Birdsville, Queensland. Saturday 29th April.

It’s a strange little town, is Birdsville. The welcome sign paints the picture quite well. There aren’t many permanent residents but two events during the year swell the population by up to sixtyfold. The busiest of these is the long standing Birdsville Races. First held in 1882, for local stockmen to show their skills, it now attracts entries from all over Australia and crowds of over 6,000, with many flying their own planes in. It’s held over the first weekend in September and is a huge event. http://www.birdsvilleraces.com

The second is the more recently introduced Rock Festival, aptly named The Big Red Bash. Attracting over 3,000 people last year it’s held 35kms outside Birdsville, on the edge of the Simpson Desert, over the first weekend of July. This usefully coincides with school holidays so it is a family event for many. Big Red is a huge sand dune and it becomes the backdrop for three days of rock, country music and desert madness. While the big stars play in front of the dune the bigger stars look down from the firmament, probably wondering what it’s all about. Many people turn their journey into an outback challenge by driving long distances from the major cities. Read about it here.

http://tinyurl.com/y7d75jby

But as the headline date tells you, I wasn’t there for either of those and yet there was an air of excitement about the place. Not exactly a breathless rushing about among the townfolk, but there was certainly an air of anticipation among a couple of motorcyclists I met. It seemed that Stuart Ball was in town! Or rather, he wasn’t but would be back soon. Let me explain.
Aussie bikers are just as madcap as any bikers anywhere and with such a vast country to play in they do love to set records wherever they can. In this case Stuart had his sights on the one for crossing the infamous Simpson Desert, from Birdsville to Mount Dare, and back again. It stands at 23 hours 38 minutes and Stuart had left at 9pm the previous evening. Therefore his return was eagerly anticipated. But chatting to his KTM riding friend later on I learned that he hadn’t made it. In fact he hadn’t even got close. He’d decided to sleep out on the dunes, about 200kms away. He was exhausted. It wasn’t so much the distance which did for him, it’s only around 880 kms, as the sand, which comes in all the forms that a desert can manage. Deep; loose; dunes big and small; but mostly just too much of it. And then there’s the thick clay on the salt flats. He’d fallen off over twenty five times. I hate sand. He has all my sympathy. But the thing that grabbed my attention was that he was riding a CCM, the same model as mine. This ties in with something that happened back in Tibooburra. I’d been out, and when I came in Tracey told me someone had seen my bike and had stopped to ask after the rider. It was Stuart on his journey north to Birdsville, with his bike on the back of a Ute. So now I felt a kinship and also felt his disappointment at not breaking the record. Stuart was doing this ride for a SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) charity, which is well supported by the Aussie biking community.

At the camp site I bumped into various other bikers too. A couple of old codgers (my age) who were heading south to Innamincka. A male/female couple on His’n’Hers Suzuki DR650s. Four guys on various bikes who were about to tackle the Simpson but had the good sense to be accompanied by a 4WD, which would carry their luggage. All of them out to have fun on the tracks of SW Queensland and South Australia. I felt in good company. But I couldn’t help thinking that it must be an interesting life for the residents of Birdsville. Two very busy events to cope with each year, then fill the rest of the time waiting for various nutcases to turn up and amuse you. And for them to help keep your camp site, servo, shop or hotel ticking over, of course.

So what else is there to see in Birdsville? Not a great deal, is the answer, although I suppose it depends on your expectation levels. Even so, I enjoyed my walk around. The iconic Birdsville Bakery was worth a visit. It sells pies filled with beef, sheep, camel, pig or kangaroo. Supplied with all kinds of flavouring cooked in. All of those are local fauna. Sorry vegetarians, nothing grows out in these parts to put in a pie, so it’s all meat. I promised the owner I’d be back later, deadline 4pm.

The Birdsville Hotel is a nice old building, in the typical outback style, filled with typical outback people. I did like the way that when a customer ‘hangs up his hat’ for the last time, the pub will then hang up his/her hat, literally.

The bore outlet, which supplies the town with water, delivers a near boiling point supply which has to be cooled before being piped to the populace. It comes up from the Great Artesian Basin. More about that in a later blog post.

Afghan Cameleers helped open up central Australia by providing transport to places where horses simply couldn’t go. Too much heat and not enough water. There is a nice series of sculptures to honour them. Another set of sculptures reflects the annual races. In both cases the medium used is corrugated iron. It’s surprisingly effective and is very apt, given that this was, and still is, the most common building material used in these parts. Cheap, efficient, but, most importantly, easy to transport out to this treeless region.
I walked out to Two Boys Dreaming, which isn’t a couple of youngsters taking a siesta but is a trail which snakes its way through an area that used to be used for Aboriginal ceremonies. The serpent is probably the creature that features most often in the Dreamtime stories, which Aboriginals use to explain the world. The trail finished up at a billabong. Plenty of water but no swagmen or jumbucks.

Tribute to the Afghan Cameleers.                          And to the Birdsville racers.

OK, time for a ride out to have a look at the famous Big Red, located about 35kms out to the west. But as I rode past the hotel I saw a CCM, propped against the wall. Stuart was obviously back in town. “Very casual parking”, I thought, until I noticed that the side stand was missing; clearly a casualty of the trip. I parked my bike nearby and was just taking some photos when Stuart, and his girlfriend Sarah, came out of the pub. He’d heard my engine and told me he’d seen my bike in Tibooburra. So he told me all about his ride and I expressed both sympathy and admiration. He’d borrowed the importer’s demonstration bike and said he loves it, perfect for his record attempt. We chatted for a while but I had a date with a dune and told him I’d see him later.

The road west goes over Little Red as it heads out into the Simpson Desert. I turned off just before it and made my way to Big Red. Does it live up to the hype? Well yes, as far as Aussie dunes go. This is the highest in Australia, is definitely red, and once I’d struggled up it I could see why people liked it. A great place for playing in your 4WD or on your dirt bike, as the tracks all round the top clearly showed. I stood there looking around and imagining how it would be on a cold desert night in July, with bands playing and people boogieing under the stars. I could easily see the attraction. As I stood there I thought about the rainy, muddy hell of Glastonbury and knew which venue I’d rather be at.

As I said I would, I called in to the bakery on the way back but it had just closed. I was too late. But the owner was still inside and when he saw me, he opened the door. I apologised for being late, he was in the process of emptying out the pie warmer and told me what was left. I chose lamb and curried camel. He said “Take them, compliments of the house” I suspect they’d have been thrown away anyway but I thanked him and rode slowly back to the camp site, where I gratefully polished them off.

