Country Road

The road out of Mt Isa is pleasant enough and it's only a short ride to Longreach. The town of Longreach is famous for having a 747 parked in the middle of a paddock. It's a tourist attraction and for a nominal fee ($79!!!) you can get a guided tour of the cockpit, the wings, etc. Dave seems fairly excited about the prospect but I'm unexpectedly uninterested. There's something not quite right about a plane that doesn't fly. It seems dead, or broken, or something like that. To me it's like paying money to see whale carcasses on the beach rather than watching whales swimming in the ocean.

Dave is resolute on ending the odyssey early. He's had enough of traveling and he wants to go home. His brother lives near Brisbane and he's about to go overseas, so Dave wants to stay there for a few nights before heading straight back to Canberra. Dave invites me to his brother's place but I think that would be an awkward situation. I consider the idea of continuing the odyssey by myself although the idea of going home has a strong attraction. I'm seen everything I wanted to see - Kakadu was the last thing I had on my list - and I really hate the thought of more camping! I sleep on the decision.

The next morning I've made up my mind: I'm heading straight down through the centre of Queensland and New South Wales towards Canberra. Dave is going a slightly longer route via Brisbane so here's where we part ways.

Dave reckons it'll take me three days to reach Canberra so I challenge myself to make it in two days. The roads in Queensland are much better than Northern Territory and it's easy to keep the pace up, although the long hours in the saddle are wreaking havoc on my rear. As I travel south I can feel the air getting colder and colder; yesterday around lunchtime I'd be sweating yet today I've got the heated grips on full bore! I'm no longer enjoying the benefit of Dave's GPS so for only the second time since starting the trip I pull out my maps. My navigation skills are slightly rusty so it's a miracle I don't get lost.

After a long day of riding, most of it roughly approximating the speed limit, I reach Bourke with daylight to spare. The next morning I'm in a cheerful mood because I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's absolutely freezing so I suit up with all the winter gear that hasn't been worn since Perth. Even with all the extra clothing the cold wind bites through my arms and chest and my teeth start to chatter. I see storm clouds towards the south and I hope it isn't raining in Canberra; I couldn't bear being this cold and wet as well.

The transformation in the landscape is astounding the further south I travel. Fields are greener, trees are taller, and there are farm animals everywhere. Only four days ago I was in the desert of the Northern Territory where the grass is brown, the trees are stunted, and the only animals I saw were dead ones by the side of the road. I begin to appreciate how lucky I am to live on the east coast. I've seen the sunburnt country and the sweeping plains and it's not my cup of tea. You need to be a special kind of person to love that kind of land.

The road winds through a shady forest and I almost weep with joy because I haven't seen a forest for weeks, much less ridden through one. The road starts to get twisty as I pass Boorowa with crests and hard turns. It's narrow and bumpy and I suffer a moment of panic because I'm no longer used to this kind of riding. It would be a disaster to crash the bike this close to home. I go wide on two corners and I'm almost collected by a truck before I force myself to slow down. Better to get home late rather than not get home at all.

I turn onto the Hume Highway near Yass and suddenly I feel like the trip is over even though there's at least an hour to go. The rest of the ride is merely bookkeeping. As I pull into my driveway I can hardly believe that the odyssey has ended. I park the bike, get off it gingerly, and step inside my house.

I'm home.

Lost Highway

Kakadu is superb but the next leg of the Odyssey is entirely unappealing. The interior of the Northern Territory is immense and punctuated only occasionally by rundown roadhouses and tiny towns. We have to cross 1500km of desert and even during winter it's intensely hot during the day.

Dave is concerned about his tyres and insists on riding really slowly. I prefer riding quickly and standing into the oncoming wind to cool off. After lunch we agree to separate for a bit and use our phones to catch up later. There's only one possible direction for the next several hundred kilometres so it's not like we'll lose each other.

That night I managed to lose Dave. Woops.

There's no mobile coverage so I can't contact him by phone. However he will be at one of the roadhouses near where I'm staying tonight and he'll probably reach Mt Isa by tomorrow night. It's no big deal. I'm awake early the next morning and I'm making great time when I pass Three Ways. I briefly consider stopping for fuel but I've got enough to reach the next roadhouse.

When I reach the next roadhouse there's a big red sign saying "Sorry, No Fuel". 

Oh shit. It's too late to turn back to Three Ways. I slow right down to conserve fuel and when I see the green sign that indicates 20km remaining to the next town, I breathe a sigh of relief. That's when the engine goes suddenly silent. There's no sputtering or coughing; the engine just stops dead and the bike rolls to a stop.

Well this is a fine mess. Middle of the desert. No fuel. I wonder briefly how this will be written on my tombstone: "Here Lies Nathan, Eternally Resting, Just Like His Bike, Which He Didn't Refuel at Three Ways, What An Idiot". I'm not actually worried about thirst or hunger - I've enough food and water to last a week - but I feel like dying from embarrassment.

Fortunately this is a well travelled road so I start waving down passing motorists. Every single one of them stops and offers to help, although every one of them only has diesel. It takes a dozen failed attempts before a Queensland farmer named Brian stops, and he keeps a jerry can of petrol on the back of his truck. Hooray.

Brian generously refuses to accept payment for the fuel. He just seems pleased to help me out. I'm back on the road and only a few hours behind schedule. I make it into Mt Isa as the sun is setting and I catchup with Dave at the campsite. I tell him about running out of fuel and he has a good laugh at my expense. I'm still not seeing the funny side.

Over beers at the nearby pub, Dave says he's not that keen to travel much of the eastern coast because he's travelled those roads heaps of times. He wants to start heading home. I'm not entirely convinced - I haven't seen much of anything above Sydney - but it's something we can work out tomorrow. 

Kakadu

Three days ago we rode from Litchfield to Kakadu. The ride was short yet exhausting and utterly mind numbing. I call it an early night soon after arriving at the campsite.

Which is just as well because I'm awake at 5:30am the next morning for the famous Yellow Rivers Boat Tour. The boat is another one of those stupid aluminium crocodile feeding platforms. But this time they're vicious saltwater crocodiles! Over 250 of them!!! The tour guide jokes about the futility of the life jackets and the captive audience titters dutifully. I am not laughing! Get me off this thing.

Unluckily for me the boat has left the dock and I'm trapped for the next two hours. Almost immediately we are spotted by a gigantic Nathan-eating crocodile which swims right up alongside the boat. Argh. The tour guide tells us that only last week this very same crocodile leapt out of the river and snatched a bird off a tree branch. Double Argh. The croc stares up at us, no doubt thinking we look somewhat like a tin of sardines. I try my best to appear unappetizing while snapping photos.

The rest of the tour is mostly bird watching. It's interesting in small doses and I did enjoy the spectacle of 5000 ducks simultaneously taking flight from the wetlands.

The next day is another early start for the 4wd tour out to Jim Jim Falls and Twin Falls. Dave had considered (or at least joked about) riding here and I'm glad common sense prevailed. There's a road only by the very loosest definition imaginable. It's actually more like two rough ruts where 4wd vehicles have previously driven.

It takes two bumpy hours, a short boat ride, and more rock hopping to reach Twin Falls. It's a serene environment; the red cliffs, the green foliage, the blue river, and the crashing white water. Even during the dry season the falls are active; it's not what I expected from this hot, dry region.

Jim Jim Falls are even harder to reach as there is far more difficult rock hopping involved. The tour guide promises a great swimming hole under the falls called the Plunge Pool. The falls actually stop flowing for the dry season and the water in the plunge pool receives almost no sunlight so it is freezing. Four people, including Dave, dive into the pool, howl in shock, then clamber quickly out before hypothermia starts. The tour guide has a good laugh; what a rascal!

The guide shows us to the real pool which has a tiny sandy beach, so it's called Beach Pool. Why are park rangers so unimaginative when naming? The water is very warm and crystal clear. The pool is bordered by 100 metre cliff faces and sits within natural rainforest; I couldn't ask for a better location. The relaxing swim is pure bliss after the exertion of getting here.

Ahh, Kakadu is good.

Litchfield Park

I've spent the past two days in Litchfield and I loved it. I've seen waterfalls, rock pools, termite mounds, and hiked numerous bushwalks. Everything is only a short ride from the campsite, so we head back there each day for lunch from its superb cafe. It's the perfect combination of getting to know nature without giving up the modern comforts.

I was particularly impressed by Wangi Falls. This waterfall flows strongly all year around and it empties into a huge basin. The basin is regularly cleared of croocdiles so it's a popular swimming hole for tourists. The grassy area near the falls is entirely covered with swimsuit wearing tourists, baking in the sun. It is an amazing sight, seeing this many people seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

However for me the most exciting thing in the park is the road. I haven't written much about bike riding recently because the roads in WA and NT are just terribly boring. Not the ones in Litchfield National Park! The main road dips, weaves and twists through the ranges. The signs all suggest 80kph; we interpret that as a challenge to go as fast as possible. I lap it up while I can; this will be the last decent ride until I get to the east coast.

Survival Of The Fittest

Yesterday was a short trip from Katherine to Darwin. Sadly I'd woken up that morning with a runny nose and a sore throat so it was a miserable ride as far as I was concerned. Darwin has a miniature CBD with cafes and shops that I would probably appreciate more if I wasn't sneezing. As it stands I currently hate the world and everything in it - a natural reaction to being sick I suppose - so I had crawled into my sweltering tent before sunset to get some sleep.

This is about the time when I learn that Darwin's 24-hour international airport is directly opposite the camp site. Planes are taking off and landing well past midnight and the noise is deafening. As if that wasn't bad enough the Germans in the nearby tent cope with the impossibility of sleeping by partying all night. The music is bad enough but do they have to sing along? I gleefully imagine one of the jumbos crashlanding on the Germans, which would solve two immediate problems. Unfortunately that doesn't happen so I'm forced to endure euro pop and roaring jets, until ...

... the sun rises. It's morning already and I haven't slept a wink. Dave and I agree that this sucks - Darwin might be alright but the campsite is crap - so we move the schedule forward a day. We're going to Litchfield National Park.

It's a brief ride to the park but what a difference! The flora has a tropical appearance and the smells are clean and refreshing, even through my blocked sinuses. Darwin was stinking hot yet it's pleasantly warm at the park. Best of all.... it's so quiet. The campsite is spectacular; lush green grounds, great facilities, and a licensed bar!

