Australian
Enduro Tour
Coming from the UK I should have been to use
riding in the rain. Still, I was more than a
little dismayed when I pulled away from Lismore
at the start of a 6 week tour of Cape York and
the Outback. It was coming down in sheets, the
sort of rain that instantly soaks you through
and leaves you in no doubt that you should have
stayed at home. To add to my amusement, I was
on a strange bike, unused to the weight of the
luggage and connected to the now greasy road
by tyres designed for dirt and dust. I crawled
along towards the coast, a steady stream of
frustrated commuters in my wake. Not long before
dark I pulled into a caravan park for the night.
Lightning split the sky, and I spent nearly
an hour under a shelter with a fellow camper,
both of us amazed that so much rain could fall
out of the sky. We talked about what we were
doing, where we had been, that sort of thing.
When the rain ended we went back to our tents,
but my trip was only just beginning.
I was heading north up the Pacific Highway,
sometimes a multi lane freeway, sometimes just
two lanes through endless fields of sugar cane
stretched out under scorching blue skies. The
rain of the first 24 hours had passed and for
a while I worried that I would be too hot as
I got nearer Cape York. Now and again I'd pull
off the main drag and follow minor roads through
to the coast, or maybe inland through forest
to the mountains, before heading back to Highway
1. I got used to the bike, worked out how to
pack and start it without suffering heat exhaustion
or cardiac seizure. Everywhere people were interested
in what I was doing, where I was going, and
before long I realised that soloing for 6 weeks
wasn't just about where I went and what I saw,
but about the people I met along the way. Not
a day went by when I didn't meet someone to
sit and blather with. Somehow being on a bike
turns you from being just another tourist to
someone worth spending the time of day with.
And then doing it on your own too, "Christ,
this guys gotta be crazy aint ya?"
At Airlie Beach I sailed for three days through
the Whitsunday Islands on a charter yacht, a
break from the bike and a rest for my bony arse.
I met this crazy German guy Frank on the boat;
he had just ridden from Perth to Cairns in 12
days. 5000 Kilometres straight across Australia,
the mad mad bastard. He had so much luggage
he couldn't manage it in the deep sand of the
Gibson, and nearly ditched it before bumping
into a 4x4 which offered to carry it for him.
I nearly pissed myself when he pulled out his
mask and snorkel on the boat. Yep, he'd brought
that across the desert as well. We swapped stories
and I began to wonder what the hell I'd let
myself in for.
The kilometres passed and I reached the end
of the bitumen at Cape Tribulation. I was deep
in rainforest now; cicadas screeched through
the night like an airborne Mexican wave, skinks
and geckos rustled through the undergrowth outside
my tent. I went out for a pee and bumped into
a possum pillaging my luggage before scooting
under the bike and freezing in my torch beam.
He darted behind a tree then scratched his way
up the trunk out of sight. In the morning I
bumped down on to the dirt and said goodbye
to tarmac for the next thousand kilometres.
Although I'd been riding over ten years, I hadn't
done much off roading, and none on big bikes
with luggage. This was new to me and I couldn't
wait. It was rough riding, corrugations in places
violently shook the bike and killed power. Steep
climbs were followed by steeper descents through
bulldust and loose rocks, and I was forced back
in the seat as I wound down in bottom gear.
Breaks in the forest canopy gave views of the
Coral Sea, and at the bottom of each valley
clear water creeks tumbled out of the forest
across the trail. After narrowly avoiding an
early bath at the first one and wheelying out
of control up the far bank of the second, I
took the rest steady, walking the route first
to check for potholes and slimy boulders. By
the time I reached the James Cook memorial in
Cooktown I was buzzing.
Refuelled, I pointed the bike west and gunned
out along the Battle Camp Road, nearly 300 km
through the stunning Lakefield National Park.
It was just classic classic dirt riding - endless
limestone pavement across the Nilabi plain,
technical drops and climbs though dry creek
beds and sand sections where the bike got bogged
to the axles and the dust flew. Out of the forest,
termite mounds stretched as far as I could see,
and in the distance the Iron Range mountains
caught the late sun. Towards dusk I left the
track for a waterhole for the night, kangaroos
eyeing me cautiously as I hit the kill switch
and stepped off the bike.
Now everyone tells you to watch out for crocs
in this part of Australia, although frankly,
once you've been told once you don't really
need telling again. Estuarine crocodiles are
masters of disguise, so I knew I'd only get
to see one was if it was hanging on the end
of my leg, a scenario I was keen to avoid. The
problem was I needed water, and that's where
the buggers live. In a flash of ingenuity I
tied a length of chain I found in the bush to
a waterproof bag I carried the tent in, and
for good measure added a bootlace to the chain.
Ignoring the sign announcing the presence of
crocs in waterholes on the Cape York Peninsula,
I slithered down the bank and swung my device
out into the water, the chain and bootlace allowing
me to stand a modest but hopefully safe distance
from the waters edge and crocodile entrée. So
you can imagine my delight on retrieval, when
the chain and bootlace parted and the bag settled
slowly into the lilies. By this time I was convinced
that the previously uninhabited waterhole was
now choked with starving crocs, and I ran up
the bank to think. I really needed the bag back,
and I realised it meant getting wet...
On the fourth day after leaving Cairns, I crested
a hill and finally saw what I'd come all this
way for. In the distance the Torres Straights
stretched into the horizon, to the west the
Gulf of Carpentaria glistened in the early sun.