Over to the pub next, where Stuart and Sarah eventually came down. We were joined by several others and had a great night chatting about bikes and broken bones. Sarah is a paramedic and has dealt with a few. I’d broken quite a few, so we had a lot in common. Stuart is British and came out here twenty one years ago with five mates. Two of the group didn’t go home again. He spends his working life involved with bikes and is constantly looking for new challenges. He loves his Aussie life and I don’t blame him. He’s even got the Aussie beard!
By the time I left Birdsville I was definitely glad that I’d come. It was worth all the effort, even though there isn’t a huge amount to see. I think the town’s involvement in peoples’ ‘grand journey’ is what gives it its aura. It’s the gateway to some tough travelling. With the exception of the two annual events, most people come just to get supplies, gather their strength and then move on. And that is what I did too.

Greendale Farm, near Forbes, NSW. Friday 14th April 2017.

If you’ve been following my travels you may remember that I met a Danish biker named Michael, and his Honda Africa Twin, down in Kyrgyzstan. We said we’d try to meet again and, after two and a half years, we managed to make it happen. It took a bit of doing and was mostly thanks to a guy named Ben, who has a farm near Forbes, in north western NSW. He and Michael had ‘met’ on Facebook, Ben had invited him to visit, Michael had told him about me and he’d invited me too. Michael had arrived in Aus a month or so before, had holidayed with his mother and was now staying with a friend in the Blue Mountains. My plan was to head north to Broken Hill, NSW, but Ben was near enough to both our routes to make a diversion to his farm worthwhile.
I was happy to leave Melbourne the easy way, via the motorway. I finished that first day on a campsite at Bruthan, with just over 300kms under our wheels. Trixie was running well and seemed to like southern air. But how would she like mountain roads? A run up through the Victorian Alps was our next challenge and she liked it very much. I felt very confident on the twisties and the bike handles very well indeed. A bit too well in some ways. On the really sharp bends I was scraping the bottoms of my soft panniers on the road and wore holes in them. They were clearly mounted too low. ‘Lift and patch’ seemed to be the order of the day.

Another night in a campsite, then a pleasant ride through gentle hills and farmland saw me reach Grenfell, where I met Michael. It was great to see him again after all this time. He’d travelled through Central Asia, China and most of South East Asia since I last saw him. He’d also met Hera in Laos, the Dutch cyclist who I’d met in Kazahkstan and who I’d gone to Kyrgyzstan to meet again. It’s because of her I know Michael in the first place. Michael has plenty of information, hints and tips to share with me about SE Asia. His experiences will be a very useful guide to me when I go there.

We rode out to Ben’s farm and found ourselves in the company of a very lovely man. Warm and hospitable, Ben is widely traveled and had many tales to tell us. He looks about the same age as me, although I discovered later that he’s in his early seventies. Now that gives me confidence for the longer term because Ben still jets off to other continents and goes exploring by bike. He was in South America recently and regularly travels to Canada and Ireland, where he has bikes waiting for him. He no longer farms his land, but leases it out to a neighbour, although he still gets involved in the work, as we found out. So the three of us chatted and swapped stories, enjoying the camaraderie that bikers always seem to have.

His family have farmed this land for a very long time and that’s the reason why Ben has several very fascinating sheds. A shed is just a shed, no? Well yes, but it very much depends on what’s in it. Ben never seems to throw anything away with regard to vehicles. Not only most of his old motorbikes but also several 1930s and 40s tractors, including a very odd looking twin cylinder diesel two stroke. It seems that every Ute the farm ever used is also in one of the sheds, along with an old Commer truck. “You’ve got a small fortune sitting here,” I said to Ben. “If you’re ever short of cash this lot could fund years more traveling.” He agreed but reminded me that his nephew was keen to restore several of them, especially the 1950s De Soto.

We’d already met Rob and his family the previous evening, when we went round for dinner. He’s a senior constable in the local police, which obviously keeps him busy. But he also owns a block of land, which he farms and will eventually build a house on. He’s a typical Aussie, with lot’s of ambition and energy.
Have you ever been traveling through the countryside, seen smoke on the horizon then as you got closer realised a farmer was burning stubble? Well that’s what the three of us went out to do one morning. And what a flaming good time we had! Ben and Michael were in a small tractor-like quad, setting things alight, while I stood by in Ben’s Ute towing the water bowser. The aim was to burn the stubble but keep the flames within the field. We failed, and spent most of the time chasing around putting out the fires we’d started. Ben had to go back a couple of times to refill the bowser while Michael and I beat at the flames with branches. All had seemed well when we started but the wind kept changing direction blowing the flames across the boundaries. To a casual observer we must have looked like arsonists on a bonus scheme, but Ben knew what he was about and it was all done properly in the end. Ben’s neighbour Paul could now plough and plant the huge fields, an operation that involves some big machinery that is all achieved by a GPS guided, computer operated tractor. Things have certainly moved on from when I used to hoe fields of mangold wurzels as a teenager.

Setting the field alight.                                  Maybe a bit too much!

What with the stubble burning, chats with Ben and also with his neighbour, I’d gained a better understanding of rural life in these parts. It was strange to hear that the fields we’d been burning had been completely submerged two months ago after some extremely wet weather. I couldn’t help but be amazed at the level of investment that must be involved in running these huge farms. Paul has several huge grain silos, which are the largest privately owned silos in NSW. The tractor and associated machinery is also a huge investment. And yet extremes of weather could render that money wasted, or at least make the loans much more of a burden than they might have been. Fortunately his sheep manage to largely look after themselves.

Michael tore himself away from our fun filled farming lifestyle and headed back to the Blue Mountains. And after another day of stubble burning, I left too. Ben helped me plan a cross country route to Broken Hill, 800kms away. There were some gravel roads to ride and I was wondering how Trixie would be on her first foray onto the dirt. Come to that, how would I be? The last dirt road I’d been on, six months earlier, had cost me my luggage and a very scorched Doris. It had been a terrific visit to Greendale Farm. Meeting Ben had been a privilege but the time to go always comes. Thanks for the terrific hospitality Ben. I hope to see you out on the road somewhere.

Ben’s pets. The possum that lives in a stove.                   And the dog that lives in a boot.

The two day ride to Broken Hill once again told me some tales about rural NSW. Mostly a sad tale of towns that seem to be dying. Empty shop windows with ‘For Lease’ signs prominently displayed. Buildings wanting for a lick of paint. I didn’t actually see any tumble weeds but half expected to. It seems to reflect a trend of people moving away from the land caused by, as much as anything else, mechanisation and ownership of more stations by fewer people. Inevitable, probably, but still sad to see. I’d passed through several ghost towns on my travels but it was strange to see it happening almost before my eyes.

But on the plus side, Trixie was handling the dirt with aplomb, and so was I. I shouldn’t really be surprised as that’s what she was designed for, and riding a bike you feel confident on improves your own riding skills too. So we had fun. Warm weather; a night camping in the bush; billions of stars to gaze at; easy riding and a pleasant feeling. All previous doubts about whether or not I’d enjoy the traveling again disappeared, roughly half way along a dirt road which had a surface worn out enough to get me and Trixie working at it a bit. I suddenly thought “I’m really enjoying this! The bike’s good and so am I.” I had to smile at a conversation I had with the old fella who owned a servo where I refueled. I commented on the road and he said “Yes, it needs regrading but they can’t do it without water and we haven’t had any rain since November.” I said nothing but smiled at the thought that only 400kms south they’d had fields that were drowning.