I drink several bottles of full strength medication to help get to sleep. I'm taking no chances tonight!

Crocodile Rock

My draw card for Katherine is the nearby Nitmiluk National Park. The park has some impressive gorges and hiking trails. Hiking sounds like too much effort so I've booked for the riverboat tour.

It's another obnoxiously early start so I'm surprised to see at least 100 people at the park's boat ramp. Half of them hire kayaks - that's madness; the water is ice cold and full of freshwater crocodiles - while the other half have some common sense. The sensible half are herded onto feeding platforms for crocodiles aka aluminium riverboats.

Our tour guide is a confident and charismatic local called Russel. He shows us the aboriginal rock art, local wildlife, river flora, rock formations, and makes the tour interesting with stories and jokes. Some of the jokes seem a little too well polished; I suspect he's done this tour more than once or twice.

There are five gorges on my tour and the boat cannot pass the shallow water between them in the dry season. At the end of each gorge we leave the boat and go "rock hopping" to another boat in the next gorge. The first two hoppings are easy but the difficulty increases as we move further into the park. Some of the older tourists are having trouble. I think it's fun, especially when rocks slip out from under my feet. Our guide warns that injuries do occur from time to time. But I've got air ambulance cover and an injury means another helicopter ride. That would be awesome!

Along the way our guide has been pointing out freshwater crocodiles swimming near the boat or sunbaking on the rocks. I'm terrified of crocs - they're carnivorous beartraps with legs - so I'm gobsmacked when at the fifth gorge he tells us we can go swimming. He assures us the crocs are more frightened of us than we are of them. Bullshit. I stay back on the shore, my limbs safe from evil eyed predators.

After a barbecue lunch we head back the way we came. A combination of the heat and the lunch makes the return trip more exhausting. I'm delighted to reach the final boat and enjoy the relaxing cruise back to the park's boat ramp. This was without doubt the best tour I've been on for this trip.

The Early Bird

There's one last thing to do before leaving Kununurra; I've booked a scenic flight over the Bungle Bungle Ranges. The flight is scheduled for 6am which is an obnoxiously early time to be awake. It's still pitch black when I stagger, bleary eyed, onto the courtesy bus.

The airplane is a Cessna Caravan and it's an ugly looking thing; it looks like a minibus with wings. The pilot offers the copilot seat to one lucky passenger. Dave and I both shoot our hands up... but I was that much quicker. Whee. Banks and banks of humming machinery. I've never seen so many knobs. I resist the urge to play with them.

The flight takes us over Lake Argyle and the view is all the more impressive because I can now see the shoreline in all directions. Flying at over 300kph it takes about an hour to get across the lake to our destination; the Bungle Bungle.

The Bungle Bungle stand between the featureless desert of the interior and the rugged ranges to the north. Millions of years of erosion have shaped the ranges into beehive like domes. Bacteria has eaten the rocks to create horizontal stripes of alternating colours. Deep gorges cleave through the landscape and separate the beehive domes into tiny clusters. The odd scenery looks like an alien world. I can almost imagine the domes are homes for the aliens.

The plane flies back to Kununurra and there's no reason to stick around, so we waste no time racing to Katherine. We cross the Northern Territory border at noon then the speed limit increases to 130kph. The roads seem ill suited for the higher speeds; they're narrow and very rough. However I'm dripping sweat inside my gear and I can't wait to finish this section. I belt along the road as fast as I can.

When I reach Katherine it's the hottest part of the day and I think I'm suffering heatstroke. I can barely think. It takes nearly an hour to find accommodation before I can strip off the heavy gear. I collapse, exhausted.

And this is winter!

Once Bitten

I'm not willing to risk life and limb on the Gibb River Road again so in the morning I tell Dave I'm going straight to Kununurra. He's still keen to visit El Questro, no matter the road conditions. I wish I had his confidence. We agree to meet in Kununurra in two days time; if he isn't there by then I alert the authorities! Dave sets off early. It's a short ride from Wyndham to Kununurra so despite my relaxed start I'm there before lunchtime.

Kununurra is famous for the Ord River Dam which created an enormous man-made lake, Lake Argyle. I have to see this so I take the 70km (!) scenic drive to the lookout. It's an absolutely brilliant road leading off the highway. It winds through gigantic stone formations, towering above me like skyscrapers. In the distance I see the faces of the ranges surrounding the lake, though I still haven't seen any water. I pull into the Lake Argyle caravan park and there's a sign pointing up an extremely steep incline, promising a lookout of the lake and dam.

I'm not sure what I was expecting but I wasn't prepared for this. It looks like an ocean. The water stretches beyond the horizon, perfectly calm, an irridescent blue. The dam is so tiny! It's a mere pile of pebbles compared to the lake. The Ord River flows out beyond the dam, snaking through the steep gorges. It's quite a sight. It doesn't feel like an ocean though; there are no waves, no sand, no noise. It's sterile. I'm impressed but I don't feel like hanging around.

I roll back into town and head for the caravan park. Dave walks out of reception just as I pull into the driveway. He found the corrugations and river crossings into El Questro to be too much, so he turned back after visiting Emma's Gorge. This works out great; I've seen everything I want to see in Kununurra so tomorrow we can get moving again.

If I Had A Hammer

Yesterday we spent the whole day in Fitzroy Crossing. I'm not pleased with the location - this is an unpleasant town - but I appreciate the necessity. Dave needs to get his badly mangled pannier bent back into shape so he wanders off in search of a panel beater. I start chatting to some fellow travellers; they snapped a leaf spring and bent an axle on their trailer driving the same road we'd taken. I realise how lucky we are to have suffered such minor damage.

Several hours later Dave wanders back into camp looking pretty pleased with himself. Although he didn't find any panel beaters he did meet a mechanic who had lent him a hammer. Dave has beaten the pannier back into a rough box shape. That's good news because it means we can get back on the road.

To make up for lost time we are riding straight to Wyndham which is at the opposite end of the Gibb River Road. It's a full day's ride and I know it will be exhausting. The morning is fine but by the afternoon I'm flagging. My seat has turned into an instrument of torture. The motorcycle gear traps the sun's heat and threatens to cook me alive. I stand into the rushing wind in an attempt to cool down but it feels like the convection from an oven against my body. I hide behind my puny windshield and think cold thoughts instead. It's times like these I wish I had a more convincing imagination.

The sun is setting when I reach Wyndham, bringing some welcome relief from the heat. It's an uninspiring town with many shops boarded closed and houses in various states of disrepair. The big tourist attraction here is the hill which overlooks the convergence of five rivers before they flow into the sea. Somebody invested serious effort into naming this attraction The Five Rivers Lookout.

However the real attraction to me isn't the lookout, it's the hill climb. After weeks of long, dull, flat, straight highways, punctuated only by the offroad insanity of the Gibb River Road, I'm enjoying this short section immensely. It's fairly steep and twists back onto itself so tightly that I can look over the sheer drop and see the road from mere seconds ago. The corners aren't well signposted which results in a hair raising moment as I barrel over a crest into a hairpin turn, going far too fast, so I brake hard while downshifting, blipping the throttle to keep it smooth. I power through the hairpin on a perfect line and I feel like a motorcycle racing champion. I'm not disillusioned in the slightest when a bus overtakes me; it's probably a turbocharged racing bus.

The lookout itself is a disappointment. One side overlooks the tired gray town. Another side overlooks the abandoned abattoir. The rivers are visible but it's still not high enough to get a bird's eye view. The busload of aging tourists that passed me earlier are standing on rocks and on benches, attempting to get better views, but I don't think another half metre is going to make all the difference. I stick around for the sunset before leaving.

The descent down the hill is made all the more exciting by the lack of light. I pull into the campsite in darkness and find Dave. He's talking about camping at El Questro resort tomorrow. That means riding the Gibb River Road again. I'm not keen on the idea. I'll have to sleep on it.

Gibbering Idiots

Yesterday we rode from Broome to Derby. There's not a lot to see or do in Derby but it's a stepping stone to the next stage of the odyssey; the Gibb River Road.

The Gibb River Road is a 660 kilometre bush track through the Kimberley. It's reknowned as an exciting adventure trail for 4WD enthusiasts. Many people have warned us against
doing the road on our bikes but we are brave and fearless!

The first 60 kilometres is sealed and quite dull but then the fun begins. Mud, sand, dirt, gravel, rock; it's all here on the Gibb. My initial apprehension fades away. This is so much easier than I had expected. I pick up the speed - 50, 60, 70 - and pretty soon I'm hurtling along at 80kph.

Then without warning I nearly have a disaster. The surface looks like the compacted dirt I've been riding all day but it is actually deep ruts filled with dust. The dust doesn't support any weight and the front tyre sinks up to the rim. I'm bucked violently and it's only by sheer luck that the dust section is very short. The momentum of the bike carries me through, the rear wheel finds traction, and with heavy application of power I regain control.

That was a wakeup call. I greatly reduce my speed and I pick my lines more cautiously. Despite my carefulness the same thing happens again. However this time I have less momentum so the bike bucks even harder. Only with the rush of adrenaline do I have enough strength to hold the bike upright.

Now I'm shaken and the Gibb heaps insult onto injury by shaking me further; the corrugations have just begun. Each corrugation hammers through the handlebars and into my palms which are soon aching. The front wheel has almost no traction such that even the lightest pressure on the front brake sets off the ABS. Going faster is dangerous because that reduces steering control but going slower makes the corrugations even more pronounced. My brain is shaking out my earholes and there's 550 kilometres remaining!

Dave has stopped at the next intersection. He's not enjoying this either. He says the dust we're finding is called Pindan dust and he expects more of it on the Gibb. He suggests we take an escape route back to the highway. Along the way we can stop at Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek Gorge. That sounds good to me.

Windjana Gorge is spectacular. It runs through an ancient coral reef (Napier Range) and reaches 100 metres into the air. The Lennard River runs through the gorge and native wildlife flocks to the water; birds, fish, bats, and freshwater crocodiles! Several crocs are lazing by the sands so Dave sneaks up on one, hoping to snap a photo, but he gets too close and it leaps into the air before diving into the water. Dave shits a brick and I burst out laughing.

