When a Man Touches You While Bikepacking

Diary entry from March 6th, 2024, post New Zealand/Australia bike tour/adventure.

I’m very used to meeting older men on the trail. Often perplexed by seeing a single woman alone on the road with a maximalist bikepacking setup, furiously or happily pedaling to and fro, men in their 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s frequently marvel a such a site as myself. 

I don’t think bikepacking alone as a woman is all that unique or inspiring. After all, bikepacking is literally just going for a long bike ride, but with a tent and extra food, water, and gear strapped to your bike. Anything bad that could happen to me on a bikepacking trip (falling short of food, being harassed by a man on the road, getting injured) could theoretically happen to me in my own apartment, my own city or country, or on a regular bike ride around the area. Perhaps it is just a generational difference among these older men who find my biking antics to be “inspiring” despite my somewhat dismissive attitude. Regardless, I pedal on, despite the imagined tragic scenarios I can see materializing before their eyes, and despite my own history of uncomfortable, dangerous, traumatic, or mildly concerning experiences with men along the roads. 

Two weeks before my flight from Melbourne to Sydney, I decided to bike the Otway Rip with an internet friend named Kat. I needed to explore the regional area during my short time in the Australian cities and country, and the Otway Rip was calling my name. I downloaded the GPX route, wrote down a 4 day/3 night itinerary, marked various camp grounds we might have wanted to stop at, googled the hours of the general stores in each small town, stocked up enough food for 5 days (I prefer to be over prepared), packed up my belongings, and biked to the train station to make the 3 hour journey from Melbourne to Camperdown to start. 

Day 1 started like any typical bikepacking trip might start. We were excited, pedaling faster than we should, taking pictures of the trail, laughing at the beauty and excitement of it all. We were on a rail trail for most of the day- a gentle start to the trip, albeit with one section of rough hills and bumpiness in the middle of the trail. We made it to Port Campbell, cooked dinner by the beach (I had pesto pasta) in the windy and cool weather, then left the town to wild camp along the Great Ocean Road. It was as unspectacularly pleasant as any day bikepacking. 

Day 2 was ordinary as well. We packed up camp in the morning, drank some instant coffee, took off around 9am, snapped pictures of the natural beauties of the Great Ocean Road, stopped for water refills and snacks, had moments of wonder, excitement, frustration, and exhaustion, and kept pedaling. I left my biking partner as we tackled the hills, planning to meet him at the top before making our way to camp. I made it to Lavers Hill at least twenty, if not thirty minutes, before Kat arrived. I found a picnic table and immediately unpacked my bags to slather some peanut butter on bread to choke down the dry calories, then connected to the free Telstra WiFi to check out which campground we wanted to go to, and where we could get water. A couple of twenty year old men stared at my puzzling and feral behavior, but I didn’t care too much. I eventually moved to a patch of sun which was a bit further away from them, and much warmer.

A 40 something year old Australian man started chatting to me as I was waiting by the public bathrooms, rotating every ten minutes from bathing in the sun like a lizard to cooling off in the shade. He was impressed by my biking and adventuring, surprised that I left my friend in the dust, and curious as to why I was doing what I was doing, seeming a bit unsure as to how, where, and why I acquired the knowledge and skills that I have today. We made small talk as one does.

And then he touched my leg. 

“You’ve got goosebumps!”iIs what he said to me as he stepped closer and his finger gently grazed the top of my right thigh. My internal alarm went off- ding ding ding! I agreed that I was cold from the shade, using it as a gateway to move to the other side of my bike to quickly put on my jacket and sit in the sun as far away from him as possible without being “too far” to make him uncomfortable for making me uncomfortable (a feeling I am sure many women/marginalized groups know all too well). I knew he wasn’t going to leave me, and I knew my friend would be there shortly. I had noticed him staring half at my legs instead of looking me in the eyes earlier, but I ignored it- men ogle women all the time, what difference did it make if he was doing it to me as well? But this time, he touched me. He had the audacity to grace his finger against my hair raised thigh. I kept talking to the man, keeping polite conversation, despite how disgusted I was with his behavior, impatiently waiting for Kat to make it to the top of the hill to give me an escape.

Eventually Kat made it to Lavers Hill. The three of us had a quick chat (but not too quick, because I didn’t want to offend the man too easily and risk a potentially temperamental attitude), then we got some garlic bread next door, realizing that these small towns would not refill our bottles because they are reliant on rainwater and thus could not give up their clean water to travelers. Kat waited for his food while I complained about the man, then I darted back to the bathrooms to filter their tap water before we cycled to camp. I was upset by the circumstances, but moved on, because this was not the first time a man has made me uncomfortable on the road, and it certainly would not be the last. 

