Australia! The world's only Island Continent.. Home of the most animals with deadly venom in the world and the only country where Kangaroos exist. Population: 25 million Fosters drinking criminals living in the driest inhabited continent on earth. Population density, 3.3 criminals per square kilometre, the 4th least densely populated country on earth. Let’s go!.........
Through the guts! My original idea of going bang up the middle (via Alice Springs) - 3760 Kilometres
The western coast - 8000 Kilometres
Along the east coast via Sydney, Brisbane, and perhaps as far as Cairns before chucking a left inland - 6000 Kilometres
Number 1 was my original plan. The shortest yet also the most extreme - insanely hot and nothing for miles. Into the death valley of Australia, where running out of water and death by dehydration were real threats. It also had the nod of approval of Terry from Yorkshire (see New Zealand blog) Although it would also apparently be mind-numbingly boring. Nothing but flat desert roads and no civilisation for 1000s of miles! Number 2, on reflection, was certainly a road less travelled, but just too far in comparison to the other options. I would be cycling all the way home to England, did I really need to kick off by going the wrong way around Australia? I’ll have a number 3 then, please! This coastal road would apparently offer stunning scenery, the chance to surf and camp by the sea, visit friends along the way, and also give me a good dose of the outback.
I had only seen Graham, who is 15 years my senior and brought up in Scotland, a handful of times in my life, one of those being at his wedding in Peebles, Scotland, to his wonderful wife Joanna. At the time I was only 18 and looked more like a backstreet boy, sporting a ridiculous McDonald’s golden arches haircut. I was extremely keen to see him and his family after all these years. It felt like a real-life version of the ITV series Seven Up (a documentary following the lives of 10 males and 4 females who were 7 years old, every 7 years beginning in 1964).
My flight landed shortly before midnight, at which point I was beginning to feel a little guilty, I had been a cheapskate and booked the budget late-night flight to Melbourne, and Graham, being the decent bloke he is, had insisted on picking me up and keeping the family up to meet me. Spotting my cousin the moment I exited departures, we began catching up on the last few decades. Also a keen cyclist, genuine, confident and charismatic and with that tone of business authority a Scottish accent commands, it was not suprising his business had been a success. With me now 40, the once big age gap seemed to have shrunk substantially (in my opinion atleast!) and Graham feel more like my cousin and less the Uncle as I had previously seen him. Chatting until the hours of the morning whilst I raided the family fridge, I regretted not visiting the Spencer family when I was in Australia 18 years ago. There lovely white painted wood fronted house seemed to be extended a mile back and was complete with a recently added swimming pool and dedicated BBQ area, sitting at the end of a cul-de-sac in an area called McKinely, a few kilometers south from the centre. The whole family chatted with me till the early hours, despite Graham and Joanna having to work the next day and a final year exam for Holly.
Despite only firing on one cyclinder - or ball to be more precise, after successfuly beating testicular cancer, my cousin obviously had the same champion making family super spunk as my little brother, who, also a cancer beater, managed to knock out 4 boys in as many years. Graham had started late and had a target of 5, but decided to stop at 3. Adam, the oldest, is 21 and currently the best middle-distance runner for his age in Australia and was the reserve runner for the commonwealth games in Birmingham. He almost got the chance to run when one of the Ozzy runners became injured, though with next to no notice, the starting pistol would have fired before the plane wheels touched down at Heathrow, as he is currently living in Wisconsin, USA. He is there on sports scholarship and eyeing up the Olympics. If not in person, I did get to see Adam race on TV in a national cross-country event, with the rest of the family in the sitting room. “Go Badgers!” the enthausastic commentator would shout, as the Wisconson Badgers had 6 top 10 finishers including Adam….Very American, yet very cool, I thought! If that all fails he is also studying investment banking and his stocks, unlike mine, are well in the green! Not a bad contingency plan I thought.
My claim to fame was always that, as a late teen, my time would have won a medal in the Olympics final for 800 metres………………wait for it……..had I been born with a vagina and not a penis! Adam had well and truly got me beaten on this one! Holly, the only daughter, had just turned 18 and seemed to have the maturity of someone twice her age, certainly more than me. She is set on taking a gap year to work on a farm in Scotland and then travelling through Europe in the coming months. I found myself suggesting that India might be a good first destination, whilst simulatenously thinking to myself, “what the F are you doing suggesting that your cousins 18 year old daughter goes to India by herself, idiot!” Finally there is James, 16, who would apparently be even faster than Adam if he put his mind to it!
I spend just 24 hours with the family before taking the Greyhound bus to Sydney. Before you say anything, no I wasn’t about to cheat by taking a bus! I had some good friends in Sydney who I would miss by the time my bicycle arrived so decided to spend a week there before returning to Melbourne to start the big ride. The 12-hour overnight bus left Melbourne central station at 10 pm. My cousin laughed when I told him I would travel by bus, he informed me I could fly there in a couple of hours….and it would be cheaper too! Leaving the central terminal the driver, an odd-looking fella in his 30’s that I could imagine playing warcraft till 6 am, announced on the tannoy, “I hope you enjoy the ride, I’ll be doing my thing weaving around the road avoiding potholes and kangaroos”, I thought he might be pissed, though apparently, this was pretty standard practice when it comes to navigating Australian roads by night.
One good friend I was really keen to catch up with in Sydney was Robinson. We had lived together in a house share in Clapham South around 13 years ago and savoured many fond memories and road trips - Amsterdam, Estonia, Finland, Sicily and Rijeka - a Croatian city we visited based on the pronunciation sounding to us like “Vagina”. It sounds nothing like Vagina. Robinson, Israeli born, tall, olive skin with short cropped hair and huge muscles following years of us telling him that getting bigger would attract more women, had a wonderful glass half full infectious spirit. He lived like there was no tomorrow, and roping everyone into shots and a night out on a Sunday after partying all weekend was never an issue. Even the British weather was ok in Robinson’s book. That positive attitude I find far more common in Ozzy’s than Brits (I’ll blame that on the weather!) Robinson’s main hobby outside of work was shagging. I once teased Robinson that he must have had sex with 1000 women, taking rare offence about his sexual prowess he replied, “No…..No way, maybe 750” trying to underplay his number with a reduced figure so high we both burst out laughing! Shagging was something Robinson was so passionate about he decided to build his own website dedicated to, well, shagging! The genius idea, known as Like 3, was a high-end threesome finder website. The entrepreneurial Robinson believed current websites were cheap and dirty looking and a niche market existed for a more “wholesome” looking site. Robinson, as the site's owner, had the added advantage of viewing all the messages and resultantly was often the one in bed with 6 women in a swanky London hotel. At its peak, the site had 70,000 members in multiple countries! A 10-year hedonistic spell of sex parties in London made Sydney feel like a rural town in comparison to London, and Robinson was struggling to adjust to a quieter life, though doing his best and always with the same infectious smile.
I asked Robinson if he’d seen much of Lukas, another Ozzy mate that had returned to Sydney. Lukas had lived a lifestyle that would put the Rolling Stones to shame. Bald, intelligent, relatively handsome with an athletic build, friendly although often intense, he was a real character. He had held some top city jobs, which given his lifestyle was quite remarkable. Every weekend was a non-stop 3-4 day alcohol and cocaine fuelled bender that meant him going straight to work on a Monday morning with literally zero sleep since Thursday. Surprisingly, he also liked fitness. My last recollection of seeing Lucas was him singing whilst playing guitar on a barstool outside a bar in Clapham. He told me he’d quit his city job and was going to be a pop star and create his own record label. Well, he may have finally found his calling. “Lukas is now Lucius” Robinson replied. While Robinson now had a girlfriend and was attempting a more settled life, Lukas had decided he wanted nothing of the mundane 9-5. He had established his own company and promoted himself as a successful high-end male escort, with clients flying him around the world for his professional services. His website video presentation is a class act, appearing more like an advert for a top law firm. Simultaneously showing his high ethics, professionalism, and promise of guaranteed client satisfation.
The week in Sydney was a good time to reminisce about the past, catch up with some old friends, swim at the famous Iceburgs 50 metre sea lido and finally surf, at the world famous Bondi beach. Hitting the surf with Matt, a friend that I had known since childhood, was brilliant. Matt had lived in the house opposite in our parents village (his two sisters identical ages to me and my brothers) before moving to London and then Sydney. Matt now lived in the very enviable location of literally overlooking Bondi beach, with his dog and Brazilan girlfriend, where he surfed almost everyday, living his best life. I must blow my own trumpet here and add that I caught a humungous wave (for me atleast!) and rode down it up and down all the way to shore - not bad for a lad from landlocked Leicester I thought! A mixture of adrenaylln and cold water endorphin release from the fresh early spring ocean, aided by my lack of wetsuit, put a smile on my face like a cheshire cat. I retired at the top of my game and smugly headed back to shore knowing the stunt could not be repeated. My frozen pecker was dangerously close to becoming inverted and not nearly as impressive as my wave. A week off the bike, some impromtu cold water therapy and a full belly, I was well and truly rested and now itching to get back on the Bullit and make the attack on Australia.
I flew back to Melbourne and 2 days later left my cousin's house on a Monday morning, the last day of October after refuelling my engine with a sensational full BBQ family cooked breakfast. It felt good to fire up my engine about to be pumping the pistons of my legs once more, as I pedaled out of 34 Chalmers Avenue, tuning backwards to wave to the Spencer family one last time. I have truly become a fitness junky whose addiction for endorphins worse than any cocaine snorting 1980’s red braced stockbrokers I reflected. I suspect my life expectancy is better atleast! There was just one problem, as I pedalled away I was heading in exactly the wrong direction! The main road out of Melbourne headed south east, before eventually curving northwards up the coast, Darwin was 3148 kilometres North west as the crow flies, and a hell of a lot longer by road!
My first day on the road was a nice round 100 miler to the town of Traralgon. Although it wasn’t the image of a sunny Australia that springs to mind, one that friends back home in rainy england were probably incorrectly envious off. I was cycling in my rain jacket, hiking trousers and wooley hat with my helmet balancing on top, a legal requirement in Australia. No, It wasnt that I’d bought the British weather with me, but that Australia had been hit by a weather phenomen known as La Nina. Spanish for child, no Rolf Harris jokes please. In fact, La Nina had hit for the last 3 years on the trot. I wont claim to be Micheal Fish, though my understanding is that stronger than normal trade winds warm the ocean waters leading to rising air, more clouds, and hey presto, more british weather! About time they had our shit weather I thought, just not while i’m here! Its not so easy being a smily happy nation when its pissing it down everyday is it, the cynic in me thought! The end result was some of the most shocking weather every recorded resulting in mass evacuations of towns. Crossing many large bridges I witnessed several rivers almost bursting their banks with tree tops poking out the top gasping for air. What was even more bizarre was to then pass areas of blackedened trees and scorched forest moments later, further evidence of the damage from global warming we have done to our lovely planet.