Heading on towards Tunnel Creek Gorge the road starts to deteriorate. The corrugations are much worse and there is even more Pindan dust. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to handle the bike and several times I nearly lose control. This is beginning to worry me; I could get seriously hurt on this road. Only a short distance before Tunnel Creek Gorge I hit another section of dust and the bike starts sliding. Here's where the inevitable happens.

Man down.

No, not me. I ride the pegs and slide my bike sideways to a stop and I'm still upright. That was really close. Then I look ahead and see Dave's luggage strewn through the bushes and Dave standing near his bike. He rode into a big section of dust in front of me and his bike went down, spun around, tore off the right pannier, and threw Dave down the road.

The pannier is a mangled mess but thankfully Dave is not hurt and his bike is alright. The crash happened twenty minutes previously - I was riding relatively slow - and the pannier hadn't burst open as I'd first thought; Dave had emptied the contents so he could inspect the damage. It's pretty bad and we need straps to reattach it to his bike.

Dave is still shaken and it's another half hour before we start moving again. Our confidence is shot and we crawl along at a snail's pace. The road manages to get worse with water crossings, gigantic rocks, and long sections of agonisingly unrideable dust. Passing cars throw up huge choking clouds that sting the eyes. Several times I nearly drop the bike and I maintain control only by the skin of my teeth. This is just horrible.

We ride the last 10 kilometres in darkness, our headlights providing almost no clues of the surface ahead. When we reach the highway it has taken 8 taxing hours to travel 250 measly kilometres. We were idiots for riding that road with such minimal offroad experience. The outcome could have been so much worse. It was an utterly awful day of riding.

But I am enjoying the warm glow of accomplishment.

Hold On Tight

Yesterday we left 80 Mile Beach and rode into Broome. Now this is a tourist town! There are restaurants, shops, attractions, tours and beaches everywhere. Unfortunately that means it's incredibly popular, especially because it's school holidays, so accommodation is scarce and I don't have anything booked. At the visitor's centre a sandwich board lists about a dozen local caravan parks and they're all full. Luckily they find me a motel room due to a recent cancellation and I merely needed a third mortgage on my house to pay the astronomical charges.

Kirsten is flying home today so I leave Dave and Kirsten to their own devices. I have my bike booked in for a service which means I need entertainment within walking distance. I've found just the thing; an ultralight flight!

The pilot is a mad Englishman called Charles. He spent 10 years riding a Honda Goldwing around the world; crossed the Sahara desert on the same bike; drove a double decker bus through outback Australia; and now he's saving up for the next adventure by selling joyrides on his flexible wing ultralight. He straps me into the passenger seat, tells me to hold on tight, then he guns the engine down the runway.

!

I'm speechless. I've flown in fixed wing light aircraft once or twice and this is altogether different. There is no feeling of enclosure, just a deep void of space all around. Visibility is not obscured by windows or pillars. The wind blasts over my body. It's like stepping out of a car and onto a bike. This is the closest I've ever felt to flying without a vehicle: I can almost imagine the ultralight isn't here. Charles is obviously a professional; he swoops low over Cable Beach, giving me the best photo opportunities imaginable. The landing at Broome airport is smooth and unbelievably slow.

Back on the ground I can't wipe the ear to ear grin off my face. Later that night I'm still reliving the experience; that is something I definitely need to do more often.

Songs For The Deaf

The distances between towns are growing and the towns themselves doen't have much to offer tourists. In the past two days we've passed through places such as Karatha and Port Hedland and although the trains and ships are pretty cool, it's not holiday material. Most of our time is spent riding the long straight highways in the blistering heat, bleak scenery whizzing past, and I'm fed up with the sameness of it all. However today things are looking up because we're going to a resort at 80 Mile Beach.

80 Mile Beach is literally off the beaten track; there's a dirt road, covered in obligatory sandy patches, that leads from the highway to the coast. It takes me ages to complete the distance, sweltering the whole time inside my black jacket and helmet. I'm overjoyed when I reach the resort, my bike still scratch-free, so I overlook the fact that the "resort" is a second rate caravan park. It's an oasis in the desert insofar as I'm concerned.

The sun is setting when I arrive so it's a dash to the beach to watch the sunset over the ocean. The beach is huge and spaced every 20 metres are motionless fishermen, standing on the shore, fishing rods in hand. For some reason they remind me of the Easter Island statues. The sun disappears beneath the horizon and the sky glows a fiery red. As if on cue the fishermen all pack up their gear and shuffle silently back to the caravan park. What a bizarre hobby!

The gray nomads have organised night time entertainment for themselves. They have a mixing deck, speakers, mikes, and they're singing songs from their youth, apparently from the Baroque period. Not only do I not recognise the songs, the singing is awful; off-key and distorted badly by the tone deaf lady operating the mixing deck. I hide inside my cabin, earplugs inserted, pillow over my head, and try to get some sleep.

Tyred And Worn Out

Yesterday was exhausting so today we all collapse around the pool. Dave and Kirsten attempt to set a record for Most Number Of Consecutive Hours Doing Absolutely Nothing. I compete until lunchtime but then I'm called away on urgent business as my rear tyre needs to be replaced. It had been mangled beyond all recognition when it reached Exmouth; thin as tissue paper and very nearly bald. It wouldn't have made Broome!

There are exactly zero motorcycle mechanics in Exmouth so I'm relying on a car mechanic to change the tyre. He disclaims any knowledge of bikes so I have to pull the rear wheel off. That's easy enough and the mechanic quickly attaches the new rubber to the alloy rim. Unfortunately now I discover what I like to call the Engineering Dilemma; it's always far easier to pull something apart than to put it back together.

For those who don't know, the Suzuki has a double sided swing arm. The rear wheel has a large metal rod for an axle that must thread through two spacers, a sprocket, the wheel, a brake unit, and the swing arm. Juggling all the pieces in mid-air while attempting to insert the axle is just impossible. I'm sitting in the blazing sun, dripping with grease and sweat, cursing loudly at the bike, while the car mechanic sits inside and pretends not to notice.

An enormous RV arrives, searching for new tyres, and the gray nomad inside shows an interest in my plight. He leans out the window of his battle tank and says "That looks like hard work". It is. "You need to align the holes for all of those pieces". I know. "Could you get a move on, you're blocking the driveway and I need new tyres for my RV".

I stare at the gray nomad in disbelief. My eyes wander to the 1 metre long axle wrench and I briefly entertain evil thoughts. Fortunately the car mechanic takes pity on me at this point; he holds the wheel up in place and the axle is quickly threaded. It doesn't take long to retension the chain and it's all done.

Overjoyed with this success and covered in grease, I head back to the pool. It feels great to have a new tyre. Now I can truly relax.

Smile, You Son Of A ...

Yesterday was, as expected, an agonisingly slow ride from Carnarvon. Even the gray nomads with camping trailers were overtaking us; I feel so ashamed.

Today I'm awake early - on holiday that's anytime before noon - because I'm going swimming with whale sharks! A bus arrives at an ungodly hour to take us to the boat ramp. I'm a little nervous because I've never been to sea before, I can just barely swim, and I'm about to strap flippers to my feet and jump into the deepest blue with sharks. This will be fun!

At the start there's a practice snorkeling session in the calm waters behind the reef. I assume this is so the organisers can identify the people who can't swim. With any luck I can fake competence long enough to fool the divemaster. I've never snorkeled before and it's an incredible experience. The water abounds with coral and brightly coloured fish. The fish swim casually around us, seemingly unfrightened by our presence. I'm completely relaxed; it feels uncannily natural to be breathing while face-down in the water.

The practice is soon over and we are back on the boat and heading out past the reef. The waves are bigger out here and my snorkel is frighteningly short. The crew is having trouble finding a whale shark despite the assistance of two spotter planes. We see humpback whales, dolphins, turtles and dugongs but the whale sharks are well hidden.

Several hours pass before whale sharks are spotted many miles away. The boat surges into full throttle and races towards the main attraction. When we reach the sharks it's like a military operation; the divemaster shouts "go go go" and a dozen people rapidly launch into the sea. All I can see are arms, legs and bubbles. My snorkel fills with salt water and I inhale the foul liquid just as a wave pushes me beneath the surface. My life flashes before my eyes but it wasn't that interesting the first time and I'm not particularly interested in watching reruns.

Somehow I crawl back on deck but before I can catch my breath it's "go go go" again. I get caught up in the rush of people and find myself back in the water. This time I swim towards the big crowd of swimmers, reasoning that they must know something I don't. The leader of our team is shouting to get back but I don't know why; I can't see t...

There it is.

It's huge. It's shaped like a stealth bomber, gliding through the water, heading straight towards me, and I'm frozen in place. Part of my brain is screaming "It's A Fricking Shark, Get Out Of Here" but the larger logical part is saying "you don't have a chance, give up now". In any event, I'm not moving out of the way so the team leader gets my attention by throwing her elbow in my face. I move backwards and the shark swims silently past me, less than an arm's length away. I'm dumbstruck and I hardly notice that I'm inhaling salt water again.

There are a few more dives but none of them compare to that first sighting. I learn that the sharks I saw today are babies; mature whale sharks are up to 18 metres long. It would be awesome to see something that large bearing down on you. I imagine being a fish in the ocean must be non-stop terror, always on the lookout for silent stealthy death machines like sharks. The only predators I have to worry about back on land are the mosquitos.

Slow and Steady

Dave has been fretting all week because the bike tyres are nearly worn out. I've been checking mine occasionally and this morning I estimate 6-7mm tread left on the centre. I reckon that will be sufficient to reach Broome where I have a new pair of tyres waiting. Dave is less confident so he's dropped his top speed down to 100kph. I don't have the patience to go that slow so I race ahead to our next stop at Carnarvon.

Carnarvon is an unexpectedly beautiful location. The town centre is adjacent to the water and several sailboats bob lazily near the shore. I sit in the shade of a tree and watch the boats while I wait for Dave and Kirsten to arrive.

Still waiting.

Still waiting!

Half an hour later they finally dawdle into town, going about as fast as a comatose tortoise. We find a campsite and start putting up the tents. That's when Dave turns to me and says "Jeez, look at your rear tyre".

I turn around and stare at my tyre in horror. It's like some nauseating scene from a slasher movie after the villain has done something unspeakable to the hapless victim with a carving knife. Shredded rubber is literally hanging from the rear tyre. I gingerly touch the centre and a ragged strip of rubber falls to the ground. What the ****?

