration of the world around us.

The search for Tasmanian wildlife had an auspicious start. On day one, I counted roughly thirty roadkill before catching a glimpse of anything alive. I tried to veer and swerve and position the bike to avoid Ollie’s direct eye contact with mutilated piles of fur but not only was it fruitless but dangerous on narrow, shoulder-less roads. With traffic racing in both directions, we might join the tally of carcasses.

“Daaad….’ I braced for the question,’what was that?’

I wasn’t sure, actually: a steamy mess of intestines and soupy organs. Most Tasmania marsupials looked similar from the inside out. ‘I think that was a wombat?’

Most of the carcasses belonged to nocturnal creatures, drawn to headlights and not quick enough to evade speeding vehicles weaving along the country roads. Typically I smelt the roadkill first. There just wasn’t a way to avoid the fly-infested cadavers. ‘I think that one was a kangaroo’. Not the most romantic introduction to the fauna of Tasmania.

For better or worse, bikepacking “safaris” intimately exposed us to the nooks & crannies, insides & outs of a place, which in turn led to conversation: in this case, an unexpected dialogue about death.

There isn’t a parenting handbook that neatly lists conversations with our children in chronological or a consequential order of complexity, they spring up and catch unsuspecting parents off guard. Ill-informed and often ill-equipped, I played the role of educator while Sarah, the qualified teacher, rode just out of earshot.

I might not always get it right, but I gave it straight. Like navigation, educational shortcuts could lead us astray, so I leaned into Cole’s Notes Darwinism and the survival of the fittest. Ollie took it well & it was an early reminder that kids were resilient, adaptable, pragmatic passengers and life lessons come hard and fast. taken in Tasmania by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

Town Crier // Ollie led us out of the city to start our bikepacking adventure with the pomp and circumstance worthy of a Santa Clause parade, navigating us through the fog of tourists and city goers lining the sidewalks on a busy weekend in Hobart. This was a rite of passage for him and an important step in our ever-evolving family bikepacking adventures. Ollie’s riding skills and confidence were expanding quickly and so from one trip to the next we weren’t exactly sure what to expect and in some ways, how to prepare. It was all part of an ongoing social and scientific experiment. This time around, we opted to maintain the hybrid model that combined his bike and chariot. It meant lugging more gear but it also offered proud, confidence boosting moments like this.

The urban bike path out of Hobart made for a pleasant, gradual entry onto the Tasmanian Trail, with the typical flat grades and direct navigation of a converted rail bed. The route gave us one last tour of Hobart as the city would transition into suburbs and finally into the rural countryside where we would spend most of our journey. From its strategic, coastal vantage, Hobart stared out towards the vast, lonesome waters of the Southern Ocean all the way to Antartica - a distant outpost at the edge of a great oceanic wilderness. I could feel its steely gaze, wrinkled from the tears of salt and wind. Its history was complicated and like most of the colonies would take time to unravel.

I was already fond of Hobart. This wasn’t a short-lived, romantic affair, rather the beginning of a deep, blossoming friendship. The city was honest and hearty and like many blue colour towns it was having a reinvention, perhaps even a renaissance. But more than anything, Hobart, like all of Tasmania was unpretentious and I was grateful to be here.

#tasmania #tasmaniatrail #familybikepacking #bikepacking #julbocanada #salsacycles #arkelpanniers #AdventureByBike #7meshinc #bringyourkids #bikewander #worldbybike #hobart taken in Hobart, Tasmania by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

Away in A Manger // Although certainly not as humble of an abode as it sounds, our stay at The Stables felt perfectly ceremonial for the start of a family bikepacking trip over Christmas Break across Tasmania.

We had survived the 17 hours of flying from Vancouver, Canada, and narrowly escaped the clutches of a winter storm that blanketed our green, coastal rainforest with thick quilts of snow, leaving other travellers delayed and frustrated. All the manic taxis and flights and gear shlepping suddenly felt worthwhile.

We buffered the start of our trip with a few extra days in the Tasmanian capital, Hobart, allowing our bodies and minds to fully acclimatize to our new hemisphere as well as allowing buffer time for any baggage mishaps of which there were none.