When I’d been in Broken Hill Base hospital last August, where they’d fixed up my broken hand, I’d realised that the town had a fair bit to offer the tourist, which was why I’d decided to come back. It was on my route north anyway. The cheapest bed I’d found was in a small hotel with self catering facilities. I got booked in, settled my self into the room and made some plans for next morning. When I got up it had started raining. And didn’t stop until lunchtime. A visit to the tourist office showed there was quite a lot to see in and around the town so, clutching my Heritage Trail leaflet, I got walking. The first thing I noticed is that all the street names relate to mining, such as Sulphide Street, Chloride Street and Bromide Street. Oddly appropriate, I thought.

First and foremost Broken Hill is a mining town. It’s known as Silver City and it grew out of the discovery of silver, lead and, later on, zinc. These days it’s a cultural centre as well, with many art galleries and similar, but mining still goes on and keeps the town busy and prosperous. Have you ever heard of BHP Billiton, one of the world’s biggest mining and resource companies? The BHP part of the name stands for Broken Hill Proprietary Co Ltd. In 1885 seven friends, who worked on a local cattle station, formed the company to mine the newly discovered ore in the Broken Hills, so named because of their irregular shape and part of the Barrier Ranges. Three years later the town itself was proclaimed a municipality and BHP continued mining there until the late 1930s, later growing its interests into coal, steel and shipbuilding. Billiton was a mining company which originated in the Dutch East Indies in the 19th century, and the two combined in 2001. The most recent news about the company is that it’s dropping the Billiton part of its name, having felt the need to “reconnect with its community” and re-identify as an Aussie company. But there’s no sign of it returning to its roots just yet.

A visit to the Geology Centre helped me to understand how it all came to be there and the nature of what was dug up. Lead and zinc only exist inside other minerals and obtaining them led to the discovery of many new minerals, often in crystallite form. The display of crystals is marvellous and the beauty of their form and colour is striking. Many of them were named in recognition of their finder. Oddly though, the valuable ore is invariably the dullest of all. So in this case you could say that all that glisters isn’t gold.

There’s several stages of history on show in the town’s heritage buildings, a kind of tin roof display of prospects and prosperity. It’s invariably the big buildings which attract the attention, the grand statements of success, if you like. There’s a fair number of those, including the old post office, the huge Palace Hotel and the Trades Hall, which has a very important story to tell. A bit more on that later. Smaller buildings included the premises of the local newspaper, the Barrier Daily Truth. Started in 1908 it was the world’s first English language newspaper to be owned by a labour organisation, the mining trades unions in this case. It is still going and still has the same type of ownership. Its rival, the Barrier Miner, was funded by the mining companies but closed in 1954. That’s one battle the unions won!

The Trades Hall is a very grand looking building and was the centre of activity of the mining unions, providing them with office space, education facilities, technical libraries, meeting rooms etc. It was also the hub which supported the two miners’ strikes of 1892 and 1909. Working conditions in these huge mines were dreadful and the unions, as is their role, were always trying to improve them. Illness – such as lead poisoning – and death were all too common. Although the strikers were forced back to work on both occasions, the strikes helped to push forward many improvements. An all too common sight for the townsfolk was to see a black flag flying above the Trades Hall. This meant that a miner had died and people would gather outside to get news of the tragedy. The frequency of this was brought home to me when I walked up to the Miners’ Memorial, an iconic building which sits on top of the Line of Lode.

Line of Lode Miners Memorial. Outside and inside.

This memorial lists the names of all those killed in mining accidents, the year of their death and the cause. I counted over twenty five deaths per year, some for health reasons (heart attacks for example) but mostly from accidents. Electrocution; falls; cave-ins; tunnel collapses; and many others. Even as late as 1989 there were over ten deaths per year. Over eight hundred deaths since the start of mining in 1883. It’s no wonder the unions wanted better conditions for their members.

A much brighter visit was to the town that preceded Broken Hill as a mining centre, Silverton, 25kms away. I’m sure you can guess what they were digging for out there. Often thought of as a ghost town, Silverton still has a population of over sixty people, some of them artists, but most of them involved in the heritage business. The town was founded around the same time as Broken Hill and grew to around 3,000 people, but was slowly overshadowed by its more productive neighbour and eventually fell into decline. Many of the buildings were transported to Broken Hill, solving some of the problems associated with the shortage of building materials.

I had a look at those that were left, including the museums housed in the former gaol and schoolhouse. The hotel still operates and seems to be a popular weekend ride-out destination, judging by the the crowd of Harley Davidson riders I saw there. One of the nicest places was the studio of artist Justin Cowley, or Cowz, as he signs himself. I really liked his style and subject matter, capturing the essence of outback life and the depth of feeling people have for it. I liked it so much I even bought a couple of prints, something I’ve never done on this journey so far. A more famous Aussie artist also has a studio in the town, John Dynon. Unlike Justin, he was at work there but I wasn’t so taken with his painting. It lacked the subtlety of Justin’s, I thought.

Two examples of Justin Cowley’s work. I liked them very much.

But easily the best place in Silverton was a museum set up by British immigrant Adrian Bennett, from Barnsley, solely dedicated to the film Mad Max Two. You could say the man matches the film, but in the nicest way. His obsession began back at home in 1982 when he went with some friends to see Mad Max 1 & 2. He emerged a changed man. He was totally absorbed by the film and researched as much information about it as he could – with no internet to help him. He and his family immigrated to Adelaide in 2006 and once his visa status was secure he bought a property in Silverton, then built the museum on spare land in 2009. He began to collect items as soon as he reached these shores but ramped up the effort when he got to Silverton.

So why there? Because most of the film was shot just outside the town, on the road to Mundi Mundi, and many people from Broken Hill were involved in its making, either as extras or on the production side. Adrian was puzzled as to why the area had pretty much ignored the biggest grossing Aussie film made to date, but he set about begging, borrowing or buying as many artifacts as he could to display in his museum. He managed to dig up many of them from the film location where they’d simply been bulldozed into the ground. Once they heard about the project the people of Broken Hill dug around in their attics and sheds and sold, donated or loaned items to Adrian and the museum. He was given an original script too. He has several of the vehicles used in the film, including the original gyrocopter, although he has built some replicas himself. He has hundreds of photos of the action, many of them from Max Alpin, the head stuntman. Mel Gibson’s sister came to visit recently and was very impressed. No sign of Mel himself though. So far. An amazing place, with a slightly barmy feel to it. I loved it! (http://silverton.org.au/mad-max-museum/)  Very well worth a visit if you’re ever in the area.