There's a motorcycle dealer in Carnarvon so I hurry down. The owner and mechanic takes one look and says "No way you'll make Broome". He goes on to say that the highway between Geraldton and Broome is notorious for destroying tyres; it's something to do with the gravel they use. Dave's rear tyre is slightly better but he will not make it to Broome either.

The idea was to head to Exmouth tomorrow. Unfortunately the dealer doesn't have anything suitable for our bikes in stock and it will take two days to get tyres delivered from Perth! Fortunately the dealer is crazy like a fox and he has a plan. He says inflate the tyre to 50psi and travel at 80kph; then I will just make it to Exmouth. He'll ship new tyres to Exmouth by courier and any tyre mechanic can fit it to the rim. I'll just need to get the wheel off the bike.

That plan is so crazy, it just might work.

With renewed optimism we head on down to the local pub. I have only the slightest misgiving about tomorrow; 80kph from here to Exmouth is going to take ages!

Thanks For All The Fish

Yesterday we had an uneventful ride to Shark Bay. As expected the Monkey Mia resort is fully booked. What we didn't expect is Denham - the nearest town - is also fully booked. We've arrived at the start of school holidays and there aren't even unpowered tent sites left. Gah. Luckily the information centre keeps track of cancellations; I wind up with an overpriced motel room and Dave/Kirsten get into a rundown cabin.

Today I get up early to see the dolphin feedings at Monkey Mia. The shores are crowded with eager parents shoving their reluctant children knee deep into the water, hoping to have them selected to hand a fish to a well fed dolphin. It seems comical; the kids all have a mixed expression of awe and terror when they see the dolphins. I wonder when one of them is going to start bawling... ahh, there's one, right on cue.

The water is pretty murky and I really can't see much of the dolphins. There are apparently 3000 dolphins in the bay although only a half dozen regulars appear for the daily feedings. We hang around for the second feeding but still the water is dark so all I can see are gray blobs floating beneath the surface. I'm unimpressed.

I look around for something else to do at the resort. There is an easy hiking trail nearby and the signage promises an abundance of wildlife. However an hour later I've not seen so much as a lizard. This is all turning out pretty poorly. I hike back to the resort to watch the third and final feeding for today. Unfortunately I'm too late; the third feeding is over and the dolphins don't stick around when there's no food. Damnation.

However as I'm sitting near the beach waiting for Dave and Kirsten the dolphins come back with vain hope of a fourth feed. Hah, that should end any argument that dolphins are intelligent: the stupid animals can't even count to three! The hoardes of tourists have disappeared so I can stand right on the edge of the water. There are six dolphins and one swims up and starts floating right in front of me; it lies within arm's reach, its body sideways, almost beached in the clear shallow water, with one eye looking directly into both of mine. The dolphin floats motionless for nearly a minute before figuring there's no more food, then it swims back into the bay. I realise I'm standing there with a mixed expression of awe and terror; I quickly compose myself before anybody notices.

We head back into Denham for lunch. Dave spots a blue Ninja with ACT registration and stops to chat with the owner, Shane. He's doing the same trip as us only in the opposite direction, and on a sportsbike! I can't begin to imagine how painful that seat must be. Shane has the biggest Cheshire grin on his face. I guess he's happy to discover he's not the only crazy person doing this trip.

That Which Is Hard Earned

Kalbarri National Park is reknowned for its nature walks through deep river gorges. The most popular hike covers 8km and is called The Loop. This should be easy, I naively think to myself.

Entering the national park we're stopped by the ranger. He sees our motorbikes and sternly warns us that the road surface is not suitable for bikes. Pfah, we're expert riders and dirt doesn't faze us in the slightest. This should be easy, I reassure myself.

The dirt surface is as easy as expected. Unfortunately the dirt road is merely an appetiser because soon enough the surface turns to sand. I've never ridden sand before and the experience is terrifying. The bike races out of control; the rear wheel slides crazily; the front wheel has no effect; the seat bucks in corners and threatens to throw me off. The nerve wracking ride is 27 kilometres long and by the end I'm exhausted. Now I have the relaxing hike ahead of me. It's only 8km. This should be easy, I desperately try to convince myself.

About halfway through the hike, as I'm edging along a rock ledge hanging over the river, I suddenly realise this hike isn't easy. I'm aching all over when an unwelcome thought comes to mind; I've climbed down into the gorge so that means I still need to climb out!

Two hours later I near the end of the hike. I stare upwards with disbelief at the 30 metre vertical ascent up a cliff face. Dave and Kirsten are already at the top, waving merrily, so there's nothing left to do but start climbing. Vultures circle overhead, hungrily watching my progress. The angry sun beats down mercilessly. This was supposed to be easy, I remind myself with grim amusement.

I manage to claw myself back to the motorbike, greatly to the disappointment of the vultures. Now I just have to ride back over that sand...

... Back at the campsite, the bike miraculously unharmed, an enthusiastic fellow camper comes over to talk about the bikes. He and some friends are planning to ride from Perth to Phillip Island in September for the GP. He wants to know what it's like; is it worth the effort? I recall the wind, the cold, the rain, the pain, and I tell him the plain truth.

Yes, it's worth it.

Lost In Navigation

The destination today is Kalbarri and it's only a short ride to get there. Dave suggests riding the scenic road at Northhampton rather than the relatively uninteresting highway. Sounds good.

We soon reach Geraldton. Dave heads north with Kirsten along the highway to Northhampton. I see a sign for the scenic route to Northhampton and take that turnoff. It's several minutes before I realise we've been separated and by then I have no intention of turning back; I've discovered the Chapman Valley.

This road used to be dirt but it's been recently sealed; there aren't even lines marked yet. The surface is so smooth and free from imperfections I can almost believe it's never been used before today. Every crest reveals another bend and every bend reveals another hill. Farmland covers every surface. It's a shame Dave is missing out on this.

I can't find anybody at Northhampton so I take the highway to Kalbarri. It's a dull piece of road but the destination justifies the effort. Kalbarri is the quintessential beach town, like I'd expect to see on a postcard. Still no sign of Dave nor Kirsten so I have lunch on the beach while I'm waiting. There's a kite surfer in the bay; he doesn't seem to be any good and it's far more entertaining than watching a pro.

Half an hour later they still haven't arrived. I wonder briefly if Dave dropped his bike. Nah, it's a BMW, it probably has an Anti Crash System and a Collision Avoidance System. Far too much expensive technology for my taste. I like my technology in laptops and phones, not in motorbikes.

I go looking for Dave and Kirsten along the cliffs that dominate the coastline. Ten minutes later I spot them near Natural Bridge. Dave apparently meant a different scenic route and I was meant to take the turnoff at Northhampton, rather than the turnoff to Northhampton. Well how was I meant to know that? My bike doesn't have a fancy Global Positioning System and Satellite Navigation System!

That's Pants!

It's a warm sunny morning in Perth and my mood matches the weather. Dave texts me to meet him at the bike dealers to the east. Kirsten is there and it's great to see a familiar face. She's buying wet weather pants and I'm reminded of a conversation with Tony back in Canberra. He once tried to convince me that rain pants were essential equipment. I foolishly didn't heed his advice then and subsequently got soaked rotten in a thunderstorm. But that won't happen today: it's such a bright sunny day!

After heading north for roughly an hour we spot a sign for the Gravity Discovery Centre. It's an odd location for a tourist attraction because there's nothing but wild scrub for miles around. The main exhibit is the Leaning Tower of Gingin; a steel contraption 45 metres high where kids can recreate Galileo's famous experiment at Pisa. The centre is obviously aimed at kids so we don't stick around for long. We instead chat with the gardener who has recently bought a Rebel 250. He drools over the bikes we're riding and he clearly desires a bigger bike. I remember that feeling; just yesterday I wanted to upgrade to 1000cc.

Back on the road again the inevitable happens; it rains. I'm soaked through and it's terribly uncomfortable. I recall this morning's missed opportunity to buy wet weather pants and I can just imagine Tony chuckling away at my predicament. I hate it when I'm wrong.

We're coming up to one of the few attractions on this coast; The Pinnacles. They're a collection of odd rock formations rising out of the coastal sands. It's a fair detour from the highway and above The Pinnacles there's a seething mass of dark storm clouds that menace the skyline. The clouds are releasing rain in dense sheets that blot out the horizon. Dave turns to me, looking as wet and miserable as I feel, and says "I'm not ****ing riding into that ****ing ****". I'm in complete agreement.

With the light fading fast we make it as far as Port Denison before calling it quits. Kirsten must be questioning what she's signed herself up for because today was unpleasant.

This Is Your Captain Speaking

Today's first activity is something I really enjoy; flying around in small aircraft. I've booked a helicopter flight around Perth. Today's weather is just perfect for flying; almost no wind and no clouds with clear visibility to the horizon. I've never been in a helicopter before and I'm giddy with excitement as it flies into Burwood park. It's a Bell 206 and the pilot puts it down gently on the helipad.

Joining me are two other joyriders; Bernie and Sue. It's Sue's 60th birthday and she's never been in a helicopter before either. However whereas I'm barely able to stop hopping up and down, Sue looks a bit nervous. The young man who took our credit card details and gave us the safety brief doesn't help when he tells a story that involves a helicopter crash. He quickly realises his mistake but too late! It would be funny if it wasn't so cringeworthy.

The heli flight is the ducks guts. I think it's the best way to see a city. The pilot has a well-honed banter to go along with the flight and the entire cabin feels relaxed. When it's over Sue can't wipe the grin off her face and I'm sure I look the same. It's a magic start to the day.

I don't particularly feel like being in the Perth CBD today - too many people - so I get on the bike and head for the coast. The bike is free of baggage and it roars with delight. I head up to North Beach where there is a scenic road. The drive winds gently along the coastline, always in view of the beaches and ocean, with perfectly maintained roads. I feel relaxed already.

After lunch in Fremantle I decide I need something a bit more challenging. I've heard Toodyay Road is popular with the locals. It's a high speed ride through hills to the northeast of Perth. There are motorcycles everywhere... but it's a weekday, why aren't these people at work? I lean into a corner, going far too fast, feeling pretty pleased with myself, when a Duke hurtles past me like I'm standing still. Now I feel inadequate. I need a bigger bike.

