Day 1:

We leave with a general sense of excitement, although mine overshadowed with a weird feeling of stress, and insecurity about leaving my place of productivity. This feeling haunts my brain till about thirty minutes in, then I psych myself into believing I either a; deserve a break or b; it’s too late now. Neither traveller is used to travelling any distance by motorbike, and we are both uncertain what we are in for. A sore, sore ass was the first realisation. Freedom was the second.

In the first few hours that had passed, I’d spoken a thousand new poems in my head already, which justified me being there.

On day one, our only annoyance may have been our saviour. Forced not to get too cocky, we travelled below the speed limits due to it being a tourist heavy time of year, which helped us familiarise what being on a motorcycle for long periods of time felt like.

The thump of my 500 Single Cylinder was already playing music, better than music itself. Seeing the first plantings on non-endemic trees set the scene for our adventure and the new sights hurled us into ‘mission mode’.

We’d already worked out a few things we were missing so we stopped for supplies, later stopping again for beers. This was quickly becoming luxury; we’d be veterans of the lifestyle in only days.

We’d passed the place in which I last crashed, at a faster speed, similar tiredness, but a better state of mind. I’d almost forgotten what fifth gear felt like; hanging on for dear life, hoping the road would be kind.

We rode for six hours, not straight, but that time none the less. As soon as unfamiliarity set in, I let my mind rest.

Too tired to write,

high under the last sunlight,

we set the Trangia to light,

and made a meal right.

Kids stay up as late as their age around here.

Ten year olds see in 10pm for the first time.

“We wanna do shadows and stories, Mum.”

“You gotta do sleeptime and snoring, guys.”

We counted our blessings it being a summer trip, the night continuing long, allowing us to smoke a joint and have a few beers before setting up camp.

We talked about the day, excitement not remotely dimmed, rather heightened.

I haven’t yet forgiven the road, fear says the road hasn’t forgiven me either, so I tread lightly, we respect each other.

I didn’t miss anyone, or anything. Nothing missed me, or anyone. Three men fished for brim in the river that met the mouth of the sea. We borrowed a lighter off them. I reminisce of the breasts we’d seen earlier from three excited girls at the National Park, these were a sight we wouldn’t see again soon.

Day 2:

We left early morning; a tradespersons rise will enforce that on most. There was a greyish hue to all we could see, formed by the thick, yet distant fog.

The only colour was the illumination of the taillight I followed and the repetitive reflection from my headlights into the road separators. Not so consistent, a rainbow from an on road oil spill made itself apparent.

We had made it.

Out of any sense of familiarity, nothing, no one I recognised and into the country. Now, this wasn’t any country, this was the 60km mean 80km, 80km mean 100km and 100km means hanging on for dear life kind of country.

It’s set in.

The fact that I’ll be thousands of kilometres away from home for the next 10 days, the fact I won’t see my family for Christmas, or my friends, to start the New Year. The road has become home, and service station rubbish had become food.

I have visuals running through my head, from Townes Van Zandt, who we’d listened to the last night. Glimpses of my mind make animations over the hills we ride between, vast and grassy, a horizon so distant.

Tonight will be the second night we stay in a campsite without paying a park fee to those capitalising on nature. We’d made it to a place where speed could be an addiction, and were welcomed like junkies.

Aesthetics have been forgotten, at least on my part. I strap all I own onto anything strong enough to hold it, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

South Australian roads had begun like a patchwork quilt of bitumen, varying heights, colours and widths. We divert our motorcycles around the dangers it procures.

Time ran quicker today, the road becoming more comfortable, easy. We’d also gain a half hour for crossing the border, and reached camp before 6pm.

Before we were to unpack we decided to walk towards the beach and swim.

It was the second clearest water I had ever seen, the first just a few hours prior, and the perfect warmth for swimming. No one was present in either direction and the shoreline could well have run for eternity. Windburns begin to become visually and sensationally obvious upon my face, but only the width of the opening of my helmet.

We’d been warned about this just yesterday, although a warning too late to heed. We’d driven about 50kms on dirt to get where we were, no one else willing to make a similar trek on Christmas Eve.