Cape York and the top of Australia lay just
out of sight to the north, and Papua New Guinea
sat just over the horizon, only 120 kilometres
away. I cruised onto Sesia wharf in time to
see a local fella land a 6 foot shovel nosed
shark with his fishing spear, grouper and mackerel
flashing under the pier in the commotion. We
started chatting and he asked me if I'd come
all the way up on the bike. He was impressed
when I told him I had, and my mind went back
to the last couple of days on the Old Telegraph
Road, the endless deep sand, swimming in crystal
waterfalls, kangaroos and emus running alongside
the bike before darting in front and scaring
the pants off me. The night before, I'd literally
fallen off the bike into a campsite by the Jardine
River, completely and utterly rooted after 11
hours on the bike. All I had to eat was a tin
of fish, some rice and an onion. I sat in the
shower for 20 minutes until I could smile again,
and returned to find a cold can of beer left
by my tent in the dark. It was my birthday and
I went to bed with my faith in human kindness
restored.
That evening the wharf filled up with more
locals and travellers, and we all trailed our
fishing lines into the fast moving straight.
Queenfish, Giant Trevally, small sharks and
mackerel got hoisted onto the dock, and children
who had seen a motorbike in the village earlier
chatted to me excitedly when they found out
it was mine. "How big, how many cc?" they asked,
before running off making loud 600 thumper noises.
If you do something crazy, you're sure to meet
crazy people, and the northernmost point of
Australia has more than most. Cruising in to
the local store one morning, I noticed an XR650
and then its rider, Jamie, the mad biker from
Perth. Just like me, he was on a mission. Only
his was a slightly more elaborate affair that
involved riding round Oz, on dirt and predominantly
sideways. Pleasantries exchanged, we decided
to ride to Somerset, the small but beautiful
beach near the cape and site of some interesting
ruins and local history. Within seconds I knew
I was going to die if I rode with this guy.
Everywhere was at 150k's, or 130 but on the
back wheel. I kept up as best I could and figured
if I kept in front, I could at least see where
I was going. I have to admit it was bloody good,
riding like a couple of hoons, powersliding,
overtaking and taking jumps flat out (at one
point I looked up to see the belly pan of an
XR) but that sort of behaviour, with 1000km
to the nearest hospital, is probably unwise.
Near to Somerset the road becomes singletrack
through the rainforest and we stopped to check
directions. Jamie pulled out his digicam and
plugged it in to the tiny lens he'd mounted
in his chinguard! It was hilarious - I shot
off with him following to get some footage for
a DVD he was making. Idiot that I am, I cranked
open the throttle and blasted my way through
the dirt. It didn't take long before I'd misjudged
a bend, slid into a berm and flew over the bars
into the bush, the bike stopped dead and propped
up in the sand. I was lucky, I landed on my
head between two trees and rolled to a halt.
Jamie was beside himself laughing, the best
footage so far! It was definitely time to go..
I spent four days exploring the Cape and could
easily have spent more had I had the time. I
still had the Outback to ride though and I realised
I was only half way through my trip. After the
tropical north, the scenery as I headed west
couldn't have been more different. I climbed
the cool, lush Great Dividing Range, with its
waterfalls and pastures, before heading downhill
to the Gulf Savannah and Karumba on the Gulf
coast. Distances here were immense - 200km was
down the road, 100 was just round the corner.
I began to think in terms of hours on the bike
when measuring distance. I road nearly 300km
just to get to a bitumen road, well, half a
road really, a single strip of tarmac that you
shared with oncoming traffic, one of you pulling
on to the dirt at the side as you passed. It
didn't happen often. The temperature rose steadily
into the 40's as people thinned out, and some
afternoons I just sat in the shade or swam in
a fresh water creek, while kangaroos nibbled
and sniffed around the camp. Now and again outback
flies tickled and sucked on my skin, but they
left at sunset, when the western sky turned
yellow, then orange, then purple, until the
following darkness was a mass of tiny white
pinpricks, 100% star cover from north to south,
east to west.
I had two rules in the bush, firstly never
get onto reserve, and secondly, avoid tourist
destinations like the plague. I broke them both
in the end (rolling into a petrol station in
the middle of nowhere and the bike spluttering
to a halt is something I would recommend to
anyone after a trouser stiffening experience)
but not before I'd got to see places and meet
people who'd hardly ever seen tourists. And
you know what, it was just fabulous. Every night
new people, interesting people who wanted to
tell you as much about their lives as they wanted
to hear about yours. Guys out fossicking for
gold, enjoying a beer or two, a couple chasing
wild pigs in their ute (I thought a gun might
have been easier but didn't like to say). As
ever, being on a bike opened the door to new
friends and even the odd beer or two.
I didn't always camp in the bush, occasionally
I stayed in an outback hotel, more out of curiosity
than for comfort. For $15 dollars one room boasted
a lino-covered floor, rust stained sink and
a collection of broken and mismatched furniture.
The door, complete with broken lock, featured
a 1970's style air con unit that was wired directly
into the light switch and was so loud it kept
me awake. I'll not mention the bathroom, with
the exception of the large cockroaches that
rolled around in the shower. I cooked my dinner
on the bedroom floor before going downstairs
to the bar. I was delighted. The main decoration
featured a large stuffed pig, complete with
tusks and sporting a flopping sombrero. There
was a selection of cold beers. In short it was
the best 15 bucks I have ever spent, and like
the rest of the trip, I shall remember it forever.
This story was kindly provided by Australian
Motorcycle Tours website, www.amcr.com.au
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