I reach Toodyay all too quickly and it's getting dark so I head back to Perth. I picked the return perfectly; it's 5pm and the Perth streets are chockers with people returning home. The streets are three lanes wide, cars disappearing into the distance, and everybody is crawling along at 40kph. Oddly it's kind of relaxing. Unlike the feeling I get in Sydney and Melbourne (ohmigodimgoingtodie) this is far more sedate. It's a comforting end to the day.

Indypendence Day

Dave needs to drop his bike off in Perth for a service so he's up early, but I enjoy a late start. We're actually going different ways for two days while he entertains Kirsten. This means I no longer have the benefit of Dave's GPS and I'm relying solely on my map-reading skills. Oh crap.

Fortunately Perth is well sign-posted and I eventually find myself there. I'm staying in a hotel in the middle of the CBD and the traffic is overwhelming. After the past several weeks where I might pass half a dozen cars per hour, I'm finding myself gasping for air in Perth. I'm also frustrated by the maze of one way streets. I'm relieved when I eventually park at the hotel.

Dave jogs over from the BMW dealer - where does he get all his energy? - so we wander around the CBD. He's spotted a Da Vinci exhibition in a marquee at the local park and that puts a grin on my face. I studied engineering at university and Leonardo Da Vinci is possibly the most famous engineer of all time. The exhibition is brilliant. There are dozens of working wooden models constructed from his notes and drawings. Dave spots one model that works exactly like a constant-mesh gearbox. It's hard to believe all these ideas came from one man. And he did everything with such primitive materials! I can't imagine what Da Vinci might have accomplished if he'd lived in the Steam Age.

Dave has to go get ready for Kirsten so I'm left to my own devices. The CBD was bustling at lunchtime but it dies down pretty quickly at dusk. I've been told Subiaco is better at night so I wander over to the so-called Cappucino Strip. It doesn't disappoint. There are restaurants, bars, cinemas and theatres as far as the eye can see. I get myself into the right frame of mind to watch the latest Indiana Jones flick. As the credits roll I think to myself I needed more liquid preparation; what a silly movie.

Little Taste of Freedom

It's a sunny day and the luggage is safely locked away in a cabin, so Dave and I hoon around Fremantle on our suddenly nimble bikes. It's fantastic to lose the weight of the bags; the bikes handle so much better. I think for my next holiday I'll hire a roadie to drive my luggage around.

We stop in at the Fremantle Prison, one of the top attractions of Fremantle. We don hard hats, life vests, and start with a tour of the tunnels that are hidden 20 metres underneath the prison. The history of the tunnels is kind of boring although the tunnels themselves are nifty. Nineteenth century Fremantle had insufficient supplies of clean water. They discovered they'd built the prison above a natural aquifier, so they set their prisoners to work building an extensive array of tunnels to collect the water. We get to paddle canoes around in the waist deep water. To be accurate, Dave does all of the paddling while I make splashing noises and enjoy the free ride.

The second tour is above ground and we get to see the conditions the prisoners were forced to endure. I comment that the place reminds me of my primary school in Sydney; the bitumen "playground", the high stone walls, the depressing and utilitarian concrete corridors. Dave thinks I'm exaggerating but later the tour guide says exactly the same thing. The Australian government obviously modeled the public schools after the federal prisons. Says it all, really.

The tours take all day and it's soon dinner time. We stop for a beer in one of Fremantle's worst kept secrets; the Little Creatures Brewery. My impression, stepping through the front door, is like Charlie entering the Chocolate Factory. There are hundreds of people, pumping dance music, crazy trick lighting, and two-storey stainless steel vats of beer lurking in the shadows. The whole place has an industrial feel and it's jumping with activity. Pinch me, I must be dreaming. They serve the best food I've eaten so far on this trip, and also the best beer. What an awesome brewery.

The Long Walk

The tents are soaked this morning but at least the rain has eased. It's a late start because we're only going as far as Fremantle. The ride out of Margaret River is superb; the countryside is so green. Farm animals lazily munch away at grass. It's hard to believe only a week ago we were in the barren wasteland of the Nullarbor.

Dave wants to see another lighthouse and I'm cool with that, not because I care much about lighthouses but it means riding along the coastline. Unfortunately the ride is very short, much like the lighthouse. Located at Cape Naturaliste, it's only 19m high. It's still active so we get to see the lens spinning which is kind of impressive. We stand right beneath it and I get a real sense of the weight.

We travel onwards to Busselton to see the Busselton Jetty. It's an 1841 metre jetty and you can catch a lift down into an underwater aquarium at the end. This sounds great. Sadly the reality is kind of a letdown. The aquarium is closed because underwater visibility is poor. It takes an hour to walk to the end and back with a cold wind howling the whole time. It's an unpleasant experience and the view at the end didn't justify the effort.

The rest of the ride is on decent highways and it's not long before we're in Fremantle. It's late so we find a caravan park and call it a day.

Hail To The Bus Driver

I awake to the patter of rain on wet fabric. I groggily poke my head out of the tent and I'm greeted by a moat. A good half inch of water surrounds the tent. Bloody hell, doesn't it ever stop?

Rather than waste the day moping around the campsite, Dave has booked us on a bus tour of the Margaret River wineries. I'm apprehensive because I've observed similar tours in other regions and what I saw looked dreadful. Tourists would silently exit a coach, the driver watching them like a prison warden. They would go through the motions of tasting wine, stare with disinterest at the scenery, silently get back onto the coach, and depart for the next nameless winery. There was a zombie like quality to their behaviour. I'm not looking forward to becoming one of the living dead.

My discomfort increases when the bus arrives. There is a young couple already seated who briefly look at us before returning to stare at the dismal weather. The next pickups are two girls who immediately retreat into their mobile phones. I can feel the fog of boredom descending already.

We reach the first winery and the guide begins his spiel. He is a dancing ball of energy. He cracks jokes, tells stories, describes the wines, gets everybody talking, and even has the whole bus singing along to cheesy 80s pop music. I was completely wrong; this is heaps of fun. That I'm slightly mashed might also be helping.

The tour takes us to four wineries, a cheese factory, and a chocolate factory. There is a "bush tucker" lunch in the middle although I don't think pesto and olive bread are authentic bush tucker. However I did confirm my suspicion that witchetty grubs have a disgusting texture and taste. The tour ends at a brewery where Dave demonstrates his talent to burp loudly after sculling a pint, much to the amusement of the undergrad girls who joined the tour at the first winery.

Go Climb A Tree

It's a great morning. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and the remainder of that fantastic winding road lies ahead. To think I could be stuck in some dreary office in Canberra instead of riding a bike in Western Australia. It doesn't bear thinking about.

We eventually reach Pemberton, home to the Gloucester fire-spotting tree. Rangers used to climb and sit in trees like this one to look for signs of bushfire. Now it's open to the thrill seeking public. Dozens of two foot metal rods have been driven into the trunk like pins into a pincushion. You climb the rods to a platform 61 metres above the forest floor. I have grave concerns about climbing the tree. I'm not afraid of heights but physical exercise scares the bajeezus out of me.

But I want to see the view from the top so I start climbing. With Dave right behind me shouting encouraging words such as "hurry up" and "we don't have all day", I eventually reach the topmost platform. The view is great so I soak the scenery in while listening to the drum solo that my heart is performing. Looking down it doesn't seem all that high. My tolerance for heights is probably better than most people.

I thought that would be enough but Dave hears about an even taller tree and he wants to climb that as well. The Bicentennial Tree reaches 71 metres above the forest floor and it's only a short detour. When we reach the tree it's obviously a harder climb; there's a resting platform halfway up and the rods are spaced less evenly. I consider making the ascent but my heart threatens to go on strike so I sit this one out.

We continue along the coast until we reach the southwestern tip of Australia at Cape Leeuwin. There is another lighthouse here - honestly it looks the same as the last one - but this one is special because it marks the point where the Indian and Southern oceans meet. The lighthouse is locked tight and it's not very interesting from the outside. The sea is putting on a decent show instead with huge waves crashing onto the rocks.

We're heading towards Margaret River to make camp when we spot a sign for the Jewel Caves. The last guided tour for the day begins in 10 minutes; the timing couldn't have been better. Dave has been spelunking before but I have no idea what to expect.

The descent into the cave is easy. The owners have blasted an entrance and installed stairs and lights. After climbing down approximately one million stairs I finally see the cave in all its glory. The sight is jaw dropping. The ceiling of the cave is completely covered in stalactite crystals. Gigantic tree roots emerge from the ceiling, curl down through the void, and then disappear into the floor. Bulbous crystals cover the walls and there are sheets of crystal like stained windows between surfaces. The crystals are in a natural state so they don't refract light into rainbows like polished stone. However the crystals do glow from within when light shines from behind. It's an alien world.

After an exhausting climb out of the cave - I thought the Gloucester tree was bad - it's getting late so we dash into Margaret River and erect the tents. It's going to rain again; I swear we are cursed.

Sweet Mercy, Halelujah

Last night was horrendous. The wind roared up to gale force intensity and the campsite was drenched in rain. The walls of the cabin were bowing from the wind so badly that the bunk beds were shifting back and forth. I'm glad we eventually decided on the cabin instead of the tents; I reckon my tent would have been picked up by a gust and flung over the horizon.

In the morning the sky is overcast with dark clouds and it's still breezy but at least the rain has stopped. We climb up to one of the hilltop lookouts with a panoramic view of the town and harbour. There are several cargo ships in the harbour being guided in by tugs. The beachside resort we stayed at last night belies the true nature of this town as a major shipping port. They've done a good job of hiding that reality from the tourists.

We stop briefly at the abandoned fort facing the harbour. Built during WWII it served as defence for the town and as a command post for the ANZAC naval fleet. The original cannons and guns are still there although now only for display. Old material from the scuttled HMAS Perth is also on show. I'm not usually into war related exhibitions but I can't help to feel some empathy for the previous residents of Albany. The fear and uncertainty that ultimately created these war weapons must have been intensely demoralising.

We leave Albany to see the local coastal rock formations The Gap and The Bridge. The first formation is a natural funnel for waves and wind. We've chanced upon a perfect day to see this in action. The wind howls from the south, hits the rock funnel, and is then launched vertically out of the gap. Waves crashing into the gap are thrown tens of metres upwards by the concentrated wind. A precarious metal balcony hangs over the edge to let spectators get a better view. Of course this is also the best place to get drenched by the seaspray, as I quickly discover. National park rangers have a warped sense of humour.