Tomorrow we stay in a hotel, and shower with soap, eat in a city, and poo in a toilet. It hasn’t been long enough either, to forget that this whole life exists.

We set up a fire and listen to more country music, the only thing that seems to match the morale. Our motorbikes are running well, and our affinity toward them quickly develops into love. I had made it this far for less than twenty dollars in petrol, getting somewhere between thirty and forty kilometres to the litre.

I can ride forever. One hundred dollars could get me to a thousand new homes, if I were to ever need one. We were 700kms away from home on Christmas Eve, and there was something nice about it.

Day 3:

Riding isn’t a chore anymore, the heat hits us and absorbs itself deep into the leather we adorn.

It’s forty degrees Celsius and all open skin is getting noticeably wind burnt, so we are thankful for our full body covering despite the heat.

We had an option of driving inland, a 3 hour ride, or along the coast, a 5 hour ride. We opted for inland, treating ourselves with less ride time, as the day had become that of Christmas.

The road has been kind, and my confidence grows toward it. My love for my Royal Enfield grows also.

This landscape is no enemy to the sun, it’s dry blonde hills, reminiscent of a summer fling are tanning under its heat. We are scolding, the best bet to dim the heat is to ride faster, the breeze our only coolant.

We power along roads, tucked in but wide-awake, we roll our wrists right back into our arms.

We had really made it.

We had earned the roads trust and we were soaring above it. Adelaide welcomes us with it’s mountainous gates, door of pine trees one million feet high open themselves up. There’s no wreaths on these doors though, as nature has no holidays, nor ever rests.

A hotel, a bed, a cold, cold shower, beers, food, and a joint awaited us.

We were rolling toward luxury, and rightly so, a few brave men deserve that a thousand kilometres from their family on the most family orientated holiday of the year.

We passed mansions beyond our worth, beyond our potential worth combined, but there was no feeling of poorness, for we were the rich in spirit, for now, we were the free.

The roads got smoother the closer we got into the city, proving all our fears correct, that money stays where money is made.

Early this day, we’d stumbled into a man who knew more about motorcycles than either of us, so we listened intently and got excited over the possibility of our motorcycles going faster.

Day 4:

We stayed in Adelaide City but dreamt of being back in the country. The city, it’s boxing day bustle and the potential of meeting up with women were exciting for no more than an hour or so.

We cinemas killed a few hours but even after that we contemplated getting back onto the open road, deeper into our journey. The bittersweet knowledge that we’d paid for our hotel room kept us city bound, so we “siesta’ed” the afternoon away and drank a few beers.

The only inspiration the city could offer, a desire to leave it. I’ve always had that relationship with the city, it’s overwhelming infrastructure feeling like prison walls, and it’s air a toxic muzzle.

We didn’t ride today. We just existed, but not fully, not unless we were on our steeds.

Day 5:

Our early fall to sleep led into the earliest of rises. We packed quickly hoping to miss some of the inevitable doom, which was to be heavy rain and strong winds. It fell instantly, almost uncannily, like it was on the radar just waiting for us to leave. A gift.

It was tough, the crazy winds drew any speed hooked individual, and both of us to reduce speeds below the designated speed limit, like we were forced to do on day one.

Fear in death was reignited once again, and probably at a deserved time also as we’d reached a point of potential confidence but now.

Every small town we passed through gave us time to give us the rest we thought we’d earned.

We laughed, laughed each time we stopped, laughed in the face of death, laughed to be alive, each and every stop.

Fletcher smoked a few cigarettes consecutively to lengthen the time we had allotted for our breaks, the time not riding.

I don’t remember much of getting to the campsite; all I am sure of is that my mind was nowhere else. It was focused on the road and begging the road for our safety, our lives.

We’d arrived at our campsite with the greeting of goannas and emus running freely. This was not our land, how dare we pitch tents, build structures and burn their habitats for warmth.

Yet we did, we pitched a tent.

The night was rough, the night had no friends, with its thunder bellowing through our tent, and it’s water creating a pool where we slept.

We didn’t sleep though, we prayed awake, that the falling branches wouldn’t fall on us, or more importantly; our motorcycles.

Day 6:

The rain had passed when we arose, but our sleepless night bore weight on our thankfulness for that. We had inhibitions more rain was on its way, so we hastily packed up camp and got on the road again.

