Numbat

Posted on May 31, 2022 by Pogo

Preramble

Every year for the past few years (except the covid affected 2020) I ride to Western Australia to attend either the Numbat Rally (hosted by the MRA) or the Numduc Rally (hosted by the Ducati Club). The ride usually starts with some preparation, a new rear tyre for Lolita, any fix-ups that are needed, and a shakedown ride, usually to the Ruptured Budgie Rally in Queensland.

This year should have been the same, but that would have been boring.

In April I rode up to Queensland to attend the Kilbirnie Rally. On the way home, the road through Stroud Road was closed due to an accident. I was planning to turn there and go to Dungog for fuel then down the back roads to home. As I doubled back towards Gloucester, it occurred to me that the Monkerai bridge had just reopened, and that I could check that out, and the road through there to Dungog, so I turned off.

It started promisingly as good dirt, but in the forest sections it was quite rough. Somewhere among the corrugations and the pot holes, Lolita’s console mount broke. These are masterpieces of cost saving. They are made of cast aluminium with webs cast into them to save weight and material, and they crack at the edges of the webs then the console bobbles around. I nursed it to Dungog and at the servo I found an occy strap the right size to make a temporary fix.

Back home, I pulled the mount off and took it to a local engineer to have it rebuilt with a steel section. I expected that it would take a couple of days to repair, and an extra day to refit.

While Lolita was immobile, I took her rear wheel to have a new tyre fitted. It would be ready about the same time as the console mount.

The console mount dragged on a bit, but I had time. As I was installing the rear wheel, I noticed that one of the wheel bearings felt notchy. So I took it to have the wheel bearings replaced. That would take a couple of days, putting my departure back so I wouldn’t have a free day on the way to the Ruptured.

The rear wheel was ready and installed, but the console mount was still not ready. I’d have to skip the Ruptured and decided instead to attend the Loaded Dog Rally at Tarago. It was only a short ride, but with so many things changed, the likelihood of a failure was higher and I’d rather have that failure closer to home.

The Loaded went off well (I’ll report on it later) and I heard that the Ruptured had been cancelled at the last minute due to flooding. Had I ridden up for it, I would have been stranded, so it turned out to be a blessing to have things hold me back.

No problems arose with the rebuilt console mount or the rear wheel, so I rode home to unpack, wash, repack and change Lolita’s oil and filters and turn west, a week earlier than usual, but I couldn’t hold back any longer.

Ramble

Day one

Despite my eagerness to leave, I was late getting away and had to plan on a short day. I had great riding weather and enjoyed watching the Blue Mountains loom as I approached them. These were the tallest mountains that I would cross for the entire ride. I looked over my shoulder when I was at Kurrajong Heights and saw Sydney sprawled out across the flats below.

I followed Bells Line of Road to Lithgow, the Great Western Highway through Bathurst and the Mitchell Highway through Orange.

I began thinking of exactly where I would stop as the sun started edging lower. Dubbo seemed likely, there were plenty of hotels, motels, and caravan parks there. Along the way between Molong and Wellington the temperature dropped dramatically, and I firmed my choice to a hotel or a motel.

When I stopped for fuel in Dubbo, I found a hotel with a room at a good price and booked it. When I came to check in, I found that Wotif had booked the room for the same date next month! The hotel did not have a vacancy for this night, and the booking was non-refundable. I was a bit miffed. The hotel nearby did not have a vacancy either, and as far as I could find out, there wasn’t an empty room in the entire town. It was well after dark now and finger-burningly cold outside, so I was not looking forward to putting up my tent in a caravan park.

Looking further afield, I found a single room 50 km back at Wellington. I rang to confirm rather than trusting the booking app and then headed back to Wellington to the Hermitage Hill Retreat.

The place looked deserted when I arrived. Lolita was the only vehicle in the guest carpark. I found a sign on the door to the (closed) restaurant advising me to ring a number to check in. The owner, Wayne, came to show me my room. There was a common room with a kitchen area, so I could cook my tuna and noodles. He asked if I’d like a beer and I thought “Hell yeah! Hang the expense.” And he gave me two from a local brewery free of charge. I learned that the restaurant only opened Thursday to Saturday, and it was Wednesday night, but I could have breakfast there or in my room in the morning. The day had once again brightened.

While I cooked and ate my tuna and noodles, some more guests arrived and I felt more at ease.

Day two

I was the only guest at the restaurant for breakfast and chatted with Wayne about travelling while I enjoyed my eggs on toast. I took a walk around the grounds and found that there were several other guests staying in cottages. That’s why I hadn’t seen their vehicles in the carpark.

It was only 6 degrees when I started Lolita up and headed back down the road to Dubbo. I was wearing my wet weather gear to keep the wind out and had Lolita’s heated grips on full. Riding through Dubbo I could now see all the “No Vacancy” signs up.

I’d filled Lolita’s tank in Dubbo last night, and only taken 100 km out of it going back and forth to Wellington, so I should have had enough fuel to easily get to Nyngan, but by Trangie I had a fuel warning light, and I knew that there was no fuel at Nevertire, so I filled the tank (it wasn’t that low) and had a nervous eye on the fuel gauge all the way to Cobar.

Cobar is usually just a fuel stop on this run. But I had started out from a different place and had a short day, so Cobar was now an overnight stop. To mark the difference, I took a detour at the entrance to town and went to the Fort Bourke Hill Lookout.

I felt good when I put my pop-up tent up on grass in the tent area of the Cobar Caravan Park. I was finally doing it properly.

I cooked my tuna and noodles in the camp kitchen and watched the weather report on the huge screen TV there then settled in my sleeping bag for the night.

Day three

I made an early start and was pleased to pack up a dry tent, then rode into town to find breakfast.

Over my eggs and toast, I looked at the weather ahead. It looked like rain and so I planned to stay in a motel at my next stop, Broken Hill.