Arriving in Traralgon, It felt like I’d just survived a day in the Scottish mountains, as I dove into an old hotel bar and sat down next to the roaring log burner to warm up and dry myself out. I ordered a cider and a pizza, though knew I should have not procrastinated and found a place to pitch my tent first. I quickly found myself to be the centre off attention, in a boozer whose clientele can only be described as upbeat wetherspoons weekday drinkers. I was surprised how busy it was for a Monday, then remembered it was the Melbourne cup the next day, an Australian bank holiday. Word quickly got around that I was a British guy cycling the globe. Whilst stuffing the first slice of pizza down my neck, head looking down at the table to not gain attention, a red faced bloke, with bad teeth and glasses so strong his eyes appeared to stick out the side of his head, made a b-line for me. Why does this always happen at the end of a big day when when i’m exhausted and hangry I thought!! “Where are you from mate!?” he spat at me. “Leicester” I replied with a mouth full of pizza. My attempted at stuffing my face more than normal to not attract unwanted attention clearly hadn’t worked. “Leicester….nahhhhhhh….i can’t believe it, naahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! I’m from facking Blaby, right close by!” he said with the enthausiasm of someone that had just discovered there long lost twin brother. The predictable number 2 question, “where are you cycling to??”, came next, “ That’s facking amazing, your gonna see so much cul- ta, what your gonna see is like this…what other people see it like this!” The last sentence repeated hundred of time’s, hands held facing each other errectly by the side of his enormous eyes for “everyone else” and then instantly shot out directly 2 feet apart for me!” Lovely chap, though time for bed! I still had to find somewhere to pitch my tent and it was almost dark!
The Sydney sprint took 7 days, 100 miles per day, give or take. As well as being very wet, it was suprisingly hilly too. Relentlessly up and down all the way. The stops, for those with an Australian passport that this might mean something to……or those like me that find it tantalizing to dust off the old Collins Atlas and plan routes around the world were:
Traralgon
Lakes Entrance
Cann River!!!
Merimbula
Moruya
Nowra
Sydney!
My favourite of those stops was Cann River, at the junction of the Princess and Monato Highways, population 194. One of the last towns before the state of Victoria ends and New South Wales begins. As I first arrived in Cann River and pulled into a gas station, collecting my thoughts and working out where to pitch my tent with nightfall fast approaching, a young dude with a backwards baseball cap in a pickup truck takes great interest and comes over for a chat. He is pulling his life possessions in a trailer and moving to New South Wales. In disbelief at my trip, he pulls out his phone and starts a selfie video, “This man is cycling all the way from Australia back to England!” He begins with huge energy and enthusiasm followed by a few woops! I look at myself in the camera and feel a bit of a twit, though try to go along with it, wishing I was more American and could add a few “HELL YEAHS!!” and “WOOPS!” myself. Cringeworthy, though good on him for being so supportive, it was a far cry from my early days as a firefighter at Canterbury firestation, when a guy on a bike travelling across europe turned up and I was advised by the older boys to, “ Tell that weirdo to Fuck Off!” Us brits aren't the most hospitable at times are we!
This strategically placed isolated small town reminds me of travel from a bygone era, long before the days of google maps or sat navs. A place people would no doubt reach with great relief, a chance for a warm meal and to fill a near empty fuel tank….or feed a starving horse! The first western settlers to Cann River were in 1841 to graze cattle, though the area was abandoned as Aborigines speared the cattle. The Morgan family then took up Cann Station in 1879 and a small settlement took shape. In 1928 a brick hotel was built, where I enjoyed a cider in the old bar after pitching my tent, some 94 years later. Unfortunately the relaxing moment was somewhat spoiled by an ageing drunk hot shot sitting opposite who was determined to chat.. Ask me what my surname is, he kept demanding! I asked him, his surname meant absolutely diddly squat! He went on to boast to me, and anyone else that cared to listen that he was an ex professional Ozzy Rules Football player. Why he thought a I man from the other side of the world would have heard of any Ozzy Rules players, a game where men in tight shorts run inside an oval trying to kick a ball between not 2, but 4 posts, never mind a player from 30+ years ago of a game only played only in specific regions of Australia, I have no idea. Hopefully he found someone who will listen!
Several dead kangaroos, one dead-looking snake and one live red-belly black, crossing just a few feet in front of me later, I reached the beautiful city of Sydney once again, in 7 days, just as planned. Tim and Nick, good friends from London, were visiting Sydney and had booked a table for the 3 of us at Shaun’s restauarnt on Bondi Beach. I was determined not to miss them - hence the Sydney Sprint. I had known Tim from my years of winter swimming at Brockwell Lido. Before the Wimm Hoff boom came along and cold water swimming’s popularity increased overnight, there had been a small number of regular winter swimmers, all big characters with outrageous personalities. From a Spanish restaurateur, Victor, 50, bald with a big belly and goatee beard who would stand on his head in the middle of the pool to Adam the sound engineer for the Fuu Fighters to city lawyers who dressed like hippies and would cycle from the freezing pool to the city without even taking a warm shower - “I like to prolong the shivers!” I recall one saying! This eccentric bunch would emerge from the freezing art deco pool, where water temperature could drop below 3 degrees in winter, and then bundle themselves in the wood fired sauna on the poolside as they buzzed with endorphins. One of these eccentrics was my friend Tim, 62, a talented artist who painted portraits of people’s dogs. Tim was married to Nick, an incredibly witty and charasmtic man who was a big time player in the shipping insurance industry.
The last time I saw Tim and Nick was at their outrageous champagne fueled annual pool party in their lovely 3 storey Victorian terraced house on Josephine Avenue, Brixton. A gorgeous tree-lined street a stones throw from the lido. I hadn’t long arrived at the party when Nick grabbed me by the hand and shouted, “Come on Simon! Get in the pool…there's only 10 gay men in there wearing speedos, I don’t know what you're worried about!!” Nick had done very well for himself and overtaken Tim as the bread winner and now claimed to “fund Tim’s lifestyle!” They live a very enviable life jetting off around the world every couple of weeks. It was no surprise that the meal at Shauns restaurant was sublime and extremely generous of them. Each of the many bottles of wine and champangne equating to my weekly budget. After the meal I came back down to earth as I walked back hammered to my embarrasment of a hostel, whist Nick and Tim returned to the best hotel in Sydney, the 5 star Crown Towers. I’d barely fallen asleep when I was awoken to shouting in the room so loud I thought I was in a Ibiza nightclub. My roomates had returned from a party and were determined to continue it in the dorm. Hungover and cranky I wanted to say something, but came to the quick conclusion that I was a 40 year old dude at a hostel on bondi beach, what was I expecting!? I would have been exactly the same 15 years ago. I grabbed my pillow and fell asleep in the downstairs living room, where the hostel owner found me the next morning. I’ve had better nights sleep!
The next morning I woke with a steaming hangover, packed my bags and hit the highway. Stopping off for a coffee and to say farewell to Tim and Nick at the Crown Towers. My battered bicycle could not have looked more out of place parked next to the supercars at the valet parking. I’m pretty sure I was about to be escorted out if Tim and Nick didnt show up to meet me in the nick of time - excuse the pun! They showed me there room, which was bigger than my house and had direct views of Sydney harbour bridge. I can’t say I wasn’t jealous. The picture below is not a crack house, but my hostel, you get the picture! My hostel wasn't cheap at 70 bucks a night either, though it was certainly cheaper than Tim and Nick’s week at the Crown Towers, for which you could seriously buy a new car. Sorry Tim I just had to google the price, rooms starting at a thousand bucks per night!?! Before I knew it I was crossing the Sydney harbour bridge and on my way!
Heading north on the Pacific Highway the road remained hilly until the city of Newcastle and then finally flattened out. After a couple of smaller days still recovering from my Sydney Shenanigans I was soon back into the groove and shooting up the coastline. I tried to get a balance between making good progress on the highway and diving off on the slower small roads to see as much of the coast as possible and dip into the beautiful azure sea. Some of these were dead end roads and others required tiny ferries to cross river inlets, which I was careful to avoid. I had never really understood the British Obsession for Australia, with so many daytime TV shows dedicated to people choosing a life in Britain or down under. Had it not occured to people that there a several other countries with a pretty decent climate a hell of a lot closer than Australia!? Italy, Spain, Turkey……Africa!? Or is it that we are too lazy to learn a new language or want something not too dissimilar from home. Although I have to admit, I was starting to become a convert. The whole east coast of Australian was bloody beautiful. Hundreds of small simple towns, a bakery, coffee shop and a white sand surf beach on your doorstep. I don’t know how the Australian economy didn’t fall into recession with homeworking after the panademic. One bloke in his 50’s I got chatting to laughed about there being, “a lot of people on surfboards who were apparently at home on their laptops!”
Chitchats on the road were a daily occurence. My big criticism about the people is not a criticism at all…..it's just self-criticism for the occasional time I’m tired and grumpy on the road, that they are too friendly! Everyday I would find myself trying to enjoy my lunch in a quiet spot when I’d hear the words, “Where ya off to!?” in that familiar happy-go-lucky ozzy accent. “Nowhere at this rate”, I’d laugh to myself! A curious and adventure loving nation, always wanting to know:
Where I’m going, How many miles I cycle per day, where I sleep……. always followed with some positive encouragement, “Good on ya!!”, or by telling everyone else in the bar what you were up to.
Good on them for being such a friendly bunch of people. I’d barely gotten out of my tent to pack it away one morning, on the riverbank at the small town of Coopernook, when an old fella covered in tattoos called Mal came over for a chat. Mal carefully positioned himself in between the two guide ropes of my tent. Bearing in mind it's a one-man tent - that's pretty close. We were having this chat if I liked it or not! I literally had to navigate around Mal like a car going around a roundabout to pull the pegs out and pack the tent away. There were occasional moments when I was allowed to breathe as he disappeared to his beat up car to retrieve some random objects from the boot to show me, first a home-made boomerang, then some old coins. Mal offered me a lift, whilst looking down at his multicoloured painted toes to quickly assure me, “I ain't a pufter or anything like that!” I didn’t care what he was, I just don’t take lifts full stop, I explained.
