I want to explore every inch of this magnificent country on two wheels. I’ve dreamt about it every day for over ten years, but it seems like all my life, it seems to hit me hourly nowadays. I get light headed at the thought of it whilst stooping over my keyboard at work. I get filled with emotion when I discuss it with my like-minded mate Sam. And now, it’s really happening!

The story so far…

When I was a teenager, my Dad and his mates purchased four-wheel-drives, and set out on a two week journey which covered some of the outback regions of Queensland, New South Wales and mostly South Australia. Whilst my immaturity didn’t allow me to truly appreciate the vastness of this land, there was something about it that almost enriched my soul. Since then I’ve never stopped dreaming and scheming of ways to see more of it.

A few years later I traveled with my school South-West from Tamworth to Port Augusta via Broken Hill, then North up as far as Three-Ways, only to turn East again, through Longreach, then South along the coast back to Tamworth. This trip although a great experience was taken in coaches, and felt very sterile, and I never seemed to be anything but insulated from the country we were traveling through.

Not long after this I received my long-awaited motorbike license. This led to many mini- adventures around the local New England region of New South Wales. Between adventure planning with one of my school-mates, and working at night to fund my motorbike addiction, I practically failed my High School Certificate. But to be honest, I wasn’t really concerned, they were good years, doing exactly what would consume me up until now, and most likely until I die.

The scheming during my senior years consisted mostly of buying a Honda NX650 Dominator and riding across the country and back again, via any route that fuel range of the now ancient dirt-tourer would allow. This never eventuated, and by the time I’d finished high school I’d managed to work enough to own and run a barely second-hand Honda XR600. It had less than 500kms on the clock when I purchased it for $6750 from Harry Pyne Motorcycles in Tamworth. I clearly remember picking it up, the acceleration was awesome! I’d come from a Yamaha TT250 to this thing and it felt like a rocket. Compared to the modern machinery I now possess an XR600 feels like an overweight slug. It was essentially the dirtbike equivalent of the Dominator, and it seemed at the time to be the next best thing to tour around on, whilst satisfying my local dirtbike riding requirements.

None of these education-limiting plans ever really came to fruition as I joined the Air Force not long out of school. With this action I pretty much lost contact with the mate who I’d spent time with working out fuel ranges and possible routes.

With a military career(?) came a little more money than I was accustomed to, and hence a few different models on bikes, by 1999, I’d ended up on a new Yamaha WR400F, these were the early years of the new generation four-stroke dirtbikes. Almost as light as a two-stroke, a high-performance engine, with the reliability and service schedule that comes with a thumper. Initially many journalists doubted the reliability of a 400cc engine that could out-perform a current model 600cc machine. Then, Tony Kirby and his colleagues from Sidetrack magazine went out and proved that it was all just speculation by crossing the country in what must have been a full-throttle four days on two essentially standard WR400s. Brilliant! That was all I needed to know!

My father and his mates were planning another adventure in the four-wheel-drives that year, and I’d already started scheming how I could travel with them with my now-proven reliable WR400F. Whipp’s Alloy were at the time manufacturing bike racks that fit into four-wheel-drive towbar mounts. This would be the perfect means to avoid the entirety of the tarmac sections and ride only the dirt sections. And it was! Once I was free of the cars and blasting ahead along the desert tracks of outback NSW and SA, I realised this was the only way to truly experience this country. On a bike you have exposure to the elements and an almost uninterrupted sense of smell and vision. I was already thinking of how and when I could do more of this style of riding.

I think I clocked up a total of about 3,500kms on that trip on roads like the Strezlecki Track and a completely memorable 80km blast down the Dog Fence before having to retire the bike to the rack and me to a seat inside what felt like a cage.

In 2003 I teamed up with another mate of mine, Lee. We decided that we’d ride our WRs from West to East. From Steep Point, the most westerly point of Australia, to the most easterly point at Cape Byron. This trip proved to be a reality check for the dangers of this sort of dirt-touring, and how under-prepared we were. No more than twenty minutes into the trip from Steep Point I was chasing Lee through some sandy sections and the track diverged into two. This gave me a rush of blood and I opened the throttle to beat Lee to where the track merged again. It met again alright, straight out on to a damp clay pan. As I hit it the dirt/tar compromise tyres we had chosen for the trip lost grip and a slid sideways for a short way before the bike high-sided and I met the Earth. Lee immediately questioned me, “Are you alright?” trying to contain his laughter as he’d seen the whole thing. I was fine, and so was the bike, albeit a little dirtier.