After breakfast I filled Lolita’s tank and the ten litre jerry can that I always carry on a long run and returned to the road.

I found that I was following a truck, some way ahead. I knew that Lolita could pass it easily, but we would only be sitting in front of him all the way to Broken Hill, so I rolled back a little and looked at the scenery. It was surprisingly green this year.

I stopped to top up at Emmdale and chatted with the truck driver. He was a Harley rider and we talked about what bikes and trikes were suitable for disabled riders.

Coming into Wilcannia, the highway crosses the Darling River. The water is usually not visible from the bridge but this year it was quite high. It is good to see water flowing in the river, but I recalled talking with the caravan park owner the last time that I stopped there. The river then had been in flood the week before. She said that high flow would be gone in a week, and the river could be dry again in a month.

I stopped in Wilcannia for fuel and had a pie and a coffee at the store. I was pleased to find that the servo had new pumps, and that they had premium fuel.

Back to the road and the surprising greenness. There is a small hill about 20 km out of town called Netallie Hill. As the road crosses it the plains seem endless.

The range of hills containing Broken Hill looms on the horizon for a long time before the town arrives. I have all that time to feel the ride, to flow with it, be a part of it, not just doing it.

The past few times that I have been through Broken Hill, I have noticed a Solar Power Farm about 5 km west of the town. I decided to stop and visit it today and was disappointed. Considering the current emphasis on renewable energy and the obvious size of this plant, I had expected to find an information centre or at least a viewing platform. No signage. Nothing. A rough dirt road runs between the site and the highway for some distance but never offers a carpark.

I filled Lolita’s tank when I rode back into town so that I could get away early the next day then I found my motel. Parking here is pretty tight. I disconnected Lolita’s trailer, Talulla, and rolled it beside the bike to leave more room behind them.

There is a restaurant at the motel, quite well rated, and another in the pub across the road. I walked over to the pub to look at their menu and found the range and the prices similar.

While having a quiet beer I received a text message saying that the mate that I was planning to stay with in Western Australia was a covid close contact and would be in isolation for a week. That week would be up the day that I was due to arrive…

I decided to use the restaurant at the motel. The waitress was caught short of a table, but found one for me. The meal was average, but not tuna and noodles. I noticed that there was affogato on the dessert board and ordered it. It came deconstructed, a scoop of icecream in a bowl and a cup of ‘espresso’. The coffee was watery and spoiled the dessert. I ordered a long black and it was just as bad. Maybe the covid news was affecting my mood.

Day four

I spoilt my early start by locking my keys in my room and having to wait for the office to open to retrieve them. I spent the time chatting with a bloke from the unit next door about Lolita and our trip.

I had a breakfast bruschetta at cafe in the main street, then rolled out of town. Coming to the border town of Cockburn, I was amused to see a sign warning of a fruit fly quarantine check at Oodla Wirra 220 km away.

I had seen signs warning of wildlife on the road, and I recalled having seen flocks of emus on a previous trip west, but I was still surprised to see about 10 emus standing by the side of the road some distance past Cockburn. They didn’t move, the lead one (closest to the road) seemed to be staring at me as I rode past.

The South Australian penchant for long stretches of roadworks showed itself here. I am pleased to see the road being upgraded, but I find it frustrating to have to travel at 80 km/h for 10 to 30 km on a new surface.

Travelling at that speed though gives plenty of opportunity to look at the interesting range of hills nearby.

I filled Lolita’s tank at Yunta and headed to Peterborough. I arrived at the threatened quarantine check and was waved through after being asked if I was carrying any fruit.

I had booked a room in the bike friendly Peterborough Hotel. I’d do my washing in the laundromat down the road and eat at the Railway hotel up the road just as before. I like this part of the trip.

Day five

I was up and away early, heading for Wirrulla. The day was fine and cool, making the riding easy up through Orroroo and Wilmington.

I stopped at the monument in Horrock’s Pass to see what it was about (a white guy ‘found’ something that the local aboriginals had known for centuries).

Coming out of the hills on the west side of the pass, I was pleased to see the large number of wind turbines making Port Augusta more energy independent.

I filled Lolita’s tank and took off my wet weather gear in Port Augusta. The highway down the west side of the gulf is being upgraded and so is one long stretch of roadworks with an 80 km/h speed limit…

I stopped for a break at Kimba. I was going to have a pie and a coffee, but the place was very busy. While I was walking out of the roadhouse, I met a mate who was on a 16000 km round Australia charity ride. What are the odds?

I rode on to Wudinna for fuel and had a pie and a coffee there. I considered pushing on to Ceduna for the night. I had never stayed there and had not really got my head around the town. But as I rode out of town, the sun dipped and I thought about pushing into that for an extra hour. I’d stop as planned in Wirrulla.

I’d stopped here twice before. The first time I took a room in the pub against the possibility of overnight rain. The second time I’d set up camp in the caravan park. It wasn’t raining, or threatening to today, so I found a grassy spot and set up my pop-up tent. I walked over to the shop to pay my camping fee and found it closed. No problem, I can pay at the pub. But the pub was closed too. That was sad. I would pay at the shop in the morning.

Lolita, Talulla and chez Pogo at Wirrulla

Back to my camp, tuna and noodles for dinner, dishes washed in the camp kitchen and then an early night.

Day six

I rose early and packed up my camp with the ‘help’ of a northeasterly wind then walked over to the shop to pay my camp fee and have breakfast. While there I asked about the pub and learned that it closes on Sunday and Monday. That was better. The pub is the social centre of a town. If it closes, the town goes quiet.

The shop, incidentally, is for sale. If you are looking to take on an established business in a small friendly town, drop in and have a chat.