Mal seemed a decent bloke who I felt somewhat sorry for, apparently an outcast from his town, he just wanted someone to admire his boomerang and coin collection. Though first thing in the morning, fresh out the tent and in desperate need of a poo is never a good time for conversation! In moments like this I remind myself to be patient, one day I could be that crazy old man desperate to chat, with stories of cycling the globe boring the life out of a care worker into thinking I’m a delusional old man that has lost the plot. Ever since I lost my temper with what seemed like the 100th person to come for a chat, after a long day on the road in India some years back, I promised myself never to be that impatient middle class Brit. Afterall, I travel for 2 main reasons, to see the country and meet its people. I am a foreigner in someone else's land and the bare minimum I can do is be polite, I keep telling myself.
7 and a bit days and approximately 900 kilometres from Sydney I reached the Gold coast. The road was sensational the whole way, often cutting across huge bridges with crystal clear fresh water rivers filtering into the sea. The only bad parts was the little shits driving there parents cars and heckling abuse at me! It must have been that time of the year when they break up from school and everyone gets very exciteable. The favourite was to go right alongside me and bark like an aggressive dog. One kid even shouted cock sucker as he swerved right by me, only to be stopped by a traffic light a 100 metres later, “you like sucking cock do you mate!?” I shouted as I pulled my bike in front of the car preventing him from moving off, whilst gesturing the motion with my hands and mouth. The windows quickly wound up as he shrank into his seat, quickly losing keenness to impress his mates in the back. I know I shouldn’t react, though it's hard to bite your tongue on the bike at times!
Approaching the Gold Coast I didn’t know what to expect. Like always, I purposely hadn’t looked at any online photos of what lay ahead. It makes no sense, it would be like secretly opening all your christmas presents under the tree and faking surprise when you re-open them in front of the family! The Gold coast remained a surprise, and it was, it was like receiving a Gucci shirt when you were expecting one from Billabong with a VW camper on the front. Glamorous shiny Dubai style buildings 100 stories high reached for the stratosphere aligning a beautiful never-ending white beach, visible for miles. Surfers Paradise was the epiccentre of the Gold Coast with its Las Vegas style strip. Here, fake lips, botox and fillers were the order of the day. A touch of subtle botox to take back the years I can understand, though half the women looked like they’d been smacked in the face by Mike Tyson, overinflated lips about to explode like a huge white headed spot on an oily tennager. Hardly the hippy laid back Patrick Swayzesk Point Break surf town I was expecting! Though depsite its lack of genuine character, people seemed to live well. Always running up and down the beach, surfing, playing Volleyball or swimming at one of the several world-class Olympic Sized swimming pools.
The Gold coast was also an opportunity to catch up with an old colleague from the Old Kent Road fire station, James Bradley. Jimbo was a character, as a firefighter his sideshow jobs included being a nude waiter, a personal trainer for the BBC’s Andy Peters and a part time model. The later led to an appearance on the ITV show “Loose Women” where, stripped down, but only to his boxers this time, he was dressed on live TV by middle aged women into his firefighting attire. Unfortunately, certain members of the watch didn’t appreciate Jimbo’s quirkiness, mainly the ones whose main hobbies in life were being miserable! After leaving the brigade on sabbatical, vowing never to return, Jimbo travelled and worked his way around Australia and New Zealand and was living his dream. After a stint as an airport firefighter in New Zealand, where the blokes were even more miserable than back home, it was enough of the fire brigade for Jimbo. Next, a gym instructor on the gold coast and his favourite of the 3, manager of a hostel, where, after shagging his way through the clientele he met his now wife, a lovely Swedish girl with whom he has a lovely 1 year old son. He now puts his charm and charisma to good use working in sale’s and has just written his first fictional book, Truly deserved!
An easy 100 km day led me to Brisbane, host of the 2028 Olympics. For a city that gains very little attention it was pleasant enough with a few colonial style buildings and a west end which reminded me of alternative east london. 100km north of Brisbane I passed by Australia zoo, founded by the brillaint Steve Irwin. A true character and legend in my book. It was hard to believe that of all the dangerous situations he put himself in, a normally tranquil stingray had killed him. The same creature that had left me screaming and paralysed in my speedos on a beach following an early morning swim in Mexico (On my way down to Argentina cycling the Americas, some five years ago). Stopping for a photo under the big picture of Steve at the Zoo’s entrance was a must, also wearing my ridiculous safari style hat not dissimilar to Steve’s. Soon after Australia Zoo I arrived at the Sunshine coast. The less egocentric and gold obsessed version of the Gold Coast.
The Sunshine Coast was the new home to a good friend of mine. Andrew, a Canadian who I had met at the University of Toronto, where I had gone on an exchange program from my home University, Lancaster, back in 2001, some 21 years ago. I had landed a week before the September 11th terrorist attacks and days after found myself paraded around downtown Toronto with 1000’s of other students, all of us wearing University labelled blue pjamma like hospital trousers and a white 80’s sunvisor chanting, “My degree says U of T!” and “Scarboro campus in the Jungle you can hear out froshes rumble!!” referring to the tiny edge of city location in thick forest where the University of Toronto “Scarborough” campus lay. I thought I’d chosen Toronto not Texas, I thought to myself, mildly embarrassed to say the least, the chants sounding even more silly in the English accent. If things weren't surreal enough, Ben Johnson, the disgraced but brilliant former 100m Olympic champion and World record holder, waved as he passed by in a convertible Porsche.
Me and Quinn were put in a campus houseshare with 4 other weird and wonderful characters, in house number B8, a tiny brick house set in the trees with just 500 on-campus students. The result was chaos. On leaving the campus to return to Lancaster, I tried to help Quinn and the others with their application to remain on campus the following year, which was based on a points system for ex-curricular activities. Our list was both plentiful and diverse, including:
1)Blind Recycling - Using shopping trolleys to do the recycling together whilst all blindfolded - there was a real art to getting everything in the right bins.
2)The B8 high board diving team - a weekly session where we egged each other to do flips off the high board at the U of T downtown campus.
3) The B8 white water rafting team - A walmart blow-up dingy with a blow-up sofa tied to the back was taken down the white water river which ran through the forest at the back of the University. Not wanting to do it half-heartedly, We waited till after a rainstorm when the flow was at its peak, the velocity of ther river bought the craft to the centre of the river, and, unable to escape the strong surge of white water with our plastic paddles, over a weir! Things got a little hairy when I became submerged on the rear mounted sofa underneath the cascading current of the weir. Victor, a Saudi / American exchange student, saved the day by grabbing a huge tree branch and dragging us back to shore
4) Finally, there was the B8 revolution, an alchohol fuelled house party where the living room floor was covered in matresses, lights fitting replaced by seedy sex-district style red bulbs and the only invitiations seemed to go to female students! The highlight of the event was church going country boy Bruce, complete with loafers and a 1970’s knitted jumper with a large golf player on the front, downing half a bottle of spirits and doing his trick of falling backwards as if unconscious from a high desk onto the floor, all the girls screaming in disbelief! I distinctavely recall one girl accusing me in a very whiny canadian accent of, “Simon, this B8 revolution seems a plot just for you guys to grope women!” Looking back at me as a 19 year old naive virgin exchange student, I don’t know what the true intent of the B8 revolution was, probably just 5 very immature male students having a blast and living life!
Despite my persistent defence that, “everyone on campus was invited, what about the B8 revolution?!”, to the Head of Residence’s complaint that, “All these events were just for your house!” Unfortunately we didn't see eye to eye, and all members of the B8 house were awarded nil points. I did get one nice souvenir from the University though, an official University of Toronto headed disciplinary letter threatening expulsion from the campus, that still hangs proudly on my noticeboard at home, for “drunkenly pushing individuals around the campus in shopping trolleys whilst running away from campus police ''.
I’m waffling far too much….. Though after so many old memories, I was extremely excited to arrive at Quinn's house in an area known as Buddina, where he lived with his Australian wife, Kelly. Their modest single storey home sat on a cul-de-sac, surrounded by big plots that had houses demolished and rebuilt as super mansions. Apparently a lot of money had come into the area off the back of Covid with people migrating out of the big cities of Sydney and Melbourne. What was not obvious on arrival, was that Andrew’s house backed onto an impressive man made harbour that eventually went out to sea. Andrew told me that because his boat had a small low horsepower engine, we could legally go on the piss in his boat - more wishful thinking than fact in my opinion, I was happy to go with it. We jumped into his wobbly green tin boats and set off. First stop, an enormous glass house perched directly on the water. The owner was Forry, a school friend of Quinn's wife. Middle aged with an enormous belly and even bigger boat, Forry was an extremely successful builder and had self built his impressive 2 million dollar superyacht, complete with carbon fibre sails. It sat on the water directly in front of the house. We jumped on board, homeless to billionaire, downing a few beers with Forry before crashing back down to earth clambering back onto the small rig. Next stop on the water was a swanky looking restaurant, Andrew piloting the humble boat backwards into the docks while everyone watched from the restaurant balcony in Ray Bans.
Legs feeling a little fresher after 2 great days catching up I got back on the bullet to visit my final set of Ozzy friends that lived just 27 km north of Quinn, Adam and Suse. It was a shame that I exhaused my list of friends to visit and yet wasn’t even a third of my way through Australia! However, this wouldn’t be the last time I saw my Canadian friend, Quinn had a cunning plan up his sleeve. A keen cyclist himself, he had offered to be my support vehicle for a few days, setting up camp ahead of me in his 20 year old Toyota Landscruiser, with 300,000km on the clock, it was, “only a puppy!” he exclaimed. From beers with billionaires on superyaghts to a dedicated support vehicle, this was a lifestyle I could get used to.
Adam and Suze were the perfect golden couple. Both good looking, intelligent and successful with an upbeat energy and zest for for life. Even there surname is, “Goldin!”. Adam, who works in tech, is an old ozzy friend of Robinson’s (and the technological mastermind beind designing the like 3 website) and had met Suze through the houseshare in which we all lived 10 years ago, 194 Cavensih Road, Clapham South. A pretty sweet story. They were not the only peeople to marry through that house in the time I lived there either, affectionately known as the House of Love. After leaving London they moved back to just south of Noosa, where Suze had lived years before and recently purchased the most wonderful house, filled it with 3 brilliant kids and wacked a recycled container ship swimming pool in the garden. The timing of the purchase was impeccable, right before the panademic. There neighbour, who must be kicking themselves, bought the smaller house nextdoor just 2 years latter for over double the price. Perched on a hill with a huge terrace that overlooks the most unbeliveable far reaching views off the green jagged glasshouse??? Moutains ahead. Who needs a sea view when you have views like that i thought.