Only a couple of days later I was leading when an emu decided to launch a surprise ambush from the left hand side. Now I’d hit one of these things before on the 1999 trip, and he/she just glanced off the bike and caused no real disturbance to my path at all. On this occasion I had a split-second to decide on the next move, and given the previous experience I didn’t even to attempt to swerve, I just applied the brakes and hit him directly. This incident wasn’t as uneventful as the first, I shot over the bars for the second time in only a few days, tumbled for what seemed almost endlessly, and remained on the ground until Lee arrived just in case of any broken bones. Lee appeared through the dust and feathers and I stood up. “I think I just got away with that”, were my first thoughts. A slightly sore left big toe, but other than that I don’t think I had even a bruise. Great! Considering that I’d hit this pea-brained beast at what I estimate to have been no less than 80km/h. The bike was a bit beat up, a bent right handlebar, grazed plastics, bent back radiators and a large part of the throttle tube had been ground away by the gravel road. Still “rideable” was the prognosis, and I was very happy.

A day later on another section of the Gunbarrel Highway, which had deteriorated significantly compared with the dirt highway that was the domain of emus, I hit a rock in the sand. The impact made me immediately aware that this one wasn’t going to be so forgiving, I felt pain instantly before leaving the bike, but had no indication of where it was, as it all happened too fast. As I hit the dirt I knew straight away I’d broken my collarbone, as I pretty much felt it crack. I picked myself up as Lee continued into the distance, unaware that I’d stopped prematurely. I pointlessly called out for him to stop. The first thing I did was remove my jacket as I knew once the pain set in, getting the thing over my broken collarbone would not be as easy. I looked at my hand, my wrist was swollen already, and I assumed that I’d sprained it badly as I had once before.

Thankfully on this trip there was a support vehicle. After a nights rest, the bike and I were loaded into the Hilux and over the next couple of days we headed to the Aboriginal community of Warburton. We arrived there about 10:30pm, and proceeded to the caravan park. I’d grown up in a town where there were Aboriginals, so seeing them was definitely nothing new to me, but I did feel quite nervous driving through the community to the nursing station. There were dark faces everywhere, burning tyres and watching us with equal distrust I suspect. I’d been unsettled by the caravan park that we had booked into which had military-style fencing all around it, and our host had us lock away the bikes and our jerrie-cans. Petrol-sniffing is a huge problem in these communities. Even the bowsers outside the caravan park which only dispensed diesel were encased in huge concrete bases and cages.

The nurse, Mary, correctly diagnosed me without x-rays with a broken collarbone and a broken schaphoid bone in my wrist. She was unaware of the other bones that were broken in my wrist, but without x-rays, I commend her. She spoke to the Royal Flying Doctors Service who determined that given there was still feeling in my hand and fingers that I was not an emergency case. I was sort of disappointed that I didn’t get a ride in with the Flying Doctors, but at the same time, I’d rather they were available for more serious incidents. She prescribed me some anti-inflammatory drugs and advised that we call back in the morning before we headed to Alice Springs.

In the light of day, Warburton was not the scary place that it had appeared in the dark of night. There were still black faces looking us as we drove back to the nursing station, but I think it was more with curiosity. The bike on the back of the vehicle seemed to catch a lot of attention. Mary advised us that I was fit to travel, and we headed to Yulara Resort to catch a Qantas flight back home to get some proper medical treatment. That was a long cold solo trip for poor old Lee.

The doctors at Hawkesbury Hospital in Windsor, despite having numerous x-rays to work from, decided that I in fact had no broken bones and that I should try and exercise my wrist and shoulder. I got home, looked at the x-rays, and even I could see fractures. The radiologist and the cheap imported doctor were less capable of diagnosing a few broken bones than a community nurse, whose background consisted mainly of midwifery in New Zealand.

In the end, I broke four bones in my wrist, broke and dislocated my collarbone, spent five hours in surgery, have scars and bits of metal in me and I gave the old WR a beating that it didn’t deserve. Had my injuries been worse, we might have needed to activate an EPIRB(Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon) or use a satellite phone, we had neither, and I will never travel on this type of journey again without them. A lesson learned for both Lee and I. Hopefully I've also learned to be less accident-prone when a long way from medical assistance!

So here I sit longing to set out on another one of these adventures. I’ve finally convinced my mate Sam to come along, and my brother is keen to join also. We’re going to ride around this gargantuan island unsupported for three months, seeing as much of the rugged stuff as possible. I can't wait!!!