The cultural acclimatization into Tasmania was minimal. It was inherently familiar, and at first glance we recognized the foundation of the Commonwealth with notes of rural United Kingdom, blue collar Canada and a hint of mainland Australia. Yet, despite the familiarity, namely due to the lack of language or political barriers, or exotic religions and societal norms, I sensed an underlying subtlety to Tasmania that would require a nuanced discovery over time that made me curious and excited.

Although many people and locals referred to Tasmania as “Tassie” I never came around to this abbreviation. Perhaps this stemmed from a deep-seeded, self-conscious, awkwardness growing up as an Abbreviation myself but as a guest in this land, it felt disingenuous to say Tassie, like driving my tongue into my teeth to procure an exaggerated Spanish accent when referring to the latest airy club playlist from Ibi-tha or travellers who miraculously develop British accents after a week of city tours in London, England. When I said Tassie, I just felt like I was referencing a runny-nosed, pigtailed pubescent trying desperately to live up to their big brother in the elementary school playground.

So, in an act of anti-acclimatization, albeit out of respect, I kept things formal and stuck with referring to our new found land as Tasmania. taken in Hobart, Tasmania by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

Wing And A Prayer // As global bike travel becomes increasingly popular, it feels like the actual transit of bikes has become increasingly unreliable, a game of Russian Roulette where shipping a bicycle from one city to another by airline is managed entirely by hopes and prayers. Despite the sheer size of bike boxes or bags and countless, redundant Sharpie scribbles of name, contacts and destination, the oversized luggage consistently vanishes without a trace. With a sense of helplessness, I turned to Apple. The invention and use of their AirTags was oddly compelling, tapping into the company’s core demographic of gaming, crime novel nerds living out that fantasy of “bugging” and tracking a target. This invisible tether to my bags had me monitoring my phone and peering through airport windows convinced I knew exactly where my gear was at all times, as if giving me power over the airlines Hopes and Prayers department.

This time around, we almost didn’t have a chance to lose our bikes by air. Our Tasmanian adventure escalated prematurely with the equally impotent, inner-city ground transportation. No matter how many times we left our home in Deep Cove, we’ve been let down by our transportation providers. This time, the taxi company failed to procure the van I booked online 48 hours prior. When I called to check in, the dispatch explained with irksome indifference, ‘well if you book the van online there needs to be one available for it to pick you up’. Yes, precisely. I was dumbfounded.

In order to milk every second of our Christmas holidays, my wife Sarah was meeting us at the airport straight from work while Ollie and I shlepped ten, giant pieces of luggage from home: three bikes, a bike chariot, X-mas gifts, camping gear and even a bike rack for our apres-bikepacking time. Traveling light and family bikepacking share no relation.

With no van, we pivoted to multiple cars. As they arrived, I shoved bags inside and sent them off. When the final car arrived, Ollie and I climbed aboard & pulled up the “FindMy” app to track our “bugged” bags as they navigated the city to the airport. Not the AirTag intent I expected, but I was filled with a strange, childish joy. taken in Deep Cove by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

Van Diemen’s Land // Prologue. A bikepacking trip to Tasmania had been on my bucket list for a long time. It’s hard to explain how a far off place seeps into the soul and becomes so enticing, long before the social media algorithms catch hold and simultaneously dilute imagination and ignite curiosity. Every destination has compatibility clues of course: the delicate balance of trusted, word of mouth testimonials and the sort of subtle, amuse bouche of insights found here and there, stories we trip over when fumbling in the digital dark in search of that next great adventure.

For many, Tasmania was clearly off the radar, something I was constantly reminded of in the tone of questioning I received pre, post and even throughout our bikepacking journey from those actually living and travelling along side us. I wouldn’t call it skepticism, but there was always a hint of curios confusion as to why we chose this island territory for our next family adventure and vacation. Some even sheepishly waded into, or out of, as it were, their geographical knowledge with probing statements that read more like questions:

“Tasmania…’
‘…That’s near Australia….right?’
‘…In Australia…no?’
‘…That’s an island…yes?’
‘…Ah…New Zealand! Always wanted to go there.’

No, Tasmania.

It was true. There wasn’t any iconic, post card embossed edifice or monument of global renown, save perhaps the “demonic” marsupial or the extinct tiger. But each of those couldn’t necessarily drive a tourism economy given they were highly elusive or non-existent for that matter. Perhaps that was exactly the allure.