Out on the road, I was pleased to have the wind behind me, but the further west I rode, the more the wind swung around, and it was a gusty northerly by the time that I stopped for fuel at Ceduna.

As I rode into Penong, the windmill town, the windmills were flat out. I topped up Lolita’s tank here so that I could skip stopping at Nundroo. I always find Nundroo a dreary place. The campground, where I have stayed a couple of times, is a dustbowl, and the servo often has no premium fuel so I end up putting half a tank of 91 octane into Lolita’s tank. It has been recently upgraded so it might be better, but it is off my list.

On my way back from the Numduc last year, I noticed that there was a new sign advertising a cafe or at least the possibility of coffee at Yalata, so I wanted to stop there on this run and see what was there.

The sign was broken, possibly by recent storms. There was signage for a caravan park, but it didn’t seem to exist, and there was a lot of new concrete with plumbing and wiring, so something is happening. I’ll check back next year.

I stopped at Head of Bight which advertises that it is a whale nursery for a look around. When I first stopped here, it was all under construction. When I last stopped here, my companions baulked at the price of admission, but I figured that this time it would be worth a look.

On advice from the person at the counter, I turned right at the end of the path and looked out from the lookout. The view was wonderful. Then I backtracked to the end of the path and walked the boardwalk to its end and back.

No whales were sighted, but it seemed that the construction work had been finished.

I’d looked at the weather and there was a strong possibility of rain at Nullarbor Roadhouse, so I had booked a room. It was expensive, but I hate packing up a wet tent, and if this gusty wind persisted, I would find it difficult to put the tent up in the first place.

When I arrived, I thought that I would fill Lolita’s tank, then check in to my room when I paid for my fuel, but there was a person at the counter with a million questions, and Lolita and Talulla were taking up space at the pumps. So I moved them and went back to stand at the end of an even longer queue while the million questions were fielded. Another attendant opened a second register so that I could pay for my fuel, but he couldn’t deal with room bookings, and I rejoined the still longer queue behind the million questions and waited patiently till they were all satisfactorily answered and the queue shuffled forward.

Eventually I paid for my room and rode around to park outside it and prayed that it would rain because rooms here are very expensive. So too was fuel. The most expensive on the ride at $3.00 per litre!

It flogged down during the night. I got my money’s worth.

Day seven

It was still raining in the morning. I put on full wet weather gear and rode out with a gusty north westerly driving bursts of rain into my face. But after about 50 km, the rain had stopped. I was looking forward to dropping down behind the hill at Eucla and getting out of the wind.

I filled Lolita’s tank at Border Village because I knew that there would be no premium at Eucla. They had a leak in the premium tank last year and it was going to be a major job to repair it and the environmental damage it had caused.

Riding down the scarp at Eucla to the flat always makes me smile. The wind eased as I expected, and I settled in to enjoying the scenery.

But by Mundrabilla,the wind had swung further west and become steadier. Poor Lolita was struggling to maintain 100 km/h into it. I stopped at Mundrabilla for breakfast and then went out to resume battle with the wind.

I filled Lolita’s tank at Madura. She had returned less than 10 kilometres per litre on that run. I decided to drop our cruising speed to 90 km/h, the same as caravans and motor homes, to make it easier on her as we pushed to Cocklebiddy.

I was so concerned about the wind that I rang both Cocklebiddy and Caiguna roadhouses to see if they had a room for the night. Neither did. I’d be putting up my tent in this gale.

At Cocklebiddy the attendant at the counter told me that the caravan park was closed because the toilet block was out of order and advised me to go on to Caiguna. I pleaded that Caiguna Caravan Park was a dustbowl and my tent wouldn’t stay upright in this wind. He then said that I could put my tent up for free. That was a win.

There is grass (sort of) in the campground at Cocklebiddy. I parked Lolita in the lee of the only tree in the campground and put my tent up beside it, with the thought that I could guy the tent to the bike if needed to keep it from blowing away.

The tree and the bike together broke the wind sufficiently that the tent was stable and only the fiercest gusts rocked it.

In the bar I met a bloke called Wayne who was riding his M109 back to Western Australia. We swapped stories all night and arranged to meet at the pub at Norseman.

I interrupted our chat to go out and watch the sunset. Cocklebidy and Nullarbor have amazing sunsets.

When I came out to the campground, the wind had dropped and the sky was clear. I had a good night in my tent.

Day eight

I made an early start. The tarp over my tent was covered in dew and took a while to dry. I topped up Lolita’s tank, partly to be certain to have plenty of premium in the mix should there be no premium at Caiguna, and partly to repay the caravan park for letting me stay.

There was premium at Caiguna and I topped up Lolita’s tank there. Better to arrive with too much fuel at Balladonia than too little.

I had upgraded Lolita’s video camera recently so that I could record the ride along the 90 mile straight. I stopped just outside the roadhouse and set up the camera, then rode on.

I really enjoy riding the straight. There is something in the long slow dance of the scenery, the trees change, the soil changes, the straight is so long that there can be (and was) different weather at either end.

I was having a pie and a coffee at Balladonia roadhouse when Wayne popped his head around the corner. He had stopped to fill up and would see me in Norseman.

The sun was getting low when I arrived a Norseman. I set up my tent in the caravan park and got my washing done, then rode into town to have dinner at the pub.

The place was bouncing when I arrived and it took a while to get to the bar to order my meal and get a beer. The meal was great, both tasty and filling, but only a couple of beers were allowed so that I could ride back to camp.

Day nine

I made a good start and was cheered when the driver of a road train waited at the intersection of the highway for me to get in front of him.

A few kilometres later, I was struck by the glow of the sunlight on the trunks of the trees and stopped to take a photo, sure that I was far enough ahead of the road train to stay in front.

Sunshine glowing on the trunks of the trees north of Norseman

I wasn’t, and he passed while I was putting my camera away.