Waving goodbye after seeing my final set of friends on the list I pedaled the short distance north to Noosa Heads, a busy but beautiful beach town set in lush tropical vegeation, to say my farewells, though this time to my friend the sea, that had accompanied me so inspiringly since leaving Melbourne. I made an abrubt left turn then started heading west, inland towards the outback. The good news was that I would be meeting up with my support team that evening. Quinn had driven ahead to the first stop, a big plot of land owned by the eccentric Ozzy Mick (Kelly’s Brother) accessible only by 4x4 in the middle of the bush. Just north of the tiny town of Woolooga the ranch was complete with an old barn stuffed with everything from engine parts to an old jet ski and about 15 antique Toyota Landcruisers lined up rusting away outside. Enough projects to last a lifetime, nevermind the fact Mick intended to build his house there too. Quinn met me by the road juction as agreed, chucked the bike on the back with his newly bought marketpplace 2nd hand towball bike carrier, and we headed through a dusty track dodging kangaroos on-route the the ranch. A few beers, an open fire and a spectacular lightning display made a great first camp. The next morning I was dropped off in the exact spot on the highway I had met Quinn 12 hours previously. Infact, I pedalled back 10 metres before that line just to make sure, and, belly full, hit the road.
The second stop was the town of Gayndah, the oldest town in Queensland, where we popped into the local fire station to ask where we could camp and grab a beer, hoping the answer would be, “the firestation!” The friendly station manager didnt seem to get the hint, though did give us a great tour of the well-kitted out, but surely rarely used, station. Thankfully I wasnt asked any technical questions, i’m pretty good at setting staion boobytraps, but answering questions about anything related to the fire service is’nt my strongpoint. “Busy old ship are ya!?” I wanted to ask, though wasn’t sure I could do so with a straight face! He warned me to be careful, one of the firefighters wifes had died just 2 weeks ago, not by fire, but bitten by the notorious brown snake. Its poison is so deadly you have just 30 minutes to get to hospital. He suggested a great hotel bar and campsite set at the site of the dis-used historic railway and sent us on our way. The bar, which claims to be Queensland's oldest, had a quirky crowd. “What are you doing here?” the bartender asked me, “lived here all my life, What are you doing here, you dont look familar!?” I replied, laying on the British accent. I explained I was cycling to Darwin then onwards to the UK. “Ya facking idiot, in summer, what you doing that for!” a man probably 15 years older than myself retorted, with the charisma and humour that made the otherwise agressive comment very funny and appropriate! His beer and ciggarettes on the bar and prematurely wrinkled face suggesting he was quite partial to a pint and cigarette or 3. I asked him if he wanted to join me on the bike, he didnt seem keen.
Meanwhile back in London, my own fire brigade was in the news for all the wrong reasons! A damning report had called the brigade, “Institutionally misogynist and racists” with a culture of bullying, all of which was plastered all over the news and papers.It seemed an unfair attack on a brigade that, in my opinion, couldn't have been trying any harder to prevent bullying and to create a more diverse and compassionate workforce. The chief, Andy Roe, unlike others in the past, was compassionate and liked to get to know firefighters at station level. He had often used our energetic watch when high profile guests came to visit. On one occasion The Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, stopped by to visit. After asking where he lived in Canterbury (he doesn't live in Canterbury) and then diverting the topic away from boring brigade chitchat to Africa, a continent which he loved despite being kidnapped in Nigeria, I managed to get the Archbishop to slide down the pole, breaking every insurance policy in the book as the chief and his staff watched on in horror. When the London Mayor Sadiq Khan came the next month, I wasn't allowed anywhere near him!
The 3rd and final stop with Quinn was the best of all. Cracow, a tiny gold mining town sitting on red earth dotted with tropical plants and an old hotel at its core, the Hotel Crakow . We set up camp and went for a farewell drink at the old Hotel bar, an impressive large wooden building with huge verandas that wouldn't look out of place in a Clint Eastwood movie. The owner, former hardman Fred Brophy, was the icing on the cake. Fred was an Australian legend, born to a trapeze artist mother and circus operating father, brophy had a taste for violence and was hustling for cash in his fathers boxing tent by the time he could stand on 2 feet. His violent career had led to him being shot with a double barrel shotgun more than 100 times and Fred himself cutting parts of his own fingers off in an attempt to escape prison. Fred Brophy’s Boxing Troupe, the only legal boxing tent still in existence in Australia, continues to this day, touring Queensland, keeping an old school Australian fighting tradition from before the times of “Political correctness” alive. “Who wants a fight!?” Brophy would bark, to which Inebriated punters would throw their hands in the air to accept the challenge of taking on one of Brophy's men. Fred’s drinks seemed to get cheaper throughout the night, to the extent that the last couple of rounds he asked if he could, “sport us a beer”. Shortly after I left the bar to go to my tent, Fred ran after me, though thankfully only to return my charger that I had left behind the bar!
A mile before the angular black stick numbers of my bicycle speedometre momentarily disappered from 2999 to re-appear as 3000 miles it was time to shake Quinn by the hand and say farewell for another few years.It had been a blast.
Back on the bullet I was heading in a north westerly direction on the small roads in the direction of the town of Emerald. As I did, the temeratures ramped up, the land slowly became more desertlike and distances between towns rapidly increased as town sizes decreased. The first town I hit was called Theodore, situated in the quirkily named county of Bannanshire, where yes, they grow bannanas. A small but pretty town with most its sevices on one main street. A good chance to stock up on emergency supplies of sardines and fresh fruit and vegetables to cook with I thought, until my heart-sunk when I saw the supermarket window broken and shop closed awaiting the police. Things like this werent supposed to happen in towns like Theordore you could tell, it was the talk of the town everywhere I went, including the clerk at the post office, the only other place to buy food essentials. With a few overpriced post office groceries in my panniers, Theodore was also a chance to get my bike welded, the round eyelid where the pannier rack screws to the bicycle had recently sheered straight off. A nice guy at a scruffy looking metal work shop just over the bridge on the edge of town did a brillant job and skillfully re-attached the tiny eyelid back to the frame for a very reasonable 20 ozzy dollars. I tried to offer 25, which he reluctantly accepeted. Will it be as strong as when it was new I asked? “Oh shit yeah!” came the instant reply with inspiring confidence from a man that clearly knew his welding.
The 60 highway took me west to Rolleston where I joined the main highway heading north to Emerald, a large town sitting at the juntion of the A7 going north to Cairns and the A4 running east west from Longreach towards the Coral sea. Emerald was the first big town I would see since leaving the coast and also the last for 1000 kilometrs until I reached Mount Isa. I could tell that from my McDonalds scale. Nothing scientific, only my way of measuing town size based on whether they had a McDonalds restaurant or not. Around the world on a bike Mcdonalds had been my source of taking a dump, cleaning my teeth, cheap coffee, ice to put in my water and free wifi. Though at 6 dollars for a coffee it had to be crossed off my list for Australia! Instant capuchino mix, bore water and my gas stove would have to suffice for now.
The free municipal government campsite at Emerald was on the edge of town under an old disused rail bridge. I’m not sure what the description of campsite is, but a stone carpark is’nt much good for hammering tent pegs into. My single pole one man was like the arch at Wembley football stadium and would’nt stand-up by itself without being anchored to the ground. I opted for the neighbouring Botanic gardens, pretending not to see the “No Camping signs”. On the subject of “definitions”, neither am I sure what the definition of a shower is, but standing naked outside the public toilet and tipping water on my head from the sink using an old lemonade bottle seemed to do the trick. About to get in my tent a man aproached me in the dark, not to rob me, but to see if I wanted to join his family for a nighttime picnic. Why not!? His son and daughter had just broken up from school and they were celebrating. It was good to chat and gain a locals insight. As 50+ metre cattle roadtrains passed by on the highway his kids would call out the name of the cattle firm based on the trucks colours. What a lovely family I reflected as I prepared to depart for my tent, when the father left me with his departing wisdom, “Watch out for the blacks!”. Time for bed on that one! I left for my tent not knowing what to think, such generosity mixed with such racism! Obviously referring to the aboriginees, It was a comment I was about to get used to hearing in Australia’s outback.
Heading due west to Alpha would be my first test of an increasingly hot and remote Australiant outback. 168 Kilometres with nada inbetween apart from a few dead Kangaroos, lots of red earth and a sun determined to drain every last ounce of my energy, making me wilt like an abondoned plant in a greenhouse during a heat wave. Despite my early start, the sun was at full strength by 8am and my water finshed before I had covered the 104 mile stretch. Vision’s of an ice cold shandy quickly disspeared by the time my weiry legs rolled over for the last time, the blue bullit rolling into the mining town of Alpa, population 559. The town was originally a temporary terminus during the construction of the Central Western Railway and remembered to be a very rough town. With its erily quiet wide treelined boulevards, detoriated and anbonded wooden buildings covered in large sun-faded paintings of a bygone area, I had no problems imaging it being the Wild West. In fact, I was beginning to wish it still was, atleast there would have been a saloon to buy a cold drink! As I stumbled into town on Saturday afternoon, everything was shut for business like New Years day back home. About to give up, I stumbled across a vending machine hidden away beside a gas station. I immediately began the raid, alternating between cold mike and coke, chugging it down like a student at a pint downing contest! Life slowly returining to my sun-beaten body. More planning needed next time!
Barcaldine, lying on the tropic of Capricron, 142km west would be the next stop as I attempted to play trivia pedaling west. “What is the most famous tourist attraction in Barcaldine!?” the signpost read. Followed by, “Stay alive - Play Trivia” and “Rest or RIP” and numerous other signs warning me about the dangers of tiredness on these long straight endless roads. These signs arent much good for cyclists I thought, by the time I’d arrived at the answer an hour later I’d forgotten the question! “The tree of knowlege”, Barcaldine’s number one attraction, is a 200 year old ghost gum tree outside the railway station, now nothing more than a few dead twigs supported by a huge wooden superstructure after some little runt poisoned the tree in 2006. It was the meeting point for the shearers’ strike, one of the most important industrial disputes in Australia and an important icon of the labour party. I pitched up my tent on the grass just back from the main road and went for a drink at the Railway hotel, opposite the poisoned tree. Elliot, a young man with a British accent chirpily asks what I would like to drink. “A Brit working in the arse end of the Australian outback!?” Elliot, explained his intentions to move to Australia and in order to extend his tourist visa, must spend 3 months working in a “rural” location.