Day 3 began. Kat and I were separated once again due to a difference in speed on the hills, and I made it to Beech Forest, searching for water. You see, when I talk to men on the trail, it is my personal, general protocol that I give them a vague answer as to where I am going and what I am doing when they ask the expected and often innocent question “Where are you heading tonight?” This is usually asked out of genuine curiosity, no ulterior motives in place. But you never know when you may run into a violent or dangerous person. Most women, trans, and femme people know all too well the scary stories of their friends, loved ones, or simply strangers, who were assaulted, stalked, attacked, and more, at the hands of men. So when the man (before I realized he was creepy) and I were talking the day prior, I did not disclose where we were camping that night, but I did say that we were making our way into Beech Forest the following day, and wanted to know if we could refill water there. He had told me there was a water fountain at the park I could most definitely fill up at.

I was at the park, and there was no water fountain. I waited for Kat, wondering if I wanted to sit for an hour and let the caffeine from the mediocre canned boba coffee I had earlier go away unused so we could bike together, or to keep pedaling on with the $5 energy boost and meet him further down the trail. While texting Kat the details of the campground I had picked out for us that night and the water refill situation, the man showed up again. 

“How was your ride?” 

I actually don’t know what he said to me when he walked up. I was too busy conversing with Kat over text, and when I recognized the man, my brain, again, turned to alarm. I immediately texted Kat “the weird guy is here” to which Kat replied “fuck.” I uttered a couple of rushed sentences to the man, did not tell him where I was going that day, and decided that no, I was not going to wait for Kat. I left within a couple of minutes of that man showing up, and pedaled away as fast as I could, scared and angry at the possibility that he was stalking me. This time, I didn’t care if he felt offended by my sudden departure. 

“Why did this man have to ruin my weekend? Why did he have to touch my leg? Is he stalking me? Should I have never left Kat this morning on the hills? Am I going to get hurt? Did I mess up by telling him I was going to Beech Forrest? But it’s not my fault for simply existing and talking to someone. Why do I have to feel unsafe, again? Why can’t I just go bikepacking and live my life, free from the threat of sexual violence? Is it my fault that he found me the second day? Why was he, again, staring at my legs, and not talking to me to my face? Am I just being too paranoid? It could just be a coincidence. No, I’m not being too paranoid. I know the risk of granting people like him the benefit of the doubt.” 

I worried that I would lose service on the roads and not be able to text Kat if the man followed me. My mind turned to various scenarios of what could or would happen if he drove his car behind me, or saw me again later that day. I debated turning back and waiting for Kat in some kind of hideout spot, or to keep biking, my wits about. I kept pedaling, the roads hilly and gravely with a surprising amount of traffic, and put in my headphones to drown out my spiraling thoughts with some music, simultaneously wondering if wearing headphones was dangerous because if he drove next to me to potentially stalk me, I wouldn’t hear him the few seconds sooner I would have needed to scream for help. I somehow ended up listening to Courtney Barnett’s album “Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit”, because the young female angst of Olivia Rodrigo wasn’t cutting it this time around, and I had listened to 36th Chambers by Wu-Tang Clan too much while I was in the South Island of New Zealand. Courtney Barnett calmed me down, but I was still mad. I eventually met up with Kat later on the road. 

We did not see the man later that day, and thankfully, met some other grown men in town who chatted with us after they had completed a bike race, and us about our ride for the day, who later on invited us to shower and camp in their yard (to which they eventually just let us sleep inside). I was worried that the weird man may have somehow found me that evening if we were camping (despite the the fact that I didn’t tell him where we were going), but was soothed knowing that I was inside for the night, safe from his presence. 

We made it home the next day, biking from Forrest to Birregurra, taking the train back into Melbourne. I’ve mostly forgotten about my fear and anger from that encounter, not because it was insignificant, but rather because it microscopic to some of the more personal stories from my own lived experience, my friends, or other travelers online. It was simply a small addition to my list of unsettling encounters. 

So as I continue biking, traveling alone, bikepacking, flying to new countries and living my life as anyone should, I unfortunately have a list of less-than-ideal encounters with men on the roads. I’ve learned that while most people are good people (I’ve had far, far more positive experiences with men than negative ones), even a substantial track record of enjoyable moments with men will never guarantee that you live freely of the poor ones. I love to bike, to explore, to camp, to meet strangers and live my life to the fullest. Danger exists everywhere, from the person you are dating, your relative, your neighbor, your boss, or the guy you were talking to in Lavers Hill. 

To anyone reading this, remember to not be like the weird guy who touched my leg on day two of the Otway Rip!