I had been warned about roadworks on this stretch. I remembered striking a stretch of sticky red clay here last year, but as this is the only road north, I’d have to face it. When I found it, the surface was quite good, but the stretches were long and slow one way flows in places.

I pulled out of the one way and stopped at Widgiemooltha for breakfast, a pie and a coffee. I’d ridden past several times, so I was interested to see what it would be like. The answer is that it was interesting, a mixture of general store, cafe and post office and friendly.

Recognising that I’d have to rejoin the one way stream at the right time, I waited several minutes for the line of traffic going my way to pass, and was almost disappointed to find the end of the one way just fifty metres further on.

I followed a road train until about ten kilometres south of Coolgardie. The few opportunities that I had to pass were marred by oncoming traffic. He was doing roughly 100 km/h anyway, so I would have passed and sat in front of him.

I stopped for fuel in Coolgardie and chatted for a while with the attendant about the Spyder and travelling.

Back out onto the highway, and behind another road train. I know that it shouldn’t matter. The driver is doing his job and most seem to do it well. As we are both doing the same speed, there is little point in passing, but…

Anyway, I stopped for fuel at Southern Cross, and he stopped for a meal, so I got out onto the highway in front of him. And behind… another… road… train… Am I a road train magnet?

It’s only 100 kilometres or so to Merredin, so I sat and waited…

I rolled into the Merredin Tourist Park and found the office unattended. By the time I had got my phone out and dialled (um, pressed?) the first four digits of the number on the sign on the door, someone opened the door and, rather hurriedly, checked me in. No keys, no codes, just set up over there behind amenities block and beside the fourby. So I did.

The day ended with a pretty sunset…

Followed by tuna and noodles in the camp kitchen.

I spoke with the mother of a family who was staying there. She was reheating left-overs in the oven in the very well equipped camp kitchen, and struggling because they were still frozen in the centre. The contrast of our two meals and the effort/energy involved struck me. She would have thought that they were roughing it because they were eating left-overs, but they had the ability to freeze them.

Day ten

My tent was dewy again and it took a while to get it dry. Once I was on the bike and ready to roll, I was pleased to get a ‘thumbs up’ from my neighbours in the fourby camp.

One last push to arrive at my mate’s place south of Perth. I think that the anticipation of seeing them lifts this stretch. There are stretches of those lovely red trunked gums, salty lakes and prosperous towns, like Kellerberrin where I stopped for breakfast.

The Succulent cafe had apparently changed hands recently, but the poached eggs were very tasty and the coffee just right.

The run to Northam was uneventful. No road trains blighted my view. From there the number and size of the towns on the highway increase until they become joined up suburbs. I fired up Lolita’s GPS and let it lead me around the big bad city to where the trees outnumber the houses again.

Day seventeen

The plan was formed for us to travel in convoy. The two of us would meet with two more at Waroona and travel together.to the rally. I’m not good at group rides, and worse when they become start-stop processions, as this one did, and so I left it and continued on my my own to the rally.

I stopped in Dowerin to pick up some supplies and check out options for meals. The publican at the Commercial Hotel very kindly carried my case out to Lolita.

I arrived with the sun setting and met with Stevo from MRAWA who showed me where we would be camping. I usually camp on the “quiet side” of the rally site, somewhere near the WA Moto Guzzi Club camp, but this year I was camping on the “dirt bike side” with the MRAWA crew. I got my tent up in the last of the daylight as the rest of the crew arrived then settled by the fire to meet some new friends.

Day eighteen

I didn’t recall asking for a wake-up call, but at 7:30, Stevo provided one by starting his Yamaha and “warming it up”. Thanks mate, I’d hate to miss the best part of the day…

I wandered over to the food van to see what might be had for breakfast. If the rally organisers get a caterer to come to the rally to attract more riders, then I’ll support the food van. A bacon and egg roll and a coffee filled my need, and a long chat with the owners about bikes and riding ensued.

They are looking for their next bike, and asked lots of questions about Lolita. In the end, I gave a brief introduction to the controls ,and with the admonition “if you break it, you buy it”, sent him off to Dowerin on Lolita to try it out.

Half an hour later he returned very happy to have had the chance to try something different.

Next on my list of things to do was to assemble and fire my spud gun. Remembering last year’s lesson about over-fuelling, I charged the chamber, clicked the firing button and with a satisfying WHOOMP!, launched a tennis ball a hundred metres or so into the paddock. Then I got to walk out into the paddock and retrieve it. Job done.

The site became busier as more riders arrived, and I spent a happy afternoon wandering around talking to friends old and new.

That evening, the “big fire” was lit in the pit and several riders entertained us by riding around the wall of the pit.

A rider doing a lap of the pit around the big fire.

Day nineteen

Sunday is gymkhana day. The crowd gathered early to get the shady spots under the trees.

Compared to previous years, it was a pretty quiet event. The sidecar riders put on a show lapping a pair of barrels, and the slow race was fun to watch, but it just didn’t buzz. The raffle was drawn and several people went home with new MRAWA T shirts. The grand prize was a big box of chocolate which didn’t make it off the site.

I wandered back to camp and spent some time showing some kids how to fire my spud gun. They got a lot of exercise looking for the tennis balls.

I went for a walk to the far corner of the site. There are some interesting wrecks and relics up here.

A sad little delivery trike hiding under a tree.

I spent some time chatting with some rallyists, mostly sidecar riders up in the corner. It is a small world. I met a bloke who had lived in Portland and had been to the early Fish Holes rallies, and a woman who had ridden in Tasmania as I had.

On my was back I passed the pit. The fire was out, but it was still being ridden around.

Back at camp, the fire was being recharged for the last night.

Day twenty

Monday is packing day. There is no particular rush. I got away about midday and backtracked. I stopped for lunch in Toodyay. I’d ridden past a couple of times and seen that it was a popular spot, and now I had time.