The owner, Pauline, a lovely lady in her 70’s told me the wooden built hotel, originally built in 1886, it had burnt down 4 times. With just buckets for firefighting The only way to stop the fire spread into surrounding buildings was to tear down the building nextdoor before the fire intensified. “Can I sport you a drink?” she asks me and offers me a free room in the hotel. Sport me a drink?! I can’t remember an occasion in my 22 year post 18 adult life when a Bar tender anywhere has, “sported me a drink”, never mind a free room in a hotel! I race off into the night to take down my tent, and, half expecting the generosity to have been in some sort of implied exchange where Pauline rocked up in her nighty knocking on my door an hour later, I crept up the creaky wooden staircase to my room and hit the hay.
Refreshed and invigorated from one of the best night’s sleep since leaving Melbourne, Pauline did’nt knock on my door, I continued my journey westwards into the heat for an easy 108km day to Longreach, the fomer home of Quantas Airways (The Queensland and Northern Terriotry Aerial Services Limited). A huge 747 Airline with its distinctive red and white kangaroo livery sits proudly next to the highway, where the original hanger, built in 1930, still stands. The middle of the outback seems a strange place to start a Airline I thought, apparently its origins were off the back off the Ozzy government offering £10,000 squids to the first Australian who completed the flight from England to Australia in 28 days. Pilots Fysh and McGinness were unable to compete in the race when their financial benefactor died shortly after the start of the race. The Ozzy government subsequently employed the 2 pilots to survey the route for race contestants, leading them to the Northern Terriotry and the realisation of what potential the location had for an air service linking outback towns lacking rail connections. The rest, as they say, is history. I was about to say, “Its still No British Airways!”, though BA is hardly the queen of the skies these days, its no Concorde anyway!
(winton - if time) snake dream, workers laughing, spinkler, big spider on tent.
419 Kilometres north west of Longreach, I reached, excuse the pun, the Walkabout Creek Hotel. The single storey building has a rustic bar, although other than a small caravan park out the back, doesnt seem to offer any “hotel” accommodation. If the name sounds familiar, it probably is, it's the hotel in which the 1986 blockbuster movie, Crocodile Dundee was filmed. Located in the town of Mckinlay, a collection of a dozen buildings in the middle of an long desert road, elevation 170 metres. The location scout really couldnt have picked a more authentic spot for shooting bushman Mick Dundee. That ain’t a knife! P.S. Anyone reading that hasnt got a clue what i’m speaking about, watch the film, you havent lived! Pitching my tent on a bit of wasteland opposite, I walked across the deserted highway (no need to check for traffic) stepped up onto the wooden veranda and pushed open the creaky hotel door. Walking across the floorboards in the direction of the bar, I see a wooden cutt out of Mick Dundee, a crocodile’s head, some old photo memrobilia and the original sun damaged “Walkabout Hotel” sign hanging from a wall. The bartender, who is also the owner, has a large white beard that Santa himself would be proud of. Today, there were 4 other customers in the bar, I ask santa if they are often busy, ““yesterday we did’nt have a single customer!” How many people live in the town I ask, “it was 8, now 7, someone died” came the reply. I chuckled. . Even if the whole town got pissed every night you’d still would’nt get rich I thought! Apart from myself and 3 others who were also passing through, there was just one local. I use this term loosely, he is a local cattle farmer and has driven 125 kilometres for a pint at his “local” bar. His closest supermarket is 250 kilometres, he explains. As well as a couple of drinks, I’d hoped to get some dinner at the walkabout creek after exhausting my supplies. Nothing in the fridge, I have to settle for a microwaved pie out of a plastic packet, a pack of crisps and ice cream, of which I have 2 rounds. It was a far cry from the nutritious feed my body craved. I go to bed hungry, but with fond memories of Walkabout Creek.
Next stop, Cloncurry. Home of the flying doctors and destination of the first Quantas flight. Does everywhere in the outback have a claim to fame I was beginning to ask myself. Back in 1928, John Flynn created his dream of the opening the incredibly long winded, “Australian Mission Aerial Medical Service”. By the time you’d called the operator and requested that mouthful you’d probably be dead anyway. The life saving bush pilots are now simply known as the “Flying doctors”, on which the 1985 Australian drama TV series was based. Setting up camp at the Cloncurry Caravan park, I bumped into an incredibly friendly couple in there 60’s, Neil and Jane. There son is a cycle fanatic and set up the legendary, “crazy guy on a bike” website, a cycle information site and hub for tourers to post their journals. With a background in finance and the purchase and sale of a caravan park for profit in the millions, he certainly knew how to fund his cycle trips. Even the crazy guy website was a money maker, run purely by him and relying on donations, this year so far totalled a whopping $59,886. That’s $59,886 more than my blog earns I thought! Neil and Jane were extremely kind, cooked me some soup, and offered to look out for me on the road ahead!
Mount Isa would be my final town, before things started to get really serious.
“Your in Mount Isa, now your a real Ozzy!”
“Mt Isa - premier Rodeo and Mining Town
“Mt Isa - home of champions! - apparently golf player Greg Norman, Wimbledon finalist Patrick Rafter and a couple of “C” list celebrities were born here.
The signs read as I approached the tough, scruffy looking mining town, a huge 270 metre smelter stack sitting on the horizon. Make up your mind I thought, a town can only have one slogan! For me it was chance to try out, “warm shower”. This is not someone peeing on your leg in the shower, but a community website where cyclist’s host you for free. I was well aware of the site, but always pushing the miles not knowing how far I would get each day, never got as far as downloading the app. My host, Wendy, was a wonderful lady her in her late 50’s who worked as a social worker and enjoyed cycling and played live music on weekends. Wendy told me about the need to carry 12 litres of water per day and that a cyclist, by the name of Max, had stayed with her just a couple of days ago. My ears pricked up, I had’nt met anyone travelling on bicycle since starting out in New Zealand. Surely there wast another idiot cycling across the Norther Territory in the middle of summer!?
What lay ahead was the most inhospitable stretch of terrain I had ever cyclist. Camooweal, the next town, essentially a post office, road house and outback police station, was 190 kilometres away. The next stop, Threeways Roadhouse, a whopping 450 kilometres after that!! The only other stop on the road, The Barclay Homested, was closed following a kitchen fire. Preparation, something I dont do very well, would be paramount. I hit the local Coles supermarket and filled the trolley with food I thought would survive well in extreme heat. Cans of tuna, dry pasta, baked beans, parmesan cheese (had to fair better than regular cheese!), musli bars, and a limted amount of fresh tomatoes and broccoli were all on the list. Panniers busrsting at the seems, my bike had never been heavier. I was certain I had enough food. Water, more important than food, I was lacking. Outback highways had basic rest stops every, 50-100 kilmetres. They consisted off a hole into the ground loo, concrete picnic table under a metal canopy to evade the sun, and water tap - either collected into a barrel from the toilet’s rain water run-off or from a bore-hole. “No drinking” was always posted, though with a mixture of purification tablets for drinking and boiling water on my stove for cooking, killing off most parasites, I wasn't overly concerned - I’m sure I’ve drunk a lot worse cycling across India. Bore water could apparently have a high Uranium content, though a few cup fulls wasnt going to kill me surely!! So long as I had enough liquid to make it through the heat to the next rest stop, all should be fine and dandy. Eitherway, panniers already full to the brim, unless I built a trailer for my bicycle, I simply could’t carry that much liquid. 12 litres for 4 days equates to 48 litres of water - thats 24 large Coke bottles!
Keen to hit the road, and a little nervous of what lay ahead, I Ieft Wendy’s house on Sunday evening around 5pm.
DAY 1:
Cycling into the outback night enabled me to witness some of the most spectacular and consistant sunsets I have ever seen. Pedaling towards an awe-inspiring blend of colours, as if fused together by a graffiti artist, seamlessly from red, to yellow, to purple up high into the night sky, each and every night, all to myself. I pedal until around 11pm and pitch up camp next to a road train at a rest area, about 50 miles short of Camooweal. His engines rumbles all night to run ice cold AC in the sleeping compartment. Banned on normal roads, the Australian Road Train’s are the giants of the trucking world, restricted to the outback. Heaved along by 700 Horsepower American trucks with double exhausts that sit vertically like the barrels of tanks, they roar into the endless red landscape, ejaculating puffs of smoke into the air (I knew I could squeeze that word into my blog somehow!). They can legally pull up to 3 trailers with a maximum legal length is 53.5 meters, I saw bigger.
As I arrive in Camooweal the next day, an electronic sign on the back of a trailer flashes to say, “No fuel for 500km”. 500 kilometres!? That is, with zero exaggeration, like leaving London on the M1, passing London Gateway Services and the sign saying, “No fuel to the Scottish Border”. I buy eggs on toast from the road house and some ice cream, my last luxuries for a long time. Leaving all my devices on charge inside, I lie on the covered concrete bench to snooze for half an hour, avoiding the intense midday sun. As I do, a police officer pulls up in 4 x4 and offers to put my water bottles in the freezer at the station. I must remember to ask my local copper if I can do the same back home in England. No point procarstianting any longer, I pedal out of the last urbanisation I will see for days. Leaving town in the blistering sun towards the endless road ahead, a guy waves from his Landcruiser and pumps his fist in the air supportively. I rally myself up, then ponder, should I take it as “go on son!” like I’m Chris Eubank boldly walking into the stadium to take on Nigel Benn in a much anticipated judgement day fight? Or perhaps, it was a wave and a chuckle, more like the bloke in the pub at Gayndah, “cycling into the outback in summer - YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!”? Either way, there was no turning back now.
Despite a head on wind, I pass the huge sign welcoming me to the Norther Terrioties and shortly after reach the Avon Downs Rest area as planned. Not quite a 100 miler, but 99 miles, it will suffice. A good start I think to myself as I spot the rusty steel water butt and go over to fill my empty bottles. I push the brass nob at the base of the tank, nothing comes out. So i go to twist it, confirming it definitely a “push” not a “twist”. It’s empty. Brilliant. Across the road is a decades old emergency telephone box and a couple of single strorey buildings with a green water butt on metal stilts, surrounded by a metal fence. It is the rural Avon Downs police station. I walk towards it using the dynamo light to attract attention, “Who is it!?” the officer calls. “Can I have some water please!” I reply. The friendly officers name is Brandon, mid 40’s, muscular with tattoos, he, along with a female officer, Megan, are the only 2 officers who live and works at this station, covering an area far larger than Tazmania. “We don’t get many guests, would you like to stay here?” he asks, An offer far too good to refuse, I accept immediately. The station comprises of a few cells, the officers house, and a multifunctional building that doesnt seem to have been used for some time, which consists of bedrooms, kitchens and bathrooms - 2 of each, a Tv room and several hundred creepy crawlies. I find it hard to believe my luck as Megan leaves me a towel and sheets on the double bed. I ask them what they do when not answering calls, which can range from traffic accidents to domestic abuse in aboriginal tribes, “we go hunting”, they say smilingly. If you can handle the isolation and 260 km drive to the nearest supermarket, it seemed a pretty good gig, I commented. After a pleasant chat I said goodnight and went to take a shower and a dump. As I stand to wipe my bottom and examine what has just left my rear end, I see a large green frog looking up at me sitting in between 2 bits of large shit.. Do I flush or not, I ask myself?! This country really does have wildlife creeping out of every orpheus! Unexpectedly fresh, cool and clean I passed out in my air conditioned police room.