Silverton was one of the stops on the tramway which linked Broken Hill with the railway that went down into South Australia. The town petitioned the NSW government to build a line but they refused. So they built their own private line. It’s referred to as a tramway because it was privately run. It was hugely profitable. It was also involved in the only enemy action of WW1 which took place on Australian soil. Two cameleers, one Turkish the other Pakistani, felt strongly enough about events in Turkey to arm themselves and fire upon a train of open wagons packed with townsfolk heading on a day trip. Several were killed before the attackers were also shot and killed. This story, along with others, is told in the Sulphide Street Railway Museum, where I spent an hour or so wandering happily around their collection of old locos, carriages and wagons. Visitors are allowed to wander through the rolling stock and get up into the cabs of the locos as much as they liked. A refreshing change from most places.

My last visit before leaving for pastures new was to the Living Desert Sculpture Park. The idea for this fascinating place came from a chance conversation with the mayor at the opening of an art exhibition. “Not enough sculptures” was one artist’s comment and before too long funding had been found to create this sculpture park. Many local businesses provided support and sandstone boulders were moved to the chosen site, where the leader of the symposium of sculptors felt was the right place spiritually . It’s on the top of a hill, which now lies within the Living Desert Reserve. Many of the sculptors came from Europe and the Middle East and have created some amazing artwork. I’ll let the pictures tell the story.

‘Motherhood’, by Badri Salushia from Tblisi, Georgia.

It was time to leave this fascinating town. I was very glad indeed that I’d returned, but was also regretting my short visit. There is a huge amount to see in and around Broken Hill, gateway to the outback, but I had to move on. I read that today’s value of all the minerals taken from Broken Hill would be around $300 billion. I took was the road north.

London, UK. 20th October, 2016

It was nice to be home but it didn’t take more than a few frosty mornings to remind me of why I like Australia; nor to remind me of where I felt I should have been. My journey to the warmth of North Queensland was on hold for a while. Instead, time to contemplate; time to plan; time to replace; eventually time to return. How soon? Very hard to say but I hoped not much more than three months or so. Well, the route that took me from arrivals at Heathrow back to the departure lounge at the same airport proved to be a sinuous one.
One of the main things that had been on my mind as I rode across the outback on my return to Brisbane was whether or not to buy a new bike, and what to get. Doris’ troubles had put me in the frame of mind to replace her, but with what? Research had made it clear that no similar bike is now sold in Europe. Emissions regulations and the marketing department’s insistence on Rally Raiders had killed off the lightweight dual purpose bike. A radical option would be to buy a Suzuki DRZ400 in Australia, ship it back home and then register it. That may seem a very odd thing to consider but it would have resolved the problems related to traveling with a personal identity from one country and a bike registration from another. So, having dismissed all other options I decided I had no choice other than to buy the bike I really wanted anyway, the CCM GP450 Adventure. Once I’d eliminated all other possibilities I had no choice, I’m pleased to say. The truth is, I wanted one! Like a young man swooning over his first hot rod, I was hooked. Have a look at their website to see why. ccm-motorcycles.com.
Within ten days of landing the deal was done. I spoke to Cliff, at the Adventure Bike Shop in Suffolk (adventurebikeshop.co.uk). Not only is he an authorised dealer for CCM but I’d dealt with him previously and I knew I could trust him. After all, he and his wife had also ridden overland to Australia. He’d walked the walk. He had a test bike in stock so I arranged a ride.

It was noisier than I expected, a busy sounding engine. Made by the Taiwanese company KYMCO, this 450cc engine had been used by BMW, KTM and Husqvarna at various times. BMW dropped that model and it seems likely CCM bought a surplus batch as the engine had BMW embossed on the engine cover. It certainly went well and had the often desired extra power that Doris lacked. 40bhp compared to 33bhp. With its 125kg dry weight and modern suspension, it handled well too. It was a little tall for me but there were factory options that would deal with that. I liked it so I bought one. The test ride had confirmed the impression that various internet and magazine articles had already given me. Was it worth coming home for? Only time and distance will reveal that.
The bike was registered from the 1st November and I went up to Suffolk to collect it on the 2nd. After getting off the mainline train at Marks Tey I took a noisy old diesel/electric out to Sudbury. I realised we were traveling through Gainsborough Country, a gentle landscape with old country houses nestling in the folds of the low hills. It all looked typically English. Up to that point coming home had left me feeling quite despondent. All of a sudden I felt glad to be back. It was a sudden feeling and was rather welcome too. As we passed through one station I noticed a museum collection of old rolling stock and an original signal box. This is a part of England I haven’t explored much and the desire to do so was quite strong. So I will – one day.
Cliff had fitted various extras at my request, such as the essential heated hand grips, spotlights and a modern electronic ‘fuse’ box. Business completed, I donned the riding gear I’d brought with me and the new crash helmet I’d also bought from Cliff, and set off for home.

It was bloody cold, but I enjoyed the ride and began to learn the new bike and how it handled. My initial impression of noise didn’t change but it certainly went well although I knew it was quite low geared. I definitely needed to change that. I had a few other additions in mind, just to get it ready for long distance travel, but I had plenty of time to organise that as Doris wasn’t due back into the UK for a few weeks yet.
Doris. Now there’s a tale. I had left her with the Aussie shippers who said she’d be on a boat to Tilbury by the 25th October, and would arrive on 16th December. I naively accepted that as fact and felt it would give me enough time to transfer panniers and other gear from her to the CCM, and then maybe get it on a ship to Australia by mid-January. But I reckoned without the inconsistency that shipping companies are renowned for. Because the original boat didn’t have enough cargo to make the trip to Tilbury worthwhile Doris was delayed for over a week and didn’t arrive until 21st December. Of course, Christmas then got in the way and I didn’t collect her until 29th December. Nearly two weeks later than anticipated. Fortunately the agents were very efficient and they dealt with the customs clearance, meaning all I had to do was collect the bike. Gary, my neighbour, loaned me his bike trailer and the rest was easy.

By this time I’d sourced some luggage mounting plates from Zen Overland (zenoverland.com). These are beautifully made flat aluminium plates which bolt on to the rear luggage rack and side pannier rails and will provide a secure platform for my panniers and large holdall. Zen are experts at making bespoke metalwork in small production runs, and they are well worth what I paid for them. I’d already visited them at their base in Wells, Somerset, just to check the plates out and try them for size.