There were lots of bikes parked in the main street. I parked in what seemed to be the unofficial overflow parking, a vacant block on a corner, and walked the main street. The cafes were full, and I smelt of three days of rallying, so I got a pie and a coffee at the bakery and sat outside in the sunshine to people watch.

I entertained a few bystanders by deftly reversing Talulla into a space between a car and the wall, then riding around and out onto the street. I filled Lolita’s tank and headed south.

When the road became a bit freeway-ish, I pulled over to turn on Lolita’s GPS so it could guide me through the maze. That worked quite well until I was stuck in the right lane passing a slow line of cars when the GPS told me that I should have been on the end of that line to turn off just then… With thirteen kilometres till the next chance to rejoin my route, I gave up and just followed the freeway. Next time…

I arrived back at my mate’s place on sunset and watched the prettyness unfold while I waited in the driveway.

Day twenty four

I had arranged to catch up with a couple of mates while I was over here, and today was the best day for all.

It wasn’t quite raining, but the forecast was for it to worsen, so I frocked up and sallied forth. I was taking the South Western Highway north, the road that I had been hoping to join on Monday. In the wet, the fields on either side are soft and misty.

The thunderstorm struck as I rode into Pinjarra. The school zones had just come into force, so I had to crawl through town at 40 km/h while water streamed down my jacket sleeves and into my gloves. Oh joy.

Ten kilometres later, the sun was almost shining and I had an almost dry road for the rest of the ride.

Sometime around three in the morning, I had had enough fun and went to bed.

Day twenty five

I try to avoid an out and back ride. If the distance is about the same and the weather is good, then I’ll take a different way home. Today over a loaded fritata and orange juice, I decided to take the coast road home.

I looked at the map and located the turnoff that would take me more or less directly to the coast. I was not prepared for the amount of suburbia that I would have to cross to get there and was feeling pretty bushed when I finally saw the sea.

After a short walk around to refresh myself, I turned south, following the old road. It shows its heritage, passing through old industrial areas and port towns that have been overrun by suburbia. South from Mandurah though the trees outnumber the houses again and it is a pleasant ride on a good surface with very little traffic.

The weather is going to close in for a few days. I’ll sit tight and wait for it to clear, then turn east.

Day twenty nine

It was grey and drizzly while I packed my gear back into Talulla and hooked her up to Lolita, but the rain radar promised that it would clear as I rode north.

I said goodbye to my mate, rode out the drive and headed north. The norther we rode, the wetter it got but I held my resolve. It began to ease by Waroona, and was approximately fine by the time that we made Pinjarra.

I had decided to try to find my way past the city without using Lolita’s GPS. Much of the route was familiar from my ride on the weekend and from the run to the rally. The only tricky bit was finding the right freeway entrances and exits. It was with a certain sense of achievement that I turned onto the Great Eastern Highway and headed east.

From there the suburbia unwound to become towns. I stopped to fill Lolita’s Tank at Northam and pushed ahead with Merreden as my goal. Back through Meckering, the site of an earthquake in 1968, back past the red trunked gums, back past the shallow salty lakes, and into Merredin in time to do some top up shopping (tuna and noodles and broccoli) before setting up my tent in the glow of the sunset.

Day thirty

Up early, the tarp over my tent was covered in dew. It hadn’t rained, but it might as well have. It took a fair bit of shaking to get it sort of dry. Then I dried the groundsheet in the sunshine and was finally heading east to Southern Cross where I would have breakfast.

I knew that Lolita could cover the distance between Merredin and Southern Cross on one tank of fuel, because she had done it the other way, but I was watching the fuel gauge and the distance signs as they dropped together.

I came up behind a couple of trucks. The lead one was slow going up the hills, but got back to 100 km/h down the other side. The one following him had settled on about 95 km/h. He gained on the lead truck on the climbs, and fell back on the runs. I decided to sit behind them and save a little fuel rather than push to pass them and run short.

Southern Cross came up in time to prevent disaster. I rolled up to the bakery for breakfast. There was a group of men sitting at a table outside who were interested to see Lolita. They had apparently been trying to convince one of their number to buy a Spyder. As they left, one of them had a good look at Lolita and asked about the handling and the engine. I offered to show him the controls, but he was satisfied and walked off.

While I was enjoying my pie and coffee (actually, the coffee wasn’t so great), a group of bikes rode noisily past. Harleys. I’d probably never see them again. It surprises me that Harley Davidson have been making motorcycles longer than most other makers, but they haven’t figured out how to make a quiet exhaust.

I rolled up to the servo up the road and filled Lolita’s tank. The Harley group was there, having coffee and stuff in a bag. They mounted up and headed out while I was filling in Lolita’s fuel log. I’d probably never see them again.

Next stop Coolgardie. The highway basically follows the pipeline to the goldfields. There are signs along the way pointing to historic pump-houses. One day, I’ll take the time to follow the trail.

I’d been calculating when Lolita would be due for her oil and filter change. Somewhere in South Australia seemed likely. Still a thousand kilometres to go, I recalled that she had run low on oil one year, and I had topped it up at the Roadhouse at Kimba before going on to change the oil at Stu’s garage in Adelaide.

With this in mind, I checked Lolita’s oil when we stopped at Coolgardie for fuel. It was low. I was pleased to find a one litre bottle of the Penrite motorcycle oil that Lolita likes in the shop at the servo, and put 700 ml of it into Lolita’s oil tank. That put me a bit behind, but I felt better knowing that Lolita wouldn’t struggle. As I rode out of town, I saw the Harley riders stopped at a cafe. I rode on knowing that I’d probably never see them again.

It had been a couple of weeks since I came through the roadworks near Widgiemooltha, and I was interested to see how they had progressed. I stopped at the roadhouse to take the photo that I should have taken back then, and while I was getting back onto the bike, the Harley riders rode past. I’d probably never see them again.