Heading west from Albany I notice something really odd with my bike. It keeps leaning from side to side, twisting back and forth, almost as if.... sweet mercy... there are bends in this road! Dave has picked one of the roads from his Motorcycling Atlas. The ride is absolute magic. It winds through a forest and behind every inviting corner is another bend lying in wait. The camber and surface just begs the bike to go faster; sticking to the speed limit becomes a real struggle. After several weeks of straight roads disappearing into the horizon I was worried I'd forgotten how to turn corners but it's just like riding a bike, you never forget.

We stop briefly to tour the Valley of the Giants Tree Top Walk. This is similar to the Cape Otway Fly and I have the same reservations then as now with the concept. I don't consider it to be bushwalking when my feet never leave a man-made walkway. It seems clinical and tame. I entertain myself by shifting my weight on the suspended metal walkway until it's swaying from side to side by several feet. Dave gets seasick. I'm amused.

It's still early in the afternoon but we're now heading directly into the setting sun. Visibility is poor and I need to shield my eyes with my left hand. Rather than waste this brilliant piece of road we decide to call it a day in Walpole.

Blown Away

It's a shame we have to leave Cape Le Grand so soon but we have a deadline to meet in Perth. I'll be coming back here one day for a longer stay. Although next time it will be in spring; it got a tad chilly in the tent overnight.

Today we're aiming for Albany and it's another long haul which means an early start. I ride cautiously out of the national park, well aware that roos will be hopping about at this time of morning. Once I'm out of the park and back onto the highway I ramp up to the speed limit of 110kph.

Ten minutes later a big kangaroo jumps directly in front off my bike. He comes from behind a row of trees and I don't see him until he is on the road. I wail on the front brake and the ABS kicks in. I don't even think to pull the clutch or use the rear brake. I'm barely able to stop myself going over the handlebars, the rubber bites that hard into the road. The roo hops away, blissfully unaware of the disaster that was so narrowly averted.

I'm still in one piece, full of adrenaline, and now riding a lot slower. I catch up to Dave near Esperance and we start the first leg. The wind is getting fierce and it's a northerly which means almost all crosswind. It's also really gusty. The bikes are frequently pushed off balance so it's a constant fight to keep them upright. Oncoming trucks throw solid walls of air at my chest. I lean heavily into the crosswind and the front wheel steers an erratic path beneath me.

I stop for lunch in Jerramungup. Dave arrives soon after and he is clearly unimpressed. He's not enjoying the gusty conditions at all. However we continue onto Albany. The wind gets even fiercer as we head further south and it's not until the last few kilometres that we get shelter thanks to the forests. Thorests.

The last few kilometres are a great ride through wine fields, green pastures, and aromatic forests. It's a real treat after the dull straights of the past week. We rent a cabin right on the beach and only just in time as it starts to pour down.

Zzzzzzz

Ahhh, now this is the life. I wake to the soothing sounds of waves on the shore. After a lazy breakfast I retire to the beach with a book. It's winter yet it's comfortably warm in the sun. I alternate between reading, snoozing, and just staring at the waves.

Dave appears just before lunch. He's already climbed to the top of Frenchman's Peak, gone exploring the caves, ridden his bike all over the Cape, and is about to start off on a hike along the coast. "Are you just going to read that book?" he asks. "Why travel all this way just to read?"

My kind of holiday seems so much more relaxing.

Cape Le Grand

We stayed a second night in Kalgoorlie and it's another sunny although freezing morning. The bikes have been a big hit with the miners. Everyone wants to chat with us about the odyssey. There's something "mysterious" about travelling on a bike. However all I can think this morning is that it's probably better to ride around Australia in spring. Brrrr.

The goal today is Esperance and it's a big haul. The roads are well maintained, smooth and fast, with gentle sweeping bends. It's not an entertaining ride but it is exactly the right sort of road for eating up the kilometres. The bike is simply humming; there's no better way to describe it. There's not much to see other than scraggly bush. I relieve the tedium by singing loudly into my helmet.

We reach Esperance just before 2pm and after refuelling both ourselves and the bikes we detour east to Cape Le Grand. This is a national park on the southern coast and describing it as spectacular doesn't do it justice. The ride into the park curves gently around towering stone peaks. Soon we are in sight of perfectly white sands and clear blue oceans. Our campsite at Lucky Bay is mere feet from the beach. We're the only people here and it's so quiet. It's the exact opposite of the dirty bustling pandemonium we experienced just this morning in Kalgoorlie.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

I wake up to a cold but sunny morning in Kalgoorlie. It's only 6:00am but the campsite is bustling with activity. We soon learn there's a housing shortage in Kalgoorlie with even the nastiest rundown rentals going around $800 per week. Many miners have instead opted to live in tents at the campsite. They're all up early and getting ready for today's twelve hour shift. It's a rough way to live.

My bike needs new oil and the only Suzuki mechanic in town has graciously squeezed me into his Saturday schedule as the first job of the day. What a champion. My bike is purring again, pleased with all the attention no doubt, and in no time we're off to see the Kalgoorlie Super Pit.

For those who have been living under a rock, Kalgoorlie is a famous gold mining town. Originally people found gold nuggets simply lying on the ground. When the surface was exhausted they started underground mines, excavating seams, and digging out gold ore. Eventually even that was exhausted and the miners had reached rock so hard that their tools became useless.

So they gave up on underground mining and turned the whole area into an open cut mine. It's a bloody huge hole in the ground; about 1000 feet deep and kilometres around the edges. The hard rock is regularly blasted into rubble by hundreds of diesel-fertilizer explosives and the ore is then scooped into gigantic trucks. Each truck carries 200 tonnes of ore which produces just a few ounces of gold.

I'm watching all this from the observation deck and I feel a bit like I'm a kid in the sandpit with Tonka toys. I know the trucks are gigantic - each wheel is bigger than my bike - but from up here they look so tiny I could almost reach out and grab one. There's an endless stream of trucks rolling up and down the sides of the pit. A digger fills each truck with only four scoops. Within seconds the truck is trundling back out of the pit. It's like watching gigantic mechanical ants. The allure of gold causes all this activity and expense. It's just mind boggling.

I'm fascinated but I can't stay here all day. We scoot off to tour an old underground mine. Squeezing into a mining elevator we descend about 30 metres underground. Our guide is a retired miner with a gift for the gab. He demos various mining tools and takes us around the warren of old tunnels. It's kind of creepy and very cramped. The mining tools are deafening; it would have been difficult working in these conditions every day. I feel immensely grateful for my cushy desk job.

Back on the surface we're approached by another tourist who wants to know just how cramped it is down in the underground mine. He explains he's very claustrophobic and enclosed spaces might cause panic attacks. How should I explain this to him... IT'S A MINE!!! Sheesh.

We ride outside Kalgoorlie to an old abandoned mining "ghost" town. I was hoping for some decent ruins but the best I can find is a pile of rubble where the schoolhouse used to stand. It's a bit of a disappointment. However I did get a chance to practice my offroad riding. Dave is still a whole lot better at it than I am. This is not boding well for when we head north.

All Things Must End

It was a freezing cold night and there's ice on the bikes in the morning. Not frost. Solid ice. We scrape the bikes clean and head off west. This will be the last day on the Nullarbor and I'm eager to get it over with.

But the Nullarbor has one last nasty surprise. Just outside Caiguna is a sign announcing the 90 Mile Straight. No bends for a hundred and fifty kilometres. When the highly anticipated turn arrives it's a cause for celebration and Dave stops to take a photo. It's a normal looking turn in a normal looking road but I appreciate the significance.

After a few more hours on dull roads we reach Norseman, an old mining town and a definitive end to the Nullarbor. The town doesn't have much to offer. Even the locals seem to agree and we get advice from an old codger to go see "the biggest hole in Kalgoorlie". At least I think that is what he said.

Kalgoorlie is a large active mining town however the central shopping area is only four blocks long and it's all on the one street. Yet despite the apparent simplicity we manage to get lost trying to find the visitors information centre. The locals point us in the right direction and after arming ourselves with brochures and supplies we stop for the night at a campsite.

Boring Across The Nullarbor

Over the next two days we're crossing the Nullarbor. It's a short backtrack to Ceduna then it's west to Penong. The ground becomes very flat with few obstacles to obscure the view of the horizon. There's a forecast for thunderstorms today. I find it hard to believe we're headed into one of the driest places on earth and it's going to rain. Just our luck.

Heading into Penong we witness an amazing spectacle. Towering directly over the town is an incredibly large thundercloud. It must reach at least ten thousand feet into the atmosphere and it's clearly dumping buckets onto Penong. By pure good fortune the rain eases just as we reach town so we refuel and get moving before it starts again. Maybe the rain gods are taking pity on us.

The trees begin to thin and soon I see a sign announcing the start of the Nullarbor. It isn't what I expected. I thought Nullarbor meant no trees however I see many trees and shrubs. They're actually quite densely packed. We are still very close to the southern coast and I guess there's a long (very long) distance yet to cover. I was simply hoping for something more dramatic.

As we pass the Head of Bight we stop at one of the few tourist centres on this stretch. It's a lookout on a section of cliffs where whales are frequently spotted. We are lucky enough to see three Southern Right Whales. They swim at a leisurely pace right past the lookout. The wind is fierce and bitterly cold so we don't stay for too long.

We spend the first night at the Nullarbor Roadhouse. It is expensive but we're not in a position to argue.

The next day is perfect weather. Despite ominous warnings from the gray nomads we aren't riding into gale strength headwinds. In fact there's a slight tailwind and the sky is clear blue. The roads are still very straight and there's not much to do except stave off boredom by counting roadkill.

As I'm passing number forty seven I notice another kangaroo standing near his unlucky friend. Much to my surprise the kangaroo leaps into the air and sprouts a pair of wings. It's actually an eagle and it's nearly as wide as the bike. I had no idea they got so gigantic. I guess they're very well fed along this stretch of road.

The sun is setting quickly and neither of us want to risk hitting a kangaroo at dusk, so we spend our second night on the Nullarbor at Caiguna.