Any miserable memories we may have had from yesterday’s mishaps were long behind us now. We were in the most scenic place that either of us had ever been, both of us well travelled, but still the case.

Heaven had taken its form and was paving a path before our eyes.

I rode past a million potential photos, a million potential poems, but all I wanted to do was ride, and ride forever.

We had Wilpena Pound as our set destination, but we were taking in all we could along the way. We came to the realisation that we’d both most likely run out of petrol before we could get to a petrol station.

That in mind, we drove conservatively, sticking to the speed limits and keeping the throttle smooth. As we were almost entering a small town, Fletchers bike ran out of gas, but luckily enough I had just enough spare to get to the station and re-fill our jerry can.

Power was out over a large portion of South Australia, but this station was one of few to have a generator. God had been looking after our journey thus far.

We continued riding after increasing our meat pie tally, making sure it was still more meat pies, than the days we’d been travelling. The sun had taken it’s toll on both of us at this stage, with definite sunburn sinking in, and we’d almost run out of sunscreen but were stretching that last little bit limiting the non burnt areas to neck, face and ears. My arms had turned to a hue of scarlet.

Wilpenda Pound boasted a pool and the forty degree Celsius heat made that a promise even more exciting than a beer.

We were thankful we had made it, and hyped on the place of the world we had made it to.

Day 7:

One week into the bush life and home feels far away. The gums are bigger here, the road rougher and the heat more…there. It was definitely summer, which was something I could never say about home.

I don’t miss anything yet, anyone yet. This place was beautiful; no woman I had ever seen bare could trump the view.

We walked a few hours to the tallest summit in the range, shedding litres of water through sweat, even the mornings; boiling.

We’d slept better than any other night on the trip, maybe due to extra exhaustion, or maybe because we’d lasted this long living in the bush, that this had become life, and life had become fun.

During the summit walk we passed thousands of reptiles and separated herds of wild goats. They weren’t struggling, nor sweating, this terrain and environment was easy for them, though we were out of our comfort zone.

Yet they were still frightened by us, we were foreign and they made quick haste.

We reached the summit and began setting up the stove for breakfast. Realising we’d forgotten fuel, we packed the Trangia and headed back down, breakfast would have to wait. We reached the place in which we had set up camp and cooled off before leaving again.

The road ahead of us was the pre noted highlight of our entire trip.

The highlight, it was and yet so much more. This place would beat any poem I could write to describe it, any painting I could paint, any song I could sing.

NO MANS LAND.

We were in valleys a million times our height, times ten million more. We rode on high plains where horizons just became a concept we remembered. We split families of emus, countless times and were in awe a thousand times more.

It was a fifty kilometre road which we doubled by taking every possible route for the scenic route, even though it was already too much beauty to take in.

We must have seen a thousand postcards by the hour, almost like it was some sort of practical joke, a virtual reality.

Surely we would have smelt bad by now, an open tuna tin attracting less flies than either one of us, was a good indication of my thoughts.

Although, no one cared, because we didn’t care; and therefore, no one cared.

Out here it’s just you, the animals, the bush and the heat. There’s no news, no women, no escape. No one needs that here, we didn’t need that here.

I didn’t have anyone to answer to, not here, not at home, never again, at least it felt like that.

Cooking on a Trangia had become as familiar as our stoves, so we made some porridge and finally had dinner at 6pm. We’d made it to our campsite honing in on the fact that we were the only souls here. We’d barely even seen animals this far, bar lizards.

This was the outback, the true outback, the furthest outback that was safe for two newly twenty something’s from the city. My nails were an inch thick of dirt, my feet rotting in my RM’s from 20 hours of wear each day.

We listened to music for hours at our campsite, mostly blues, some folk, planned a walk for sunset, got stoned and let the night roll in.

I am ready for more, eager for adventure.

Day 8:

All I remember from today was the transitions of road; we started on dirt, which led into light bitumen slowly darkening through the shades to deep black. There were no lines on the perimeter of the road all day, just the dotted lines in the centre, you could overtake whenever you’d like out here.

I remember riding right in the centre of the two lanes letting the dotted lines escape rolling underneath my front wheel.