With the sun getting low, the red trunks of the gum trees took on their lovely glow. I pulled over to take a couple of shots, remounted and pushed on towards Norseman.

On the way, I passed the group of Harley riders pulled over, apparently (judging by the tools on the ground) dealing with an electrical problem. I slowed to see if I could help, but they waved me on. I figured that I would never see them again.

I’d been watching the weather on the way. There was rain forecast but the clouds that I could see didn’t look like they could rain, and I decided that I would put my tent up in the campground at Norseman.

I was directed to the same spot. There was no hot water in the showers, but I was able to get my washing done. I cooked and ate my tuna and noodles in the camp kitchen and chatted with a couple who were BMW club members. We sorta agreed to meet at the Kosciuszko Rally, because I hadn’t done one in a while.

I rescued my clothes from the dryer, stowed them in my clothes bag in Talulla and settled down in my sleeping bag for the night.

Day thirty one

A month already? I have way too much fun.

The tarp on my tent was wet with dew (where is my surprised look?) and the groudsheet was wet underneath. While I dried them in the morning sunshine, I planned to get breakfast in town. There was rain forecast for Cocklebiddy, where I had planned to stop and so I had booked a room. Not at Cocklebiddy, because they were fully booked, but at Caiguna. That would make today a shorter run.

Breakfast at the Full Moon cafe was interesting. there were lots of people in high vis gear getting take away and getting into red mud covered white utes. The morning rush hour was on.

After breakfast I filled Lolita’s tank and decided that I would use her camera to capture the road east to Balladonia. The camera battery had lasted from Caiguna to Balladonia on the way out, so I guessed that it would (having been charged in the meantime) last roughly the same time again. I turned on the camera and rolled out onto the highway.

While I waited to turn right onto the Eyre Highway, a road train coming the other way turned left onto it. I’d have to pass him while we were in the hills or I’d be following him for a very long time. My chance came on a long uphill, and I was pleased to have caught the event with Lolita’s camera.

Passing a road train going at 100 km/h is a dangerous manoeuvre. A triple road train is 53.5 metres long. If you dawdle past one by going just one kilometre per hour faster, you will be on the wrong side of the road for over a minute and a half, plus time to pull out and pull back in. In that time you will travel nearly five and a half kilometres. If you pass him going twenty kilometres an hour faster, you will be on the wrong side of the road for less than ten seconds and cover just 360 metres. So it’s better to pass quickly, but that ten seconds still feels like a long time.

After passing the road train, I settled into enjoying the now familiar scenery, noting interesting places such as the massive red mud ‘lake’ at Southern Hills rest area. I fell into estimating the lengths of the straight sections of road, The longest crossing several ridges were about thirty kilometres long. It was also interesting to note the preponderance of the numbers caravans and camper vans among the oncoming vehicles

I turned the camera off when I stopped at Balladonia roadhouse. I now had a bookmark pair of videos to enjoy. While I was stopped, I received a call from a Spyder riding mate who had some questions about headlight wiring on a Spyder which I was able to answer for him. It’s a weird world. We were about three thousand kilometres apart. I could talk with him easily, and use my phone to look up some figures and send them to him. Where is my flying car?

It’s about 40 km on to the western end of the 90 mile straight where I stopped and took a photo of Lolita and Talulla, then started the hour and a half ride along the straight towards Caiguna. As I rode, I enjoyed seeing the slow changes in the scenery, noticing the way that the trees tend to grow on the hills and that the flats are mostly covered in low scrub. I less enjoyed watching the cloud gathering on the horizon.

By 20 kilometres out, it became clear that Hughey was racing me to Caiguna. I pulled over and put my wet weather gear on and pushed on.

It was a draw. I got to Caiguna roadhouse just as the rain started. Hughey put on a show as he moved on to Cocklebiddy.

I was very pleased to be able to park Lolita and Talulla under cover for the night.

Day thirty two

Hughey dudded me! The only rain overnight was the few spots on Lolita’s windscreen when I pulled up.

I packed up and headed to Cocklebiddy for fuel and breakfast. I saw this as I turned onto the highway.

Cocklebiddy is just 60 km away. The stiff cross breeze made it feel further. There were large puddles on the drive as I rode into the roadhouse. I asked at the cafe and was pleased to learn that they had had some rain overnight. I hadn’t been dudded after all.

As I filled Lolita’s tank, a couple of caravans pulled out onto the highway heading east. I’d have to pass them in a headwind, but there are some good long straights between here and Madura.

By the time I reached Madura roadhouse, I was quite warm in my wet weather gear. The sun had broken through the cloud and the wind wasn’t enough to cool me. While I took it off, the two caravans that I had passed pulled in for fuel. I was pleased to roll out ahead of them.

Riding the other way a few weeks back, the stiff wind here gave Lolita a hard time. Now it made riding easy and we scooted along the flat towards Mundrabilla. I like this stretch. The weird shaped trees and the fascinating geology: riding along the ocean bed with the cliffs a few hundred metres to my left.

I stopped at Border Village for fuel and pushed east. There was a bank of cloud to the north, and we were in another race to the next stop Nullarbor Roadhouse. Expecting rain, I had rung ahead and booked a room for the night.

Hughey did not disappoint me. The rain started with about 100 km to go. Not enough to soak me, just make everything wet and cold.

The room had an air conditioner buried away at the back of an alcove that had an open set of shelves. I arranged my gear on the shelves and turned the vent on the air con so that the air blew over my gear. With the temperature already set at 27 degrees, I figured that my gear would dry while I was at dinner.

Day thirty three

The rain passed in the night, but it was still quite cool as I packed Talulla in the morning. I put my nice dry wet weather gear on to break the wind and returned to the highway. Then, sadly, it became a bit of a transit stage. I filled up at Penong, topped up at Ceduna and headed for Minnipa where I had booked a room for the night.