Knock Knock

It's a fine day when we leave Adelaide. I was expecting the worst from the CBD traffic but it is easy going. This is a truly laid back city; even the drivers make room and take their time. However I'm dreading the mind numbing ride back to Port Augusta. It wasn't any fun the first time and I'm not looking forward to the repeat performance.

Two and a bit hours later, just outside Port Augusta, I get my first glimpse of what to expect once we head north. Across the horizon is a band of brown haze. At first I think it's smoke from a bushfire but it soon becomes obvious it's a dust storm. Strong winds tear across the drought stricken fields and throw dirt high into the air. Small tornadoes are visible near the highway, highlighted by the dust they carry. The dust whips around in organic shapes as the wind curls through trees.

This would all be spectacular if I wasn't in the middle of it. The dust gets inside my helmet and I feel grit between my teeth. The bike is buffeted by the wind which makes it an effort to stay in control. Oncoming vehicles keep appearing unexpectedly out of the gloom. At one point my visibility drops to a few tens of feet. I consider whether it would be best to keep going blind and hope I don't hit anything or to slow down and potentially be hit from behind. Fortunately before I can make a decision I'm through the worst and my visibility returns. The rest of the ride into Port Augusta is merely windy.

We stop briefly in Port Augusta for lunch then onwards to Iron Knob. This is an old mining town... have a guess what they mined. We pull into the petrol station to refuel. That's odd; the pump isn't working. We checkout the station house but the door is locked tight. It seems nobody is working at the petrol station today. Uh-oh, this isn't good.

I have enough fuel to reach Kimba, the next town west, but Dave will be about 30km short. Even getting back to the previous town might be pushing his luck. As we're sitting at the station, pondering how the hell we got into this mess, the strangest thing happens.

This old bloke with a long gray beard, riding a brand new Triumph Rocket (a bloody big cruiser), matching Triumph leathers and Triumph helmet, pulls into the defunct petrol station. He leaps off the cruiser and pulls from his luggage a can of Red Bull and a jumbo sized pack of Nurofen Plus. He starts eating the pills, washing them down with swigs of Red Bull. He turns to us and says:

"Where you boys from? Seems there's no fuel here. You should have refueled in Port Augusta. Might try asking for help at the pub."

And just as quickly he's back on his bike and heading off west. It's a surreal experience. Like something out of Alice In Wonderland.

We don't have too many options so we try the pub, only to discover it's shut as well. We then cruise around the town looking for signs of life. There are plenty of emu but not so many humans. Dave eventually spots a husband and wife out in their front yard. They tell us the petrol station has been closed for years so everyone in town stockpiles their own fuel. They'd love to help us but they only have diesel.

What follows is the craziest doorknock appeal in history as we go from house to house, asking to buy fuel for our bikes. At the third house we get an early Christmas present from a bloke who could well have been Santa Claus. He has long white hair, a bushy white beard and a reasonably large belly. He sells us ten litres of unleaded petrol for a price we're very willing to pay and we're on our way again.

It is now a hard slog to reach Streaky Bay by nightfall but we manage somehow. As I go to sleep I vow to pickup an emergency fuel canister to strap on the bike.

Adelaide Again

There's not much to do today except be a tourist so I start with a walk along Rundle Mall. It's a strange feeling being surrounded by all these people again. The isolation of the bike helmet has become really comfortable. There is time to chill out and reflect, even while tearing along the highway at breakneck speeds. That reflection is near impossible in the cacophony of Adelaide. Even in the swanky apartment I'm bombarded by the sounds of traffic and people. It's counterintuitive that the relative safety of the apartment is less relaxing, but that's the way it is.

We take the tram out to Glenelg to get lunch. Glenelg is an odd place. It's like a beach suffering from an overdose of Ritalin. There are restaurants and amusement rides and so much traffic. I see people nearly everywhere except on the beach itself. I don't get that; why travel all the way to the beach and then sit inside a cafe?

As we sit inside a cafe in Glenelg (don't bother pointing out the hypocrisy) to have a late lunch, Dave gets a call from the BMW mechanic. The bike has only just arrived and it was supposed to have been there hours ago. Dave descends into an even darker funk, which I didn't think was possible. He's now thinking we could be trapped here for days.

Then at 4:00pm Dave gets the call we've been waiting for; BMW has fixed the fault. The fuel pump had shorted and needed to be replaced. They didn't have a spare in stock so they stripped one off a brand new showroom bike. We are out of here tomorrow morning. Hallelujah.

Adelaide Hills

Today we're heading to Adelaide. It's an early start and the weather is superb. There are nasty looking clouds on the ranges up north. However all along the coast there are clear blue skies. It's a great day for riding.

This is a 350km stretch along flat and straight highway. I ride the bike like it's been stolen and soon leave Dave behind. The landscape blurs past and I get a flashback to the ending scene of the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. I wonder if Kubrick got inspiration for that scene while riding a bike. Probably not.

Just outside of Adelaide I stop for fuel and wait for Dave to catch up. It's not yet lunch so we decide to check out the Adelaide Hills. I feel a bit sorry for Dave, stuck in his cage, because this is motorcycling heaven. The Adelaide Hills are covered with long winding scenic drives. Occasionally a climb will put you up high enough to admire the view. There are plenty of other bikes joining us today. I guess this is a popular destination for all the weekend riders from Adelaide.

We make a brief stop at the Barossa Reservoir which has been nicknamed the Whispering Wall. The dam wall is shaped such that if you talk at one end your voice is heard clearly at the other end. It's vaguely amusing for about fifteen seconds but then the novelty wears off. The ride to the dam was well worth it though.

Our next stop is Hahndorf, an "authentic" German village, and the cheesiest place on earth. There were several stores with names prefixed Ye Olde, I kid you not, but sadly not a single Coffee Shoppe among them. There are some buskers who sing off-key, a whole store devoted to fortune telling and tarot cards, and of course a bunch of pubs selling Ye Olde Authentic German Beer. I look around in horror and fortunately Dave concurs so we get the hell out of Hahndorf.

It's getting late so we head into Adelaide. BMW has gotten us accommodation in a swanky apartment in the middle of the CBD. I park my bike, covered in dirt and weighed down by camping gear, next to a Jaguar. The apartment is sheer luxury, possibly the last luxury I'll experience for a while.

Stop! Wrong Way. Go Back.

We're stuck in Port Augusta until the night of Saturday waiting for the tow truck to arrive from Adelaide. I try to make the best of a bad situation but this town refuses to make things easy. I scour the tourist brochures for ideas and the best I can come up with is a steam train departing at 10:30am. Unfortunately a combination of not getting back with the hire car until after 10:00am, both of us forgetting to bring our cameras, and neither of us remembering the whereabouts of the train station, means we arrive minutes too late. Disappointing.

Dave is in a foul mood over the bike so I do my best to steer clear of him. He wanders off to stare daggers at his bike while I make good use of a wifi access point. This isn't my idea of a holiday but it's only a delay of one day.

Or so I had thought. Unbeknownst to me, Dave has arranged to pick the bike up personally in Adelaide the morning of Tuesday, three days from now. I had assumed we would just continue the trip west because BMW is obligated to ship the fixed bike to wherever we are in our travels. That would be somewhere in Western Australia. However Dave wants to discuss the problem face to face with the mechanics. He even mentions he might need a few hours with them!

I'm completely surprised by the decision he's made. The delay of three days plus the 700km round trip between Port Augusta and Adelaide will leave us significantly behind schedule to reach Perth on June 30. This probably means missing out on parts of southern Western Australia.

There's not much I can do about it now though. I have an unspoken obligation to Kirsten to ride with Dave and I can't leave him in the lurch, even if he is heading in the wrong direction. Anyway it's only a few days out of the trip.

Friday the 13th

The time flies by altogether too quickly and three days after arriving in Wilpena Pound we're packed up and heading south. The trip today is lazy with plenty of stops to take photos. The road is straight and boring until we reach Quorn, famous for the Pichi Richi steam train. The next train departs tomorrow and there's no good reason to stick around in Quorn so it's full steam ahead to Port Augusta.

This stretch wraps through the hills leading down to the bay. The road sweeps under and then over the rail several times with plenty of high speed straights terminated by tight dipping corners. It's in stark contrast to the drudgery we went through this morning. There are heaps of other bikes on this section going in the other direction and I'm about to find out why.

Port Augusta is unpleasant. It's a shipping town with rails and highways and the constant noise that comes with industry. Advertised tourist attractions include (no joke) the hideous power plant and fishing off the 110kph highway bridge. However the next stop on our route is Streaky Bay and it's too far away to reach today, so we'll be spending the night in Port Augusta. We pick a campsite furthest from the highway to get some peace and quiet. Unfortunately nothing in this town can be far away enough from the trains.

The afternoon is not yet over so Dave decides to visit the local Arid Gardens. This is an exhibit of local desert plants and it's the best attraction on offer.

And then, disaster.

Dave makes a routine stop to take a photo and his bike fails to start again. There's a fault in the immobilizer or fuel pump - we can't tell which - and it's beyond our skill to repair. Dave's bike is stranded several kilometres from the campsite on a Friday afternoon.

A call to BMW roadside confirms there are no qualified mechanics in Port Augusta, they will have to tow the bike to the nearest workshop in Adelaide, and the earliest they can look at it is Monday. There aren't even any qualified bike towing truckers in Port Augusta so someone will be driving up from Adelaide on Saturday and arriving that night.

The worst part is we're stuck in this hell hole until then.

Wilpena Pound

Wilpena Pound is as great as the brochures had promised. There was a turn of good luck with the weather as it was sunny and warm(ish) the entire stay. The initial plan was to stay two nights but we extended to three nights because there is so much to see and do, with superb facilities and camping grounds.

The first day involved a scenic flight around the Wilpena Pound in a Cessna 172. Apparently the planes had been grounded for a week due to rain and low cloud, so it was more good fortune with the weather. The air was calm and the flight was very comfortable, which was great because these little planes can get bumped around when the wind is gustier. No barf bags were necessary and I got plenty of fantastic aerial photos.

After lunch we bushwalked up to Wangara Lookout. This is supposedly a moderate walk but I almost carked it halfway up the mountain. I eventually made it the whole way to the summit and the views were well worth the 5 years I knocked off my lifespan. Dave was keen to do one of the difficult walks so I told him to go for it, because I was retiring to the resort's bar for a beer.