It was on the way back from there that I had my first ‘off’. As I rode from Wells to Calne, planning to visit my niece and her family, it was dark and wet. I came to a mini roundabout, indicating to turn right, and an elderly woman decided not to bother waiting for me to complete my turn. Instead she pulled out, forcing me to brake sharply. She braked too and a very low speed collision took place. No big drama really. I was pretty much stationary, and so was she, at the point when I collided with her front wheel, laying the bike over in the process. No injuries and no damage to speak of. Just the handlebars twisted round and a slight scratch on the end of the twist grip. She was very apologetic, was quite shook up but was relieved when I contacted her a couple of days later to tell her I wouldn’t be making a claim. It could have been far worse and I suppose that as the bike was now ‘christened’ there would be no need to have another one!

I needed to put at least 500 miles on the bike before I could get the first service done. I made arrangements to take it back to the factory in Bolton for this job and also ordered a couple of upgrades. One of these was to fit a hydraulic adjuster to the rear suspension, making pre-load adjustment far easier. The second was to fit a Power Commander. This upgrade to the engine management system has the aim of smoothing out the low running as well as the general power delivery across the whole rev range. Fuel injection on single cylinder bikes can be notoriously difficult to get right, mostly because of the emissions regulations. CCM also offer one which boosts power output and it includes a different, and noisier silencer. Not to my taste at all, thanks. The last thing I need is more noise. Many riders like the idea of noisier bikes. I think they feel it boosts their ego somehow, and makes some kind of statement. There is also some kind of myth about how ‘loud pipes save lives’, a belief that other road users will be alerted to the bike’s presence and therefore act more safely. This is complete nonsense of course, and the effect is likely to be the opposite by increasing confusion and raising aggression. Apart from anything else, a loud exhaust is very, very wearing and would make long journeys a literal pain. For my part I believe it’s best to ‘go quietly on your way’, ride defensively and not see other people as your enemy.
Eventually I’d put enough miles on the bike to make the journey to Bolton for the first service. It usefully coincided with a visit to Manchester for some birthday celebrations – mine and my son’s. A very nice family time before turning back to more practical agenda items.

The CCM factory is relatively small and each bike is hand built. CCM (Clews Competition Motorcycles) have always specialised in off road racers, specifically enduro and motocross. They developed a very strong, and light, bonded aluminium frame, tried and tested on the competition bikes. This frame is at the heart of the GP450 Adventure and, along with KYMCO’s small engine, is why the roadside weight of the bike, with its 20 litre tanks full of fuel, weighs only 140 to 145kgs. No-one else makes a comparable bike. It’s even lighter than Doris, a terrific achievement.

I found the factory and was introduced to Mick, the mechanic who deals with customer’s bikes. It’s very unusual for a manufacturer to do this, it’s normally the dealers’ job. But CCM offer a repair service and I needed to go there to get the upgrades fitted too. Mick was happy to let me watch him and one reason for this is so that he can impart his wisdom to the riders, many of whom will want to service their own bikes. There’s nothing that quite beats receiving knowledge from the fount of wisdom and it proved to be a very useful session. Mick also took steps to lower the bike a bit, thereby improving the riding experience hugely.

Upgrades installed, oil and filter refreshed, I set off back south. Seven hours and 330 cold miles later I reached Newquay, Cornwall. “Where?”, I hear you gasp. “But Geoff, you live in London!” Well, that’s true, but I’d been asked to give a talk to a Forces training course down at RAF St Mawgan and had agreed to do it the next day. Staff Sergeant Nathan James had read about my adventure up in Cape York, had friended me on Facebook and when he realised I was back in the UK had contacted me to ask if I could give a talk on one of his training courses. He teaches survival skills to teams of inter-force personnel and he likes to get people down to describe the mental challenges of being in a life threatening situation. I saw this as an interesting challenge so was happy to ride to Cornwall and give it a go. I got a nice room for two nights, good food in the mess and access to very cheap beer too. What’s not to like? The talk seemed to go down well, so it was a worthwhile couple of days. They even presented me with a small survival kit, the message being to make sure it’s with me when I go off a-wandering. I was also able to call in to visit my friends Sam and Birgit, in Exeter, on the way home.

All of these events were taking place around December time, so as well as bike fettling I was visiting friends and enjoying a very good Christmas with my family, the first in three years. When you have children that’s the kind of thing you miss when on the road. It was all the better for being unplanned too. In fact during the time I was at home I was able to visit many of my far flung friends and siblings. There’s six of us all together and we’ve spread ourselves around a fair bit, as far as Aberdeen in fact. But in particular I was very happy to be able to spend plenty of time with Jan, ‘the girl I’d left behind’. As well as general socialising, we went to see The Motown Story, a hugely enjoyable musical all about Berry Gordon’s trials, tribulations and successes. The music, singing and dancing were superb. It never ceases to amaze me how these shows manage to capture the feel and style of the times they reflect. Brilliant!

In among all this fun and frolics I still managed to keep my eye on the ball of getting the CCM ready for shipping. With Doris now safe in my garage I got on with fitting the panniers to their new home and finishing off the various changes and upgrades to the new (as yet unnamed) bike. In an attempt to reduce the overall noise I bought some stick-on sound deadening foam and stuck it to the inside of the front two fuel tanks. (The bike has one under the seat and two either side of the engine.) This seemed to quieten things down a bit, I’m pleased to say. I completed two days of back-to-back riding around Kent and Sussex so as to run some before and after tests on the power commander unit. I’m pleased to say that it delivered on its promises of smoother running and better power delivery. It even improved the fuel consumption – by a whole one mile per gallon! I made some improvements to the quality of the electrics to the the rear lights by fitting waterproof connectors to the wiring. Riding on salted roads had very quickly destroyed the unprotected originals, a disappointing lack of quality control, in my opinion. While I’m on the subject I’ll comment that this brilliant bike is let down in some areas by underdevelopment and a lack of finesse in the finishing. But its strengths far outweigh its weaknesses, so I’m not going to launch into a whinge-fest. I’ll be riding some hard miles  once I get it, and me, to Australia so you can read about how it stands up to punishment in future blogs. Other owners have also ridden some tough miles, notably in Africa, and have been delighted with its robustness. I had occasional problems with Doris too, so it can be said that these come with the territory – in every sense.

So as I write this I’m 37,000 feet above the sea, on the way back to Australia. I’ve been at home for exactly five months, far longer than intended. I was fearful I’d get comfortable and indolent but once I’d passed my bike into the hands of Roddy at Motofreight (motofreight.com), the die was cast and my journey had effectively resumed. I’m doing it the easy way by flying in to Sydney, where I can catch up with friends and be a tourist for a week or so. Then, likewise, in to Melbourne, where I’ll collect my bike before heading north. Even so, I feel a mixture of fear and excitement. Fear that I may have lost the traveling urge; the need to see what’s over the next horizon and to wonder who I’ll meet in the next town. But I’m exited to find out how my new bike will perform; how quickly I’ll get used to being on the road again. I know that I’ll be happy to be away from the TV, the constant news cycle and all the debilitating nonsense of Brexit and Trump. Back to the real world; the narrow focus of food, fuel and where to lay my head for the night. The journey begins once more and I’m in the mood for adventure.