I had wanted to stay here on a previous trip. My intention then was to stop in the free camp, but there were two large mobile mansions there that took up all the grass, so I rode into town to try the pub. There was a 100th birthday party being held there, and they were booked out, so I missed out.

This time would be different. When I checked in, I learned that there was a new publican, just three weeks in the job, and that I was the only guest. Would I be needing dinner? Well, if it isn’t too inconvenient. It was Sunday, they wouldn’t normally be open, but as I had booked ahead… The dining room would open at six. I had time for a shower.

I was feeling a bit weird sitting alone in the dining room, when a group of three arrived, they had rung while I was showering and booked a room. They were travelling to Sydney, doing a thousand kilometres a day!

Day thirty four

By the time I was up and packed, they were long gone. I rode to Wudinna for fuel and breakfast. My next stop would be fuel at Port Augusta. I remembered as I rode east one particularly cold morning ride. There was a mist rolling across the road that kept my hands and arms damp and therefore cold. When we rode into the sun, the mist lit up and I had to slow to a crawl. But this morning was fine and cool.

I topped up Lolita’s tank at Kimba and rolled on. I began to feel that I should record some of what I was seeing and pulled over to take some shots on the way to Iron Knob. The cloud had a wonderful herringbone pattern.

Herringbone cloud on the way to Iron Knob

I rode through Port Augusta and picked up fuel on the way out of town. While filling Lolita’s tank, I talked with a couple of riders who had been on an amazing trip up to the Gulf (of Carpentaria).

I knew that Lolita would be due for an oil change well before we got home, and recalled talking with a bloke in the caravan park at Port Augusta some years back whose bike had broken down on the way back from The Finke River. He had nursed it to Port Augusta and had amazing help from a local bike shop who helped him find parts and let him do the work himself to keep the cost down. I thought that I might do the oil change there, but I couldn’t recall the name or location of the bike shop, so I hadn’t looked.

Now, as I left the servo, I saw an auto parts shop who would stock the oil that Lolita used. I pulled in and bought some oil.I thought that I would ask in Peterborough if there was a garage where I could do the oil change.

I enjoyed the ride up through Horrocks Pass and from Wilmington to Orroroo. Outside Orroroo, I decided to stop and see the Giant Gum Tree instead of riding past.

Then just outside town is this monument.

I took a room in the pub and walked down to the laundromat to put my washing on. Back in the bar, I struck up a conversation with Brian, a local rider. I asked about where I could change Lolita’s oil, and he generously offered me his garage.

Day thirty five

After a pleasant night in the pub, I rode next morning down to Brian’s place. He proudly showed me the sidecar that he had built himself sitting on a spotless garage floor. I took great care to not add any spots, and Brian helped greatly by washing my oil change gear in his parts washer. I like this town even more.

It’s only 80 km to Yunta where I stopped for fuel and breakfast. There are some interesting hills in this area.

But it is mostly like this

I rode into the driveway of Broken Hill Tourist Park and walked to the office to ask if they had a tent site. As I approached, I saw a sign saying that they had no sites available. When I turned back towards the bike, thinking that there was another caravan park at the other end of town, I heard a voice calling me back. They had one tent site left. It was beside the road, would that be ok?

Day thirty six

I had breakfast in town while I waited for Skippy to get off the road, filled Lolita’s tank and headed to Wilcannia. Fill up, push on. I stopped for a pie and a coffee at Emmdale and topped up Lolita’s tank, then one last push to get to Cobar for the night.

Day thirty seven

I had breakfast in town and thought about where I would be staying tonight. Dubbo was a short day’s ride away. I could visit the Dubbo Zoo. It would be cold. I booked a room.

The zoo idea fell apart when I got there. They only offer tours in the morning, it was four in the afternoon. I could pay a day’s entry for an hour’s walk around… I entered the address of my pub into Lolita’s GPS and let it lead me through town.

It didn’t look promising from the outside, but a walk around inside revealed a family friendly pub with a good bistro. The rooms were a bit bare, but the showers and toilets were new and clean. The Garden Hotel was worth stopping at.

As a bonus, I had a golden sunset view from my window.

Sunset over Dubbo through the screen on my window

Day thirty eight

To make up for not visiting the zoo, I decided to visit the Dubbo Gaol. I found breakfast at a street cafe called Black Tambourine, then parking down by the Macquarie river behind the shopping centre. The gaol seems stuck, like the chintz armchair in a Douglas Adams book. The city is growing all around it, but can’t get rid of it.

I took two hours to walk around, reading the signs, watching the videos and being both horrified at the way that prisoners were treated, and lifted by the attempts made to make imprisonment more humane.

I let Lolita’s GPS lead me out of town. It did not take me back through Wellington on the Midwestern highway, but on the Golden Highway towards Dunedoo. That would break the out and back loop and I’d see a bit more country.

It didn’t really get warm. By the time I stopped in Mudgee for fuel, I was cold. By the time we got to Capertee. I was very cold. I stopped at the pub and had a coffee beside the blazing coal fire.

A blazing coal fire at the Royal Hotel in Capertee

With some warmth restored, I pushed on down familiar roads to Lithgow then over Bells Line to Windsor and the back roads home.

9738.9 kilometres under our wheels. Another great ride done.

Fish Holes

Posted on Apr 25, 2022 by Pogo

With covid19 doing its best to disrupt my rallying, I found a window last November. The South West Touring Club were holding the 39th fish Holes rally near Portland in Victoria.

I planned a four day ride, picking up my mate Jewels on the way. We’d take the coast road on the way down through the magnificent southern forests, then the Great Ocean Road to Portland. The G.O.R. would be a first for Jewels,

My first day was a pretty easy 400-odd km run down the coast to Cobargo. It didn’t quite rain, but it threatened all the way.

