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!