A few of the bikes I saw at the NEC bike show, November and the ExCel bike show in London.

Melbourne, Victoria. 12th August 2016.

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same.

So runs the first half of the second verse of the poem ‘If’, by Rudyard Kipling. As I sit and write this blog these words seem so very relevant and bring perspective after a very testing time. But I’m getting ahead of myself and need to go back a couple of months, to where I was at the end of the last blog post.
When I arrived in the hospital at Broken Hill I felt a battered wreck. Closer to unravelling than travelling. But four days of care and rest brought me back to a physical and mental state where I could contemplate a pain free future, even though it was still a fair way off. It amazes me how painful just one cracked rib can be, making all normal movement seem like a test of endurance. I’d felt like I’d been used as a battering ram but I knew I wasn’t really all that badly off and by the time I left Broken Hill my mood had brightened considerably. With my left hand in a cast and my right collar bone feeling decidedly sore, I was glad of the taxi driver’s help with my bag en route to the airport. Bernard and Mary had very kindly agreed to look after me while I recovered so I had two flights to cope with, both on Rex Airlines, a small company which hops across the outback linking small towns with the big cities.

Once I’d settled in I had some new skills to learn, such as eating with one hand and showering with a plastic bag over my arm. We visited his GP who lined up an x-ray for a month later and put me in touch with a physio too. He gave me some exercises to do, with the purpose of strengthening my collarbone. So, medically organised and slowly heading towards a pain free normality, I settled down for the wait.
Bernard and Mary are busy people, usually with plenty of work to do regarding various art projects. They use all of their combined skills; Mary’s as an artist, Bernard’s as a writer, and the lively imagination of them both. Bernard has become very skilled with Mac and printer, producing high quality pamphlets and booklets, for distribution to friends. Some years ago they’d undertaken a journey into New South Wales and had written down the name of every creek they crossed en route – and there would have been hundreds. Mary produced a series of scrolls which listed the names of them all but were also decorated with drawings of local flora and fauna, especially birds. They looked fabulous and she had
The second project on the go was to write a series of limericks which included the names of the towns they passed through. Followers of this blog will have realised, if they weren’t aware already, that Australia has many towns with names that a poet, if a limerick writer could be described as such, would delight in rolling round their tongue in search of a suitable rhyme.A bit of fun for them both. The booklet would then be decorated with drawings from Mary’s artistic hand and copies circulated to friends. I got quite enthusiastic about this and contributed one of my own, which will be included as a guest entry. It goes:
A bike rider left Thargomindah
Heading west on a road, mostly cinder.
Oe’er hillside and dell,
He didn’t fare well,
Fallen pride, broken rib, fractured finger.

Not exactly Shelley, but it was one way of trying to make light of my predicament.

Because of Mary’s connections in the art world in Melbourne I was able to accompany them to some exhibition openings. The wine supplied always tickled our palates even if the art on view didn’t manage to take our fancy. One evening, at Melbourne Town Hall, was the opening of a display of ‘Jesus Trolleys’. It sounds very bizarre. In many ways it was. Scrub that. In every way, it was. There’s a Melburnian named Desmond Hynes who, having been seriously ill, decided it was the Christian god that saved him. He dedicated his time to being a ‘soldier of Jesus’, one of several who toured the streets of the CBD and the precincts of the MCG and other sporting arenas, preaching in the evangelical ‘fire and brimstone’ style. He used to carry his preaching material around in a shopping trolley, daubed with religious slogans. Over the years he used quite a few. The art world describes this as ‘accidental art’ and decided his trolleys and other material were worth displaying, along with various photos from the past. I had a brief chat with him and he seems a modest man. I felt the art world’s interest in all this was a bit pretentious and to the now elderly Desmond’s credit he looked somewhat nonplussed throughout. While I have no time for his cause, it’s difficult not to admire his dedication. But I tend to think it’s the art world that’s more ‘off its trolley’ out of the two.

At another event we saw a fantastic collection from the Australian artist Deborah Halpern. She was having a bit of a clear out, not only of her own work, mostly ceramics, but also some of her collection. I thought many of the pieces there were great. So was the wine!

Other cultural events? Having watched and thoroughly enjoyed the BBC series, The Hollow Crown, a few years ago, I was delighted to discover that one of the cinemas was showing a film of the stage play Richard III. This version starred Ralph Fiennes and Vanessa Redgrave. He was brilliant, she wasn’t. Filmed at the Almeida Theatre in London, they used the recent discovery of the king’s body in Leicester to set the scene then morphed the play back into the 15th century. It’s difficult to maintain an accurate body count in this play, with the characters dropping like flies. So they put skulls on a shelf at the back of the set as each one was done away with by Richard. A thoroughly enjoyable production.
While I was on a Shakespearean roll I also watched Hamlet – three times! At Bernard’s I saw a film of David Tennant’s theatre performance; a film version starring Kenneth Brannagh; finally another visit to the cinema to watch a recording of the play starring Dominic Cumberbatch. All of them were terrific in their own way. I’d never seen Hamlet before and it’s a gripping story. I finished off this cultural journey by watching a film version of Macbeth, which was glorious in its settings and performances. A word of advice though. I discovered that it’s a good idea to read a synopsis of the stories first. Characters can come and go so quickly that it’s sometimes difficult to keep up. Knowing the story means you can enjoy the dialogue and performances.

Melbourne also offers culture of a very different sort. In the same way that cultured Romans enjoyed watching gladiators fight each other, I suspect that many Shakespeare fans would have joined me in enjoying the AFL (Aussie rules football) final, held at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The game started in Victoria and was popular among Irish immigrants in particular. It’s deemed important enough by the state government that the Friday before the final is a public holiday, with the two teams parading through the city. With Melbourne team Western Bulldogs playing Sydney Swans, the final reflected the rivalry between the two cities. I have to be honest and say that the parade, although interesting to see, wasn’t anything special. I suppose it would have been great if you were a ‘Doggie’, it being sixty one years since the team had last been in a final. I wouldn’t go again though. Even so, I was happy enough to watch the players, coaches and others ride past on the back of Toyota pick ups, provided as part of their sponsorship, and then walk down to the MCG to mingle with the crowds and soak up their excitement. All well and good as a taster, but the main course, when it arrived next day, was a sumptuous feast of sporting endeavour.