Day 2 on the Barclay highway -
I jump out of my bed before 5am, a mixture of the early sunrise and subconscious signals sent from brain to body to get my shit together for what lies ahead kickstarts my body with adrenaline like a triple espresso. The twilight appears cool as I leave the police station, though in reality is probably in the high 30’s. The small window where maximum progress can be made is over by 8am, at which point the sun beats down with full intensity. Progress seems harder than ever, which makes sense, there is a heat wave coming from the west. Like cycling 500 self-supported kilometres through summer in the outback wasn't already hard enough! Temperatures that week soared over 45 degrees, and to top it off, the warm air coming from the west meant the wind was head on! After about 50 miles I pull over to the dusty truck rest stop off the highway. I know all the signs off by heart now, “20km to rest area” followed by 5km then 500 metre. Occasioanlly you get a “3km” sign, which, after 1000’s of miles of pedallng on a road that changes very little, is quiet a talking point! I check the green steel water butt. Its empty. This is more than a little concerning, I’ve been good at winging it over the years, though no water in a desert experiencing a heat wave is probably not ideal! After eating my rationed lunch and water, I blow up my air matt and fall asleep on the concrete bench. The heat is so consuming and overwhelming that even the recommened 12 litres of water (which I dont have) is not enough.
Woken from my slumber by the sound of a veichle, I raise my head slightly from the table top to see a 4x4 pulling a caravan approaching me, it looks familiar, its Jane and Neil from the campsite in Cloncurry!! They dispaear to the caravan and re-appear moments later carrying strawberrys, blue-berries, luxury youguts, steak, lemon-infused water, apples, oranges, tomatoes. sandwiches…….unbelieavable!!! In my position, this tastes better than any Michelin Star restaurnant in the world. Most disspaears down my mouth in world-record time,forcing myself to be disciplined, the rest in my pannier. Like that wasnt enough, they tell me they will leave bottles of water on the highway at 30-40km intervals next to the mileage markers, all the way to 3-ways roadhouse where the Barclay Highway ends. There generosirty and kindness is simply staggering, i’m left speechless. The bottles, although piping hot by the time I arrive, are exactly as promised.
Despite the inhospitable climate, wildlife is thriving. Up until this point I’ve seen most of Australias wildlife, 100’s of kangaroos, dinghos, snakes, you name, I’ve seen it all……, 99.9% squashed and dead by the roadside! Many of the kangaroos looked as though there head had bad been decapitated by a medievel guilatine, a complete body with an open hollow neck like a drain pipe, buzzing with flies. Very different from my childhood image drawings in the Rold Harris book my mum bought for Christmas, probably not an ideal present these days. The Dead Roo highway wouldnt be a bad name for the coastal road up from Melbourne to Brisbane! Now, in the Northern Territory, everything was alive! Kangaroos would skip across the road infront of me, huge wedgetail Eagles and Crane birds resting on the tarmac would take flight and glide towards the horizon. Herds of Cattle sensing danger, looking incredibly healthy and muscular given the harsh landscape, would burst into a sprint and run along the highway verge beside me. One even leaped onto the highway, before perfoming a U-turn, narrowly missing a roadtrain coming the other way by a matter of metres. Why they always run away alongside me in the same direction I have no idea! Apparently, despite the scarcity of anything green, what little grows is very high in nutrients and good for cattle farming.
I leave my concrete bed at around 3:30 pm as the sun cools a little to push to the next rest stop, another 40 miles into the headwind, arriving as the sun begins to set. Pulling onto the dusty red soil that leads to the familiar concrete metal roofed picnic table and empty steel water tank, I see a slim skinny bean of a man with waist length hair and a whispy beard cooking on an open fire, Jesus perhaps? His white t -shirt is so filthy it looks more like a brown t-shirt covered in bird shit than a dirty white one. It can only be one man, “Max” I shout out! There is only one other idiot riding there bicycle across the Northern Terriotory, and here he is. Max, 22, a mixture of hippy and genius. Ambitious, yet patienet and philospihcal, there is a lot to like about Max. A graduate in Quantum Physics, he is applying for one of the world’s top Universities in Switzerland to complete his masters, hoping one day to be an astronaut. “Does my accent sound like Arnold Swzngeer, I’m trying to improve”, he asks, whilst eating a huge pot of bland beans “not at all”, I lie. I ask what Quantum Physics means, though I am lost after he says the word “atom” in the first sentence of his response. I chop a tomato, kindly donated by Jane, to add to my already overloaded tuna sandwich, Max’s eyes become fixated on the bright red fruit (it's not a vegetable), Saliva almost dripping from his jaw, like a man that has lived his whole life on war-time rations. I offer him half a tomato, it disappears in seconds. I later find Max has been eating his budget diet of beans everyday for breakfast, lunch and dinner, for most of his trip.
He asks how I cover so many miles, “I get up early, and cycle into the night!” I reply. Max is about to get in his tent for the night and asks if i will camp there too, “I want to do some more miles to make the most of the cool wind-free air” I tell him, he asks if he can join me, “Sure!” I reply. There are rumours that the Barclay homestead, the only place to get food, water, petrol etc on the 500 km stretch between Camoweal and 3-ways might be partially opening tomorrow, after months of closure following a fire, and it's just 38 miles away. We ride long into the night sky, millions of bright shiny stars visible above and finally arrive at the Barclay homested, for me, its a long 118 mile day. Its shut. We camp on the sprinkler watered grass infront of the fuel pumps at around midnight, atleast its easy to push my pegs into the ground!
Day 3:
7 hours pass, and I’m drinking coffee and eating Ice cream for breakfast in an air-conditioned canteen. Albeit only partially, the kitchen and fuel pumps still closed, the timing of the re-opening of the homestead is to perfection. Overpriced out of date Ice cream has never tasted so good. A lazy morning, Eventually, I know I have to quit the procrastination and hit the road. The illusive Threeways Roadhouse would be another gruelling 118 mile ride. The prospect of arriving that day was both tantalizing and torturous. My legs hammered, I’d covered 217 miles in the last 2 days and not had a full day off since leaving the Sunshine coast, 2500 kilometres ago. Struggling to leave the luxurys of a petrol station, I sluggishly get on the road around midday, its 45 degrees. It feels like I’m going backwards, the head on wind is brutal, ripping though the unshielded baron landscape. It’s like I’m in a sauna on a spin bike, temperature control twisted to “MAX” while someone blasts a hairdryer till my lips fall off my face. The next rest area, Frewena, is just 55 Km, its feels like 550. I pull off the tarmac around halfway. Nowhere to sit and no trees for shade, I stand, legs braced either side of the bike at 45 degrees and elbows slouched on the cross bar, taking a not so refereshing sip of boiling water and eating a musli bar. Water just doesn't cut it.
Cycling in 45 degree heat, the body needs sodium and sugar replacement. I hear the roar of a road train behind me, the driver pulls ups and stops the 53 metre beast, winds down the window and shouts, “Do you want a drink!?” and passes me an ice cold orange flavoured sports drink! “Heavenly” does not come close to describing the taste, as I feel my body come back to life as the cold liquid pours down my throat! 20 miles or so further on I reach the rest area, throw my bike to one side and stagger towards the concrete bench, slumping down like a drunk man. I can think off few times in my life when riding 55 kilometres has been so challenging. I wait for Max as agreed and we decide to wait for nightfall to attempt the remaining 130 kilometres together.
Riding down the middle of the empty carriageway in the cool night air, the miles are at first easy to come by. The dynamo lights are excellent and illuminate the road for 100’s of metres ahead, enabaling us to spot and count down the 10KM mileage posts. The few passing trucks become increasingly infrequent until midnight, when they cease passing by all together. In the early hours of the morning progress seems to grind to a halt and the “60km” sign makes Threeways seem a long way off, each 10km sign seeming increasingly further apart. We take a break by lying on our backs in the middle of the road to gaze up at shooting stars. For those who think I’m t-ing up another episode of Broke Back Mountain or the one eyed old Mexican man reaching for my arse, I’m sorry to dissapoint! “Come on Max lets go”, I shout, waking from a microsleep in the middle of the road, critically aware of just how close I was to passing out cold. Not a good way to go! 50, 40, 30, 20, 10…….and then finally in the distance I see the glimour of street lights getting closer and closer, until the road finally stops. The street lights are at the significant intersection that marks the end of the Barclay Highway as it stops, abruptly, colliding into the Stuart Highway, running 2720 kilometres From Adelaide on the South coast of Australia to Darwin at the top. I am over the moon. Threeways roadhouse is just 0.5 kilometre away, to the north on the right hand side, and I am the happiest man in the world ever to arrive at a petrol station. The time is 3:30 in the morning, Thursday 8th December 2022.
The historic Shell roadhouse has a faded “Threeways” sign sitting above a large dusty red forecourt which houses the huge roadtrains. The single pump for the roadtrains is separate and behind the main building to accommodate the trucks poor turning circle. Being the only fuel station for 100s of miles, fuel is at a prenium and 50 percent more expensive . The roadhouse has a cafe selling fried breakfasts and good truckers grub in one room and a watering hole in the other. The ajoining bar has a rustic corregated iron facade?? At which sit bar stools, the area is complete with a jukebox and pool table, historic photos of road trains, as well as number plates and framed tributes to legendary truck drivers, many that have died on the road, are hung from the walls. This is the social hub, the place to drink beer and share stories for drivers and there workhorses, the liveblood that connects and supplies Australia and have kept it running over the decades. A place to kickback after spending days at the wheel and nights sleeping in insolated truck cabs crossing this huge country. At the back of the roadhouse is a small campground, complete with a decades old small swiming pool. Water trickles from a mock fibreglass volcano into the pool, a timewarp of the 1970’s. I jump straight in, the cool water in the early morning hours is intoxicating, pitch my tent, and pass old cold!
