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.