Those who had been to Tasmania, my covert sources for travel intel, never hesitated in their wink-nod solidarity for choosing this mysterious and rugged destination. And after our own personal journey, we would never hesitate to wink nod to others.

And so in the lamenting tone of the Edge, we set off across the world…

Hold me now,
Oh hold me now
'Til this hour
Has gone around
And I'm gone
On the rising tide
For to face
Van Diemen's land. taken in Tasmania by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ a self-confession with my mirror. As I’ve exhaustively expressed of late, I’ve loitered in that emotionally and cringy limbo of the imminent breakup as my relationship with bikepack racing had gone from gravel to on the rocks.

Yes, I’ve been beating this dead horse with perpetual autopsying, but my dilemma remained a fascinating subject and upon deeper reflection it proved hard to untangle the conflicting emotions. My inspiration and intrigue for bikepack racing endured, the promise of memories to come, manifested through my actions and the stories and ideas percolating from my endeavours. All those unknown experiences built on an undulating physical and emotional journey and rich foundation of life-changing moments. Up and walking out on years of commitment and romance, albeit abusive at times, felt rash. Divorcing from the affair might not be the answer, what I really needed, was to renew my vows.

So I stepped out from that limbo and stepped up to the start line altar of the BT700 bikepacking race, an 800km, active self-recovery starting and finishing in the town of St Jacobs, Ontario.

I was intentionally cagey about the event to keep the experience pure and unadulterated by the hubris of social media. The experience offered an opportunity to explore my feelings with other racers, who wrestled with similar emotions, a reminder why we speak up and speak out. Harbouring emotions, especially in a storm, is not an act of preservation but the archaic and futile martyrdom of going down with the ship.

Through a refreshed perspective and active reflection, I found joy and calm along the course. At first I struggled a bit physically, overcoming the effects of a recent stomach bug, but with patience and self-empathy, my body acclimatized. Before I knew it, I was moving efficiently. Most importantly, I was at peace as I treated the course as a personal time trial, unencumbered by the choices and presence of others around me.

In the end, the experience was a pedal stroke forward. My ride was a reminder that bikepacking needn’t be a divisive, polygamous affair but a faithful union of my passions. It was simply up to me to reset boundaries. taken in St. Jacobs, Ontario by @rjsauer

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3 years ago

This is only my 4th attempt at Father’s Day so let’s be clear, I’m no expert. Father’s Day strikes me as a conundrum. As a day for father’s, is it to celebrate, to acknowledge the designation or relish in the act of fathering. Am I to be more father-like, thus, at my best as a father? More vigilant, present and attentive? Or simply reflect on another year of fathering achievements and, like birthdays, an opportunity to revel in title without any socially-acceptable, fatherhood responsibilities?

As it stands, on my 4th anniversary of dadding, I find myself in the town of St. Jacobs, Ontario, awaiting the start of the BT700 bikepacking race. I don’t feel guilty being away from my son and family although in a perfect world we’d be together. Clearly, my choice is a selfish endeavour as I’m not exactly doubling down on my parental duties. But celebratory dates and holidays rarely, conveniently align with life, or work, for that mater. Opportunity makes for a messy calendar. Valentines shouldn’t be the only day we celebrate the love in our life; Mothers Day certainly shouldn’t be the only day moms go to the spa, have breakfast in bed or bask in admiration. These milestones are just immovable markers along our trail. It’s the chance to check in on the life we’ve created around us.

I’m no doubt happy to be a dad. It hurt to see Ollie tear up when I told him I’d be away but it also made me feel all the more loved. Tears are like that: stark reminders we’re alive and testing boundaries. I’m proud to take on another adventure, this day or any other, and show Ollie we craft our own quirky path. I’m reminded of when I was a kid and an unwitting heir to fatherhood. My dad felt like a ghost. Our relationship was relatively positive, perhaps devoid of depth, but functional. But I couldn’t help feel sad, maybe even disappointed for him. My mom too. For parents trying to keep a tidy house they managed to leave a lot of unlaundered dreams strewn about the floor like unkempt laundry. A life spent enduring and punching clocks. Maybe that impacted me and shaped my (sometimes) impulsive and rash tendency to live outside the lines. Maybe that’s why I am where I am now… taken in St. Jacobs, Ontario by @rjsauer

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