The 2720 kilometre Stuart Highway was named after Scottish explorer, John McDouall Stuart, the first European to cross Australia from South to North. Heading north after a richly deserved day off on my final stretch of this kangaroo infested land, I pass by the first rest stop, Attack Creek. This is the point at which Stuart had to turn back after coming under attack from aboriginal tribes. You can’t really blame them, if I saw a hairy, ginger, miserable Andy Murray of a scotsman crossing my land I'd probably throw a few spears too! North of Attack Creek, I set up camp at the Renner Springs truckstop. As I arrive, a driver steps down from his huge roadtrain, his equally huge belly pouring out from under his t-shirt, and goes to buy junk food. Despite its concentration of Bondi Beach fitness fanatics, Australia is a surprisingly overweight nation (in the world???) As I enter the roadhouse, one of the workers asks, “which way are you going” and without giving me chance to reply adds, “Just you wait till you get to……”
“Where!?” I interrupt laughing, “I’ve just come across the Barclay highway and that was 500 Km of nothing in a 45 degree heatwave!?” He has no comeback. Some people the world over can’t help with the, “Just you wait till you get to….” comments, and this one I saw coming a mile away!
Northwards, I hit my first town, Elliot. I call it a town, its a gas station surrounded by run-down slum like houses. Other than a few white folk stopping for fuel, everyone is aborginal. Many are loitering around the petrol forecourt, all without footwear and kids wearing just underpants. This comes as a shock and I feel like I’ve just crossed continent to rural India or Africa, although iIt shouldn't. This is the real Australia, the Aboriginal Australians are the oldest known civilization on earth, with ancestries stretching back over 75,000 years! By comparison, the Europeans have been here a mere 233 years! Nine transport ships accompanied by 2 warships offloaded 850 of our finest convicts from rainy England to the tropical sunny paradise that is New South Wales, what were we thinking! POME, the somewhat affectionate term Ozzy’s call us Brits Literally translates to, “Prisoner of Mother England”. Outside of the fuel station, a young aboriginal child, who can’t have been older than 4, reaches out and gives me a handful of Ozzy dollar notes. I thought this was supposed to be the other way around!? An elaborate ploy to distract me while the parents steal my bike, the cynic in me reflects, a nice gesture from a family who thinks i’m homeless (I look convincing!) or just a child with his parent’s money, more likely!
North of Elliot comes Larrimah, home of the legendary pink panther hotel, a must stop! I pass a burnt out car transporter with the words, “respray” and “for sale” comically graffitied onto the nearby tarmac and one of the scorched brown car’s, the hotel is just after on the left of the Stuart Highway. The main building is a shabby mix of wood and concrete with faded pink paint, outside is a huge fibreglass pink panther sitting on a bench drinking beer and another suspended in a make-shift open air helicopter, the panther’s arms and legs made from drain pipes painted pink. There is a swimming pool the size of a small garden pond, next to which sits a caged freshwater crocodile. A mid-aged Brisbane couple run the place, they offer me a dip in the pool and tell me there is a much bigger “salty” (saltwater crocodile) behind the parrots' cages, though he’s a bit angry! I can only imagine how eccentric the hotels owner must be. Inside, the couple tell me the original bar sits a few metres off the ground so men could drink beer on horseback, old cowboy boots and hats hang from the ceiling.
Larrimah, which is essentially a handful of old buildings, has a colourful and important history. The settlement was initially discovered by accident by telegraph engineers looking for water; the telegraph poles later erected would link Australia’s telephones to the rest of the world. The town which developed would be the point at which the railway from Darwin came to an abrupt stop - the railway to nowhere - and an important staging area for the second world war. Further travel was by light aircraft. When the Japanese opportunistically bombed Darwin, an attack worse than Pearl Harbour, the war planes had to immediately return to Japan before running dry of fuel. Larrimah sat safely several hundred miles strategically south of Darwin (a huge and unintentional piece of alliteration i seem to have just concocted!) and was used to send fresh supplies and troop reinforcements up the line to defend Darwin. The abandoned railway tracks and carriages sit just behind the Pink Panther beneath the beating sun, the last train rolled out of station on the 29th June 1976.
If this little town didn't have enough going on already, a big sign sits next to the highway for “Missing person” as I leave town. Paddy Moriarty, a 70 year-old man and his dog have been missing for a little over four years. Left of the highway is an old house advertising baked pies, on the right is an abandoned petrol station with an adjoining house. The story goes that the the neighbours, who are the only 2 people living in Larrimah other than the Pink Panther owner, disliked each other so much that the pie lady arranged for her gardner to murder her only neighbour. Police recordings from a bug planted in the gardner’s house hear the mutterings of a man which is as good as a confession, though cannot be proven. He walks around as a free man in this wild lawless land. With endless miles of desert terrain, the body could be anywhere. Interest in the case was so high that apparently an American TV firm wanted to produce a Netfick style documentary about the case.
The end is in sight, 183 kilometres North of The Pink Panther I reach Katherine. My first major town since leaving Mt Isa 1286 kilometres ago. I am now in what is known as “The Top End”. The red earth now looks almost chicken tikka like in colour and the once occasional gumtree and spear grass are now plentiful and dispersed with small palm trees. Termite mounds line the highway up to triple head height. I pull into a large gas station and am delighted to see price tags on the food. Since leaving Mt Isa all that has been available is severely overinflated tinned goods all without price tags. My record standout buy being 10 dollars (6 quid) for a bottle of milk. Yogurt, about to expire, reduced to a dollar, chocolate down to 2 dollars, I’m so excited I don’t know where to start! After eating I pitch my tent in the corner of the petrol station car park and wait for Max. A few hours later whilst stuffing my face again in the fuel station canteen Max arrives in the dark, just as agreed. Despite his hippy looks, his approach is Germanic, methodical with Regular water breaks and a steady constant pace. I have to admire Max’s determination, I’ve been cycling for a lot longer and pushing out some big days, yet Max will cycle into the night for as long as it takes to catch me up!
Katherines major attraction is the Katherine Gorge, an impressive river that over millions of years has slowly meandered its way cutting deep into the red rocky landscape. Unfortunately it's a 60km roundtrip Off the highway and getting the motivation to venture there and back to Katherine on an off day was hard. We decided to book a night at a campsite and try our luck the next day hitching a lift. Despite the luxury of a pool, It was quite possibly the worst nights sleep of my life, the humidity of the top end so extreme that the inner of my tent stuck to my head and a pond of sweat had pooled on my groundsheet. If I open the tent for fresh air, I get bitten alive, I don’t know which is worse! Hitching a lift was even less of a success, outside of the dry season tourists are few and far between and standing with my thumb up in the sweaty heat was without reward. We decide to try the information centre to inquire about public transport. On our way there we pass a bar, it's the middle of the day and everyone is hammered! So are the people spilling out onto the streets, most, almost all, are Aboriginal. Throughout the outback, many white Australians had made sweeping comments about all the Aboriginals being pissed…..all of the time, comments I took with a pinch of salt as being huge racist exaggerations. The evidence was hard to dispute. When we arrive the information centre is closed so i decide to ask at the nearby coffee shop. “How can we get to the Katherine Gorge”? I ask to a lady of a similar age to myself who is sitting sipping Coffee, explaining that we are on bicycles and would rather not use them. There is no public transport she explains, the only way is by car. “Do you want to borrow my car?” Haha very funny I think to myself, until the penny drops, she is being serious.
The kindness of the Northern Territories people has been so overwhelming that to a Londoner like me, it's almost shocking. I always aim to take the positive and generous ways of the people I meet overseas back home with me, though I probably won’t be lending my car out to strangers in South London when I get home! Megan is a journalist, as well as reporting on the Larrimah suspected murder case she frequently writes about Aboriginal issues. We jump into her CBB????journalists 4x4 and drive to her house where her car is parked for us to lend. I ask Meggan to shed some light on, “Why the aboriginals are all hammered!?” A question I probably could have worded a little more tactfully, it's clear Meggan doesn't like the way I’ve put it to her! I try to backtrack a little and rephrase the question. I know that Megan could go on for hours about this issue, though my attempting at summarising her answer would be that the Australian Government realised the country has seriously fucked up. When the white europeans first came to Australia the Aboriginal male was categorised as an animal and their land aggressively stolen. In an attempt to compensate for these atrocities money was thrown hand over fist?? To aboriginal communities, free housing, cars, money, you name it. There was little wonder everyone was at the pub and not the office! The problem with alcohol is exacerbated by the fact that aboriginal people do not have a history of getting pissed like their western counterparts. Their bodies simply cannot handle the alcohol and drink related issues such as diabetes are rife. Many towns have government imposed alcohol bans and restrictions and every liquor store has a police presence. Apparently things are now changing, and for the first time ever the Aboriginal people themselves are being asked what THEY want.
The Australian “ROADHOUSE” has been a key part of my trip. The one-stop shop in the middle of the desert road that, other than sex, has satisfied all my cravings. As I near Darwin I am about to pass the last one, The “Emerald Springs Roadhouse ''. Pedalling towards it I alternate between daydreaming, music, and, when it's not too hot and I’m able to concentrate, audio books. After listening to Jules Verne’s brilliant 1873 novel, 80 Days around the World, in which the eccentric Phileas Fogg leaves the Reform club in Pall Mall to circumnavigate the globe in record time, my clever cell phone suggests Michael Palin's version of the same book. Palin attempts to recreate Fog's fictional journey over 100 years later in 1989. I enjoy the book so much I go on to listen to both, “Pole to Pole '' and then “Full Circle '', recorded in 1997. Coincidentally, as I listen, Palin has just left Indonesia and is now heading south from Darwin onboard a road train on the Stuart Highway. Within minutes of me arriving at the Emerald Springs Roadhouse, so does Michael Palin! The road house where Palin stops for some good trucker’s grub, is now well and truly closed down, windows boarded up. As I eat a cold sandwich outside, Palin brilliantly describes the decor and food I’m missing out on, on the inside. The only thing I don't like about Palin's book is his writing, colourful, creative, incredibly descriptive and hilarious at the same time. It's so bloody brilliant he has dashed any small hope I ever had of turning this blog into a book for the shelves at Waterstones!
