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.