The next day was spent following the Princes Highway through the southern forests to Cann River. We had to fill in border crossing declarations before we actually entered Victoria, and I expected to have to stop at Genoa, or maybe Cann River to have these checked, but that didn’t happen. It just got colder and wetter.

Lunch at Cann River, then a push to our motel at Traralgon. The forest gives way to freeway and the weather slides back and forth between not quite raining and not quite clearing.

I’d picked the motel because it was in a town where I hadn’t stopped before, and because I got a good deal on the room. It was well out of town and on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, so we had to ride past it on the highway and turn back. When we checked in, we found that the booking company hadn’t specified a twin room. There was a bit of rearranging while an extra bed was got from storage and set up in our room. The motel had a dining room, but it was closed because of covid, and we were well out of town, so riding in drizzle to find a meal and riding back in drizzle was not a pleasing prospect. A bit of net searching found a pizza and rib shop who would deliver. Dinner sorted.

Next morning, back up the ‘wrong’ way to turn around and get back on our way to the Great Ocean Road. Following the highway around Melbourne was never a consideration. We turned south at Morwell, and took the minor roads through Leongatha and Koo Wee Rup to get to the ferry at Sorento.

The wind came up and the rain came down, but we were safe and dry inside the ferry as we crossed the mouth of Port Phillip Bay to Queenscliff.

Out through the slowly being overbuilt coastal towns of Ocean Grove, Barwon Heads and Torquay, Hughey kept the thermostat on the uncomfortably cool setting. I decided to stop at the surprisingly placed Great Ocean Road Chocolaterie and Ice Creamery. Why anyone would come out here, at least an hour out of Melbourne, for a chocolate fix is beyond me, but it was ideally placed for a hot coffee and a slice to brace ourselves against the gathering cold.

One last push to get to our room at Apollo Bay. When I say “at”, it was another online choice. It was a retreat of some kind, a good 5 km out of town. But our room had a heater and two beds. Jewels settled in to defrost while I rode on to the actual town to forage for dinner. I returned with too much chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine, and the road and the weather ceased to be a concern.

It was cold, grey and drizzling the next morning. We loaded up the bike and headed west. The road climbs up into the hills for a while, lovely forest riding on any sunny day, but wet and slippery on this day.

When we eventually returned to the coast, Hughey’s mood hadn’t improved one bit. Because we were here to do the G.O.R. we took a photo and pushed on.

We had brunch at Port Campbell, because we had to stop for fuel anyway, and pushed west. This ride was becoming a character building exercise.

The G.O.R. wanders through what might have been green and pretty dairy country if it hadn’t been grey and windswept, and joins Highway 1 at Warrnambool. I’d had enough and was content to just follow the highway to Portland.

We stopped at a laundromat on the edge of town to get our three days worth of slightly damp clothes washed and dry. While we were getting these from the trailer, I noticed that a wire that carried charging current to the trailer battery had pulled out of its connector. In a stroke of good luck, the laundromat was beside an old fashioned electronics repair shop, where I was able to borrow a 2 mm screwdriver to reconnect the wire.

Now a last push to the rally. The directions on the rally flyer weren’t too helpful, but I had the name of the road and a GPS, so we went adventuring. We were following a ute towing a trailer who, when he slowed to take the turn, waved us past. Only at that point did I see the sign pointing to the rally. It was a mostly good dirt road that became a pretty good farm road and then a track, but at the end of that track was the rally.

There were a fair few people there already. I took Lolita up the track towards a flat and set up camp there.

The rally site is very well set up. There is a stage for the band:

and a food stall and bar.

I went walkabout and spotted this interesting camper trailer.

It’s home made from aluminium sandwich panel and sheet and weighs just 100 kg. That’s only 30 kg more than Talulla, and is ready to sleep in wherever it stops.

As the afternoon passed, the camp began to fill.

The evening passed pleasantly by the fire or under cover at the bar when it rained.

On Saturday I went sticky beaking around the site and found another interesting camper trailer. It is always rewarding to see how other people solve the problem of where to sleep.

By now the camp was getting quite full.

As the crowd swelled, people sought entertainment. One popular venue was the burnout pad.

Later a gymkhana

And a Show and Shine.

As the sun went down, the band stepped up, and the evening slid away.

It had rained overnight, so the tent was wet, but Hughey held off while I packed it up and we left the rally.

The track we had come in on was getting beaten up, so we followed a different track out, stopping a couple of times while bikes ahead of us had to be pushed over the slippery bits.

We rode through some lovely back roads that had some large puddles to skirt and eventually back to the highway and on to Ballarat. The further north we rode, the drier the weather became, and by the time that we reached our hotel in Ballarat, it was warm(er) and sunny.

In a cool sunny morning, we set off for Corryong on the Murray, with the aim of going over the range to return to Cobargo. An uneventful highway ride took us through Shepparton and Benalla to Wodonga, then we followed the B400 along the river to Corryong.

While there, we learned that there had been snow on the range. We might get through, but we might get stuck, so we decided to add a day and go up the Yoom to Yass then down through Canberra and Cooma to Cobargo. An hour on the phone found a motel in Yass, and we backracked along the B400 to Wodonga and turned north.

My goodness it was cold. As a cold drizzle settled in, I stopped under an overpass so that we could put our wet weather gear on. Then it was just head down and wait for the end of the day ro arrive.

A hot shower, chinese take-away and a bottle of wine brought us back out of cryosuspension, and the night passed unnoticed.

It was finger burningly cold outside in the morning. We rugged up, mounted up and pushed on. Yass Valley Way to the Feral Hwy, skirted the city on the east side, down the Monaro to Cooma, down Brown Mountain to Bega and then up the