The last few days on the road felt like a dream. Coming off the Stuart Highway to divert towards the Litchfield National Park, the sunny skies were replaced with angry clouds and electrifying lightning strikes lasting for hours. The rainfall became so fierce at times I had to push the bike through knee-height fast-flowing streams crossing the road. An enormous and memorable 206 kilometre day to finish the continent in style took me from Katherine to a nighttime arrival at Robin Falls, a waterfall at the end of a mud track. Already on edge, after a few kangaroos jumped out in front of me and a Python crossing, I had no choice but to ignore the “Don’t camp by water” Crocodile advice and pitch my tent in the middle of 2 streams at the base of the magnificent waterfall. My last camp, the following day, was in the Litchfield national park itself where I waited for Max at a government campsite. The basic site had cold showers alongside a concrete changing room which we used for cooking. “This is brilliant!” Max exclaimed! I agreed completely, then couldn't help but burst out laughing. It was hardly the Hilton, 4 concrete walls with a tin roof on top and a bench around the perimetre. Though when your norm becomes living alongside the roadside in a tent you certainly learn to appreciate the simple things in life, such as a bench and a roof!
Finally, here it was, my last day on the road. Sunday December 18th, 2022. The last day cycling any land mass is always a special feeling. Your mind a mix of emotion, bouncing between the excitement of stuffing your face with food and alcohol in the knowledge that there is no more road ahead and no reason to get back in the saddle the next morning, and reflecting on the 1000’s of miles of pedalling across a continent that got you there. Australia seemed a particularly special end to a continent, as I looked ahead I could finally see the shiny apartment buildings that were in such stark contrast to the endless desert highway. And, for the first time in 1000s of miles, appeared the ocean, as the Stuart Highway came to an abrupt and unceremonious end terminating at a small roundabout. No sign to indicate it was the beginning, or end of a transcontinental highway of such titanic proportion. Equally as strange, was after so long heading due north, the Stuart Highway performed a dramatic U- turn right at the bitter end as it reached the city centre, which is surrounded by sea on 3-sides, North, East and South. I had been to Darwin once before, very briefly at 22 years of age on my whistle stop tour around the world, though could barely recognise the place. Although still a tiny city on world terms, the low rise buildings had now been replaced with tall apartments and hotels, as the boom effect from the off-shore oil industry took hold. Back then, on a small traffic free road I asked a passer by, “Where's the downtown?”
“Your here!” they replied with a smile. My trip had been so brief back then I hadn’t even realised the city was surrounded by water! Retracing my steps on what was my first, and is now quite possibly my last world tour feels special, and I intend to make the most of every single one.
Before even thinking about accommodation, I went straight to the Liquor store, bought a gin and tonic and rum and coke mixer (admittedly a strange combination) and collapsed on the grass beside my bike looking out at the Timor Sea. As I illegally drank away, my mind flickered between pleasant various daydreams of travel and adventure. Moments after, a lady walking her dogs stopped by to say hello and kindly offered me a bed on her couch. Yet another reminder of this nation’s friendly nature. Almost simultaneously, an incoming email on my phone alerts me of another kind offer of accommodation, this time from a friend of Andrew and Kelly’s, a retired lady called Judith (my Canadian friends who I stayed with on the Sunshine Coast). It reads:
“You are free to use the washing machine and swimming pool and there is a room with en-suite downstairs that will be for your use”.
It doesn't get much better than that! I gratefully accept both. Perhaps I won’t be checking into a budget hostel afterall!
My arrival in Darwin is in good time. My journey onwards will continue by bicycle from East Timor, the closest point in Asia to Australia and the natural stepping stone that joins the 2 continents. Before that, I am due to meet Dani, my favourite person in the world, co-owner of the yellow USA continent-crossing tandem, and much more, on Christmas Day in Bali, Indonesia. My master plan was to complete the whole journey entirely overland, taking a boat to East Timor then continuing on bicycle and boats across the archipelago of Indonesian islands to link up with Malaysia and Singapore. The latter being the first point at which I am on the same land mass as France and the entire remainder of the journey (other than a 1 hour Calais-Dover ferry) can potentially be completed all by pedal power without the need for boats or planes. For anyone trying to circumnavigate the globe in the purest way, the goal is always to avoid air travel at any cost.
Australia to East Timor by boat has always been the impossible link for anyone trying to get from Europe to Australia overland, though with a week to spare before meeting Dani, I’m determined to try. As a backup, I have bought a flight ticket from Darwin to Bali. As the crow flies, Darwin to East Timor is only 426 miles. Despite the short distance, there is no passenger ferry service linking the 2 islands together, by sea there is only one way, and that means finding a yacht. Pre-covid rumours existed of a few patient travellers getting on board Container Ships, though if the chances were unlikely to be impossible back then, post-pandemic it's a definite no-go. A container ship has a crew of 23, if I were to infect any of those seamen with Covid 19, the cost implications of re-routing the vessel would be astronomical. Even the keenest cycling fanatic of a captain would not take on such a risk for no gain, other than fulfilling my dream of transcending the globe by bicycle. So, off I went to the Darwin Yacht club. As I entered through the big metal gates, a dozen bruised and weary sailing yachts are moored upright against wooden supports on the concrete, none of which look seaworthy. Behind the boats sits an old bar and the boat launch.
Slightly more encouraging, is the sight of a BMW GS motorbike, complete with panniers, parked next to one of the vessels. This is a model of bike I am familiar with,
one I have seen in all corners of the world, used by people doing long motorbike journeys. I shout up to the boat, “HELLO!” and a bloke, who looks like a young Rolf Harris, comes down the ladder. His name is Daniel. Following what sounds like a bitter divorce, he has blasted his motorbike up from his home in Melbourne in 4 days (covering over 1000 km per day) and is also in search of a boat to take him to East Timor. His plan, to ride from Melbourne to Melbourne. The second Melbourne being a small town in the midlands that happens to me only 20 miles from my hometown. Why? For now other reason than it's also called Melbourne, makes sense to me!
Not so encouraging, is the fact that he has been here over a month already! He explains how he has quickly exhausted the container ship option, been to both of Darwin's sailing clubs and asked every boat-related person in sight, left notices on club noticeboards (offering financial incentives) and asked boat owners to ask boat owners, the tentacles have reached as far as is possible into the Darwin yachting community. He has had one reply…..though that person didn't own a boat! His only hope rests with Alan. Alan, like his boat, looks old. He looks like an older version of Doc from Back to the Future, minus the eccentric white hair. He can barely speak after surviving Throat cancer 25 years ago. His boat, S.V.HUEY is also his home, and is now the temporary home of Daniel too. I am invited onboard and go inside the boat to chat to Alan, who is wearing his own white T Shirt with a picture of his boat encircled with the words, “LIVING LIFE AT 5 KNOTS………..H.V. HUEY” He is an intelligent and interesting character, he holds a commercial pilots licence and was the former fire chief of Melbourne central fire station. Being a firefighter myself, Alan clearly takes a liking to me and is keen to chat. As Daniel disappears upstairs, Alan explains how Daniel is trying to push him to leave soon. There are 2 major problems;
The boat is not shipshape and requires new ropes and welding, Alan is waiting on parts to be delivered. Even if Alan's boat is ever fixed, god knows how you're going to strap a motorbike to it!
December in the Northern Territory is cyclone season. The worst ever was on Christmas eve in 1974. Known as cyclone Tracy, it wiped out the whole city, killing 71 and reducing 80 percent of the houses to rubble. Hence, sailing this time of year is extremely dangerous and most yachts generally batten down the hatches till the dry season!
“If we leave Darwin and the weather changes, we have to come back, you can’t do these things in a hurry! ” Alan explained. After being caught in stormy 10 metre waves on a previous voyage, he had reason to be careful. Before going on to say, “He thinks we’re going to leave next month…….not a chance!”
Unlike Daniel, Alan was in no rush and I had to control myself not to laugh. For me, the living life at 5 knots T-shirt was a big give away, and it wouldn't surprise me if Alan's boat was still moored on the concrete at Darwin sailing club at Christmas 2023, or 2024 for that matter! I just didn't have months to wait for a boat that may or may not leave port. Daniel had done the research for me and it was enough proof that I wasn't going to get a boat anytime soon. On the plus side, this made the prospect of flying a little less regretful. Although I had to admire Daniel’s single minded perseverance and hope his plans come off and dream stays alive. If it does, I can’t say I won’t be a little envious!
All that remained was to get an “Australian” sticker for my bike, find a bike box for the flight and get my haircut. I try to get a sticker from every country I cycle through, though with Australia being such a big and potentially problematic country I didn't want to tempt fate by buying one too early. The souvenir shops in Darwin were full of official merchandise with the territory's own slogan, “See you in the Northern Territory” . The slogan abbreviated to C U (in the - in tiny letters) N T !! Only in Australia would the official merchandise be covered in the word “CUNT”. Opting for a black sticker with the words ``Darwin” on as opposed to a “CUNT” one, finally sticking my Australia sticker to the top tube of my bike felt richly deserved. Getting an old cardboard box from the bike shop downtown was easy enough, getting it home slightly more problematic. Not wanting to get an overpriced taxi, I collected the box from the young guy at the bike shop, who only had one leg and literally skipped towards me kangaroo style from the back of the store dragging the box towards me. I made a handhole in the middle of the box with a pair of scissors and made my way along the 3 lane Stuart Highway towards Judith's house on the edge of town. Riding with one hand in heavy winds with the box moving up and down like a sail, it was difficult to ride in a straight line and I quickly created a small traffic jam as I weaved along the inside lane of the Highway.
“NEENAHH NEENAHH….WOOP WOOP”. Oh shit, I keep looking forward, another woop, I have to look round. It's the old bill and he’s pointing towards the side of the road. No helmet, driving with one hand, carrying an enormous box, dangerous driving, I’m fucked, he’s caught me redhanded here. I realise there is no other option than to apologise sincerely and immediately. “Middle of the highway, in rush hour, there's a pavement over there, come on now” he says. “Sorry Officer” I reply. He warns me again, wishes me a Merry Christmas and drives off! I get back on my bike, and a few minutes later I’m pulled over again. This time by a guy in a pickup truck. People from the Northern Territory are incredibly friendly and helpful, but one thing they don't like is authority! He loves the fact I’ve been riding one handed on the highway and stopped by the police and gives me a ride home! My final task is to get my haircut. Being close to Asia, many of the service places are Asian, and the hair salon I walk into is no exception. The lady cuts my hair, then immediately puts her hands on my scalp and starts rubbing it vigorously, simultaneously shouting the word, “MASSSSSSAGE!!?” as she begins a wonderful free head massage. Thankfully it’s not followed by the words, “HAPPY ENDINGGGG!?” I feel like I’ve arrived in Asia already, it's time for the next chapter to begin.
(Mileage so far 5000)
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