I watched the game with Bernard, Mary and their Godson Barney. It seems that pies and beer is the game watching tradition in their house, one I was happy to support. I’d seen plenty of games while staying at Bernard’s and had learned much from him as he used to play at senior amateur level when he was young. We’d watched the end of season play-offs, seeing the Doggies and The Swans knock out their opponents as they worked their way through. The Doggies last won in 1954 and even on TV it was clear just how electric the atmosphere was. Being in the stadium must have been simply amazing. Justifiably so. It was a great game to watch. The Swans came in at half time two points ahead but The Doggies were two points up by the end of the third quarter and eventually won by twenty two points, at 89-67. It was a very tough but surprisingly fair game.
At the presentation ceremony two things impressed me very much. The first was that young fans are selected to hang the medals around the necks of the players, one fan to each medal. The player carries a special baseball cap up to the podium which they give to the boy or girl in exchange for it. What a thrill that must be for the youngsters. No glad handing politicians or royals at this game of the people. The second was when the Doggies’ coach, Luke Beverridge, gave his medal to the injured club captain, Robert Murphy. The supporters in the crowd raised the roof at that. What a great event to have watched!

I had plenty of time for exploring too. Melbourne has a reputation for, shall we say, variable weather. But it was winter so cold and rain didn’t really come as a surprise. But there was a fair bit of sunshine too and I explored St Kilda Beach, King’s Domain and the Botanical Gardens. The famous Luna Park is at St Kilda, modelled on America’s Coney Island. The Shrine of Remembrance lies within Kings Domain and is a sobering place to visit.

In among all this excitement much of my time was taken up with more mundane activities. I was well looked after by Bernard and Mary, possibly the kindest people I know. Bernard had taken me to his GP as soon as I arrived there and when I went for he x-ray he’d arranged the results didn’t look good.

The broken piece of bone you can see in the x-ray was of concern to the doctor at the clinic and he recommended further examination by an expert. I found one at St Vincent Hospital and for a fistful of dollars was examined and given the advice that it would be best to leave things as they were because it was so long since the accident – five weeks at this point. Pinning it would be difficult, painful and take up to six weeks to heal. For a few dollars more I had a session with a physiotherapist who, the cast now having been removed, put my hand in a lightweight splint and gave me some exercises to do. They worked too. The tendons across the knuckles slowly stretched back to normal and over the next few weeks I regained full movement in my fingers. My shoulder was back to normal too and I felt I was ready to organise a return to Innamincka and a reunion with Doris.

At this point events rather took over. Like a child jumping onto an already spinning playground roundabout, I was suddenly launched into a frenzy of activity. I’d already talked to Bernard and Mary about when I might be ready to leave. The reality was that their kindness had meant them delaying some visits from friends. I was about to ring up Nichelle at Innamincka Hotel, the first stage in getting a leave date organised, when Bernard came in to tell me his daughter was coming home at short notice and would need my room. Nichelle had said to me that if I could get to Thargominda, the nearest town to them with a commercial airport, she would be able to give me a lift back to the hotel provided my arrival coincided with one of their occasional visits there. When I rang her she said their next visit would be the next day, and then none for two months or more. Suddenly I was being both pushed and pulled. Urgent action was required. A manic hour on the internet resulted in a flight to Brisbane, a night in a hostel there, and a seat on the twice weekly plane out to Thargominda. A brief respite from paction (a blend of panic and action) for packing and lunch, then Bernard took me into Melbourne CBD to catch a bus to the airport. By 8pm I was settled in to the hostel in Brisbane, recovering from a day that began with a relaxed breakfast and then morphed into a mad rush. On the plane I sat next to Caitlin, a very pleasant and chatty 22 year old. She’d been away for eleven days and was mad keen to get home to see her cat, who’d suffered an injury. Her friend was picking her up at the airport and they very kindly gave me a lift to my hostel. I was very pleased about that. I needed to relax!
I took time to reflect on how necessary it is to bend with the breezes of life, something I’d learned to do long ago. Despite my injuries my time in Melbourne had been very positive. Sometimes I just relaxed and tackled the word puzzles in the newspaper; others I enjoyed Melbourne’s culture, tourist attractions and people. But now I was ready to get on with my journey and write its next chapter.
An early train and a McDonald’s breakfast got me to the airport, where I caught Rex Airline’s plane-that-behaves-like-a-bus. With only thirty four seats, this twin engine turbo prop plane hops across the outback, dropping off and picking up passengers as it goes. Thargominda is the last stop of five, where it turns around and goes back to Brisbane. Not exactly the number 53 bus to Camden Town, but you get my drift. Nichelle was there to collect me and Haydyn, the hotel’s returning chef, and before very long we were, as my limerick says, heading west on a road, mostly cinder.
Four hours and nearly 400kms later we were there. I put my bag in my room and headed round to be reunited with my best girl, Doris.

Nichelle and her husband Geoff had tucked her away by the workshops and stowed my gear inside. She looked sad, forlorn and very battered. I had thought that, having been ridden away from the scene of my crash, she might have come out of it fairly unscathed, but given how hard I’d hit the ground I should have known better. The screen was broken but I had expected that. What surprised me was that the headlight was smashed and the front mudguard had snapped in two, clearly demonstrating how much the front end had dug in. At the same time the rear mudguard was knocked sideways and the rear light was broken too. I can’t work out quite how that must have happened. When I looked at my crash helmet one side of it was pretty busted up. I could understand now why my head had been spinning and my vision blurred so much. The battery had completely died too. When I’d been lying in a room immediately after the crash Nichelle had sorted out my big bag for me but I forgot to ask her to remove my GPS. So it had been switched on the whole time and had drained the battery of all power. Once a battery has been left flat for so long it is unlikely ever to recover. And so it proved. I was extremely thankful that I’d had the foresight to retro fit a kick starter before I left home. For someone who cut their teeth on old British bikes, it was a simple case of being ‘back in the old routine’.

Using tools borrowed from Geoff, I managed to re-attach the broken front mudguard and straighten out the rear one too. There was nothing I could do about the headlight but I had no plans to ride in the dark so wasn’t bothered about that. I stitched together the broken screen with cable ties and applied some ‘fix and stitch’ outback technology to my damaged luggage. Hard falls are tough on soft bags but when it comes to the overlanders’ argument between hard and soft panniers, I’m a confirmed ‘softie’. Much easier to repair.

So, by late morning on Friday I was ready to try out the repairs on Doris and those on my hand too. ‘Battered and bashed but better’ nicely summed up both of us. How would it go?
When I went to pay Nichelle she asked if I wanted to stay another night? “No thanks, I feel the need to get going” said my mouth. “Not at $110 per night” said my brain. At that time I’d no idea where that thought would lead me.
Birdsville was still my intended destination, then back to Brisbane for proper repairs. So I filled and loaded up my water bladder, knowing I’d be camping that night, and strapped it down, with the rest of my luggage, on the back of the bike before setting off on the 450km dirt road journey. After an eight week lay-off, it was great to be moving again, and the open desert looked as tempting as ever.
Because Doris was still using oil under certain circumstances, I planned to stop after about 120kms to let her cool down a bit and to check the oil. But I didn’t. Why? Because I’d seen a sign for Arrabur, no more than a dot on the map but possibly with coffee. As my odometer tripped past 120kms a voice in my head started up.
“Geoff, you were going to stop at 120kms. Don’t you think you should?”
“Yes but Arrabur is only another 30kms and there might be coffee.”
“Stop now Geoff, you know you should. Look, there’s even some trees you could use to shelter from the sun.”
“No, I’m going to push on. There might be coffee.”
”OK, suit yourself.”
So I did. And previous experience should have told me never to ignore that voice.