The following day was a 4WD tour up to Brachina Lookout to see geological formations and fossils. I was still a bit ginger after the previous night's effort in the bar and the jolting of the landcruiser wasn't helping matters. I enjoyed the tour despite concerned comments from fellow tourists that I looked slightly green. The fossils - the ancient rocks, not my fellow tourists - were a highlight of the day.

I haven't figured out if it's because they're on holidays as well, or if it's because we're away from the city, but people are very friendly and talkative. Everybody wants to discuss travel plans. The gray nomads are a wealth of knowledge regarding places to visit and sights to see. We even achieve minor notoriety in the camping ground as the "mad bastards" on bikes. It's a welcome change from the cold indifference of Melbourne.

Plains, Trains and Automobikes

One good night's sleep in Clare has really improved our spirits. The forecast for today is more drizzle but it's dry when we gear up and ride off.

Dave confesses he's never been to a winery cellar door before. He doesn't want to spend the whole day in Clare tasting wine (nor do I) so he settles for just one, Annie's Lane. Some cellar doors are a sham because the wine is made elsewhere and shipped back to Clare just for show. Sometimes even the grapes are grown elsewhere. Annie's Lane is guilty on both counts. It's all in good fun though.

The show is soon over and we're riding north. Dave wants to stop in Burra, an old mining town where previous generations of his family once lived. The pie shop in Burra makes a fantastic Cornish Pastie which ends up being my lunch and dinner; miners obviously eat more than average people. We check out the various tourist exhibits and also the local church before continuing north.

We're heading into a large flat expanse of SA desert. The roads become predictably straight and flat. With no trees or hills to obstruct the wind it quickly reaches gale speeds, making it difficult to control the bikes. Occasionally the wind gets under my helmet which lifts like a parachute and makes me swerve unpredictably. Fortunately the roads are almost empty of traffic.

We are stopped at the railway tracks in Peterborough by the Indian-Pacific train. This particular train only runs twice a week and it was blind luck we arrived at the exact same moment it was passing. This chance encounter inspires us to visit the Peterborough vintage train exhibition, which has the silly name of Steamland. The restoration society has had bad luck recently with a tornado destroying the shelter and rain damaging the subsequently exposed carriages. Despite the damage there is still plenty to see. We get a guided tour of the trains and workshops by an extremely enthusiastic volunteer. It was well worth the time.

Our destination today is Wilpena Pound in the Flinder's Ranges and it's getting late in the afternoon with a fair distance still to travel. The roads are chockers with sheep and kangaroos who apparently think the highway is the safest place to hang out. The dead animals by the roadside might have thought otherwise, even if only in their final moments. Dave is in the lead and sensibly slows down but the downside is we arrive well after dark. I was hoping to see Wilpena Pound as we rode in however that will have to wait until tomorrow.

Every Dark Cloud

Today turns out to be the lowest point of the trip so far. The campsite is right on the outskirts of Penola. It's also near a major trucking route so all night long I'm woken by the teeth rattling sounds of air brakes. In the morning some cretin in the campsite, seemingly metres from my tent, decides to rev the last few horsepower out of his car engine until all the neighborhood dogs start howling in protest. And to top it all off, it's raining again.

Faaark.

It rained all night and continues to rain all morning. There is nothing I own that is not soaked and muddy. Dave looks like he's about to pack it all in and I'm starting to feel that way as well. The local forecast predicts 3 more days of this shitty weather. Dave and I make an executive decision to get out of this hell hole.

We pack the gear with mud included and start riding north through the drizzle. There's a bitterly cold crosswind that blows strong enough to occasionally throw the bike out of balance. We're also fighting on the roads with tourists returning to Adelaide after the long weekend. They're in climate controlled luxury trucks and they seem to be oblivious to what's going on around them. I curse loudly into my helmet.

By the time we arrive at Keith (the town) the drizzle has stopped and a silver lining has appeared. Literally. In the distance we see clear skies. Soon we're back in gorgeous sunlight. My mood is massively improved.

We stop for fuel in Tailem Bend and are quickly pounced upon by a pack of motorcyclists. They ask all sorts of questions about the bikes, the gear and the trip. One guy is particularly impressed by the bashplate on my bike. I have to admit it is a sexy bashplate. They all express quiet awe when they learn Dave got permission from "the wife" to go on a biking holiday for three months. They want to know the secret but Dave isn't letting on.

The remainder of today is a brilliant ride through Barossa Valley and the surrounding regions. The roads are dry and winding and fast with utterly spectacular views. It is exactly the sort of riding I wanted from this trip. The only negatives are the encroaching darkness and the bitter cold. I can see myself coming back here in the summer.

We arrive at Clare (the town) in the Clare Valley just slightly after dark. Neither of us feels up to another miserable morning so we book a motel room and dry the gear in front of the heater.

Wet Wet Wet

It rained overnight in Warrnambool and the tents are soaked through again. Waking up to these cold and wet mornings is really starting to get me down. The rain eases temporarily so off we go again.

On the advice of the campsite owner there's a local whale nursery worth checking out. We find the location and there are dozens of people with binoculars but there's a notable absence of whales. A local is selling photos of whales from years past for only $5. No thanks.

The first stop for today is Port Fairy, which is where we would have camped last night if the light had lasted a bit longer. There's not much reason to linger so we head onto Portland and then north to the Prehistoric Forest.

The Prehistoric Forest turns out to be a misleading name. The rock formations do look a little bit like tree trunks but apparently they're formed from chemical reactions to the limestone. It's a spooky environment. Almost no plant life grows on the rocks and the whole area is on a high cliff dropping into the sea. The site is barren and desolate and lifeless. I get the feeling I'm standing on the Moon with its cratered surface.

More impressive (to me) than the "forest" are more of these fantastic wind turbines. They're only a few metres away from the road and they are simply massive. I picked up a brochure in Portland with technical details. The blades are over 30 metres long and the entire windfarm produces one eighth of South Australia's electricity needs.

We continue to head north. The intention is to camp in the Coonawarra wine region. The rain starts falling again and the roads are slick. Fortunately this is an agricultural area where the roads are very long and very straight, so we get up a good speed and cover a fair distance. However going fast through a winter drizzle is doing nothing for my mood.

We pick the first camping ground we find in Penola. The forecast for tomorrow is more rain. Bah. I'm looking forward to the unbearable heat of Western Australia.

Sightseeing

It rained overnight and everything is soaked through. The sun makes a brief appearance in the morning so we seize the opportunity to pack up the sodden tents and get the hell out of Apollo Bay. The Great Ocean Road is calling!

The rain is still coming down but the showers are isolated. Some sections of the road are bone dry yet other sections are slick with fresh rain. Every now and then it drizzles a fine mist that permeates even the wet weather gear. It's enough to make you miserable and cold but we decide to press on anyway.

The first goal for today is Cape Otway Lighthouse which is in the Cape Otway National Park. The ride through the park is... interesting. The roads are narrow and wet and covered in light green moss. Even Dave seems fazed by the riding conditions for once.

The lighthouse exhibit turns out to be worth the hassle. It was constructed in the mid-1800s, originally burning whale oil, later converted to kerosene, then converted to electric in the 1930s. Now it is has been replaced by an automatic solar-powered "lighthouse" in a separate building. We climb the old tower to take a closer look at the mechanism. The lenses weigh several tonnes but float on a bed of mercury so we're able to set the mechanism spinning with the lightest touch. The power source that turned the lenses used to be clockwork, similar to that found in a grandfather clock. It's very impressive.

The next stop is the Cape Otway Fly. It's a suspended steel walkway in the middle of a forest. At the highest point you are more than 100 feet above the ground. It's impressive from an engineering perspective but I can't help feel that it misses the point. It seems to put the forest in a cage, like those depressing zoo walks that take you past the neatly caged and labeled animals.

It's back to the last hilly section of the Great Ocean Road. This is supposedly the best bit and it might have been if it wasn't being resurfaced at the time. The steep and twisty downhill section is covered in loose gravel. Despite going well under the recommended speed the front wheel keeps sliding out at every corner. Argh.

The rest of the Great Ocean Road is highway quality so we just let the bikes loose. Dave wants to do the usual tourist thing and take photos at the Twelve Apostles and London Bridge. Unfortunately the sites are covered in people. There are buckets of cars and several coaches of foreign tourists. It probably doesn't help it's a Saturday and also a long weekend. I'm getting a bit fed up with crowds. I got enough of that in Mellbourne.

With all the sightseeing today we've covered barely any distance. Despite our best efforts to make up for lost ground we both run out of enthusiasm at Warrnambool.

Great Ocean Road

Melbourne was hectic and stressful and I'm glad we're leaving. It was nice having hot showers and good food but I want to get back to the riding.

The trip out of Melbourne is much calmer than the trip in. It rains lightly but not even that is going to darken my mood today. Because today we start on the Great Ocean Road.

First stop is Torquay and then onto the world famous Bell's Beach. This is one of the most popular (and insane) surf beaches. There are the usual mad surfers in the freezing water and a couple of paragliders catching lift off the cliffs. An ancient Tiger Moth flies past at 500 feet. One day I want to fly one of those planes myself.

The Great Ocean Road is reknowned for tight corners, hairpins, steep climbs and descents. It's everything a motorcyclist could ask for. The start of the Great Ocean Road is marked on the highway by a wooden arch over the road, similar to the arches over the finish line on grand prix circuits. It's probably sending the wrong message to motorists, especially given the accident rate on this stretch, but it feels right nonetheless.

Unfortunately no sooner than I start the stretch does the rain begin. It's only a light drizzle but it makes the road slippery and unpredictable. I'm a terrible wet weather rider and with 100 foot cliff face drops to my left, I take it very cautiously. I don't know where the wet limits are on this bike annd this is the wrong road to find out.

Thankfully the showers are isolated and soon the road turns dry. I open the bike up and wring it for all she's worth. The V-Strom never fails to deliver. The third gear has enough torque to pull through an uphill hairpin, yet enough legs to sprint out to [ed: the speed limit of 80kph] on the straights. I keep trying to sneak glances at the scenery, aware that it's all blurring past so quickly, but there's simply no time. The bike dips quickly into each corner but I have to give it my full attention.

It starts to turn dark and gloomy once we reach Apollo Bay so we make camp there. More of the Ocean Road tomorrow... the weather report says early morning drizzle, that will make for an exciting ride.