Wheel skid marks littered these roads like the girls we’d hope would litter our nights, tomorrow, for New Years Eve.

A message from my ex-girlfriend reminded me of all I’d lost this year, or maybe all I had gained. All I knew was next year would contain more of…this. (Being in unfamiliar places, drinking different beers from tap. Being free, feeling tired and working less, although, how would I sustain this? Would the world take me as a writer, or a folk singer?)

We had reached the furthest point from home and were slowly making the trek back to where we called home. There was only four day left. I was sad about that, but also glad about that, a feeling I knew too well.

My phone hit the road at 110kms an hour making my only connection to home also four days away. It felt like how I was meant to be doing this. No phone, no connection, being present, at least to start in the New Year, but how long could this last? How long would all these feelings last?

Day 9:

We had arisen feeling pretty ‘Slim Dusty’. What was a plan for a few beers turned into eight pints at the bar last night. It was hot enough that they stayed refreshing, four litres in. Lucky we’d somehow catered for that, forgetting December had 31 days and therefore making us spilt our planned six-hour day into a two-hour and a four-hour day. We rode for two hours, and it almost felt like Victoria again. The scenery was definitely of South Australian influence but there was a cold chill on our bodies, reminiscent of the riding we’d done days earlier.

It caught me by surprise but slowly I adjusted and it became something enjoyable, a nice change. Goosebumps forming mountain ranges on my skin ever similar to the ranges we’d left hot on our tail.

We were on the Murray River, and the flora around here had lightened a thousand shades of green.

A hotel room awaited us, a luxury unrecognisable, but deserved and important. We arrived late morning and spent a few hours napping and freshened up. Little did we know, all the townsfolk were heading elsewhere for their New Years celebrations, so we bought some beers, food and mentioned rolling a joint, but didn’t do so till a few hours later.

Both of us had hit a wall of exhaustion, and I feared I might not make it to see the New Year in. You could tell we were nearing the end of the trip. Our bud was almost out, our films almost all shot and our iron horses in desperate need of a clean.

120kms was the speed we chose to stick at all day. It allowed us to count the minutes left from the kilometres we had remaining, with 2kms a minute. This speed didn’t feel nearly as fast as 100kms did on day one.

We were becoming one with our steeds, one with the road. I don’t think I’ll get a New Years kiss and I don’t have anyone who would kiss me in the New Year, but I will never feel alone again.

Day 10:

I fell asleep before the New Year rolled in but I did not regret it. I had my first good sleep in a while and my mind was okay. I knew it was nearly all over and that was making me sad.

We had a long ride ahead of us, so we got into it early. Our sore asses were similar to day one today and the Victorian wind was cold, like it was still winter here, winter for twelve months of the year.

We continued along the Murray through every type of different Australian landscape, minus the animals, it must have been too industrialised for any of them to want to live here.

We arrived at Swann Hill, which was still a ghost town as it was barely January yet. I didn’t make a New Years resolution; it felt like the first year in which I didn’t need to, I was at peace with who I was, what I was doing, my year resolved.

We parked our motorcycles at a local playground and walked into the city centre to the only open pub. No Coopers on tap here, so we drank Melbourne Bitter. It was nice to be almost home, despite the fun we’d had, were having.

Day 11:

We left early, only five hours of riding and I was back home. Things becoming quickly familiar, places I’d been many times before, we were in day trip territory now.

The closer I got to home, the more I thought about work, life, routine, and all the other things that heighten my sadness. I had no woman to go home to, family and friends, sure, but no lover.

Was 2017 going to be the year of me? The year I write more, do more, be more, love more, exist more, or was it just another year? How long can I keep this ball rolling?

I’d woken up to only sunrises so far, and I hadn’t had a feeling of wanting to die yet. I rode home quickly, and kept my positive energy pumping, beers with friends as soon as I got home, and home job tattoos. I was ready for this year.

The wind was cold on the road, all I hoped for was the South Australian heat to follow me home, I guess I won’t be doing any washing anytime soon.

I will use my trip as inspiration. It will not go as time wasted.

Thankyou God, thankyou nature, thankyou Australia, thankyou motorbike.

Home again.

I will sleep on the floor for one night more.

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