About 30kms later I came to a T junction and as I turned right I saw in my mirror clouds of smoke coming from the silencer. I thought the engine had blown up in a big way and the smoke was oil vapour. But I immediately realised it was from my burning luggage! The big bag that sits across the luggage rack was on fire. I leapt off the bike, threw my fuel bladder (full of petrol) away from the bike then wrenched the burning bag out from under its straps and threw it on the ground, burning side downwards. The flames seemed to go out and I turned back to the bike to realise the rear mudguard was burning and melting. I also realised my water bladder wasn’t there. How to put out the flames? Out of sheer desperation I started to undo the flies on my trousers, hoping to be able to produce some water from internal sources, even though I’d have struggled to do so in that heat. Luckily there was no need as I remembered the drinking water I carry in my backpack. That did the trick and at least the bike was no longer on fire. The same couldn’t be said for my bag, which was flaring up again. Like a fakir on hot coals I was dancing about the smouldering bag and with a combination of sand, boots and gloves I managed to put the flames out again. I pulled my scorched belongings out of the still smouldering bag, managing to retrieve half of my clothes, my laptop (but with a new, melted brown look to it) and a small case with electronic leads and storage in it. But I really must have told some terrible lies sometime previously because my pants were, literally, on fire!

I gathered together the sad remains of my belongings and fitted them into a couple of other bags I had with me. Then I tried to work out why this disaster had happened. The missing water bladder was what told the tale. I remember strapping it on top of my other bags before I set off and that was my undoing. It’s very soft and amorphous and the ride along the dirt road had clearly allowed it to escape from the straps and it fell from the bike. The rest was inevitable. My large bag was now free to work its way across the luggage rack until it came to rest on the end of the silencer. Super hot exhaust gasses and nylon don’t go very well together and combustion was the certain result. The ‘if onlys’ came thick and fast. ‘If only I’d decided to stay another night.’ ‘If only I’d stopped when that voice in my head was telling me to.’ ‘If only I’d checked my mirror more often.’ Self recrimination probably isn’t a good thing but it’s difficult not to do.
I’d used up all my drinking water but a passing family stopped and I was able to get more from them. After some procrastination I decided to go back to Innamincka and around 25kms back along the route, there was the water bladder lying in the middle of the track. I strapped it back on the bike, but properly this time. Back at the hotel I resumed residence in my old room, told my tale of woe and listened to that of a group of guys who had also fallen foul of the tough terrain. The studs on one of their front wheels had sheared off, damaging the hub in the process. They were stuck there until spares arrived. I began to realise what Nichelle had meant when she’d told me, months before, that they were used to dealing with whatever problems came along. But the Aussie outback is like that.

My trip to Birdsville was abandoned, for now at least. The plan was to go directly to Brisbane and replace what I’d lost, repair the bike and try again. But I’d reckoned without my own ability to throw spanners in the works. “What now?” you may well ask. Well, when I fuelled up next morning I remembered I no longer had any footwear, apart from my boots. The shop sold flip flops so I bought a pair. I packed them away and set off. 170kms later I stopped for a break and noticed that the roll top on one of the bags was open. I’d tried to put the flip flops inside it but had put them under one of the straps instead. I’d ridden away, having forgotten to do it up again. I checked inside and was delighted to see my passport and document wallet still in there. Relieved, and feeling I’d got away with that particular bit of stupidity, I carried on. But as time went by the nagging feeling grew that I may not have got away with it after all. In the hotel room in the town of Bollon, 750kms after I left Innamincka, I checked everything only to discover that I’d lost the small, black case where I kept my electronic bits and pieces. Charging leads for phone etc; plug converters; two storage drives containing music, films and all my photos. A real disaster. By the next morning I’d decided I had no choice other than to go back and look for it.

I’d discovered the open bag 170kms from Innamincka and was confident it would be lying at the side of the road somewhere. But despite riding that section as slowly as I could, scanning the roadside very carefully, I didn’t find it, neither on the way to or from Innamincka. Two nights accommodation, two day’s meals and 1500kms worth of fuel brought no result. As you can imagine, like a man who’d forgotten to renew his lottery ticket on a winning weekend, I was very fed up indeed.
I rang my friends in Brisbane who were happy to help me out of my predicament and put me up while I decided my next move. Over the three days of riding I was having a constant debate as to what to do. One half of me wanted to stay, get everything replaced or repaired, and carry on. The other half wanted to go home, replace everything and investigate buying a new bike. In particular I felt that if I went home I’d be giving up in the face of adversity, something I promised myself I’d never do. Although Doris wasn’t as well as she could be, after 92,000kms on the road, I felt she’d go for many more and I could deal with problems when they happened – if they did. Conversely, I thought a new bike would be a good idea. Anyway, I was feeling very low after the disasters of the last few days and my damaged hand wasn’t quite as well healed as I’d have liked. Christmas with my family was an attractive thought, the British winter less so. I’d be leaving behind the Aussie summer. What to do?
Once I’d reached Brisbane I talked it through with various friends and the consensus was that going home was not giving up. As Paul from Australind put it when I rang him, “Geoff, all you’re doing is hitting the pause button on your journey. You’ll press the start button when you get back again.” Wise words from a good friend, and that’s what I decided to do.

But what to do with Doris? She was battered, burnt and looking very sorry for herself. I’d decided to buy a new bike once I was back in the UK so I didn’t actually need her any more. I could sell her to a breaker. I spoke to Aussie customs who said the only answer was to officially import her, otherwise my carnet wouldn’t get signed off. The reality of that was losing a 3,000 Euro deposit. The process would take up to two weeks, I had one week left on my visa. For once reality and sentiment came together and the decision was to ship her back home. At nearly £1,000 (Thanks for nothing, Brexiters!) it wasn’t a cheap option. But I felt that leaving her behind to be broken up would have been like abandoning an old friend in her time of trouble. As I write this she’s on a ship somewhere, courtesy of Ship My Bike, Australia. Very helpful people.

With the help of Phil and Trish I was able to organise the crating and transport of Doris to Brisbane docks and then to arrange my own flight back home. It’s great to have such good friends.
Since arriving back in Britain I’ve started to feel much better about the whole situation. I’ve taken note of the sentiment expressed in those few lines at the beginning of this post. Nothing stands still, everything moves forward in one way or another. But more news on that in the next post.
Have a merry Christmas everyone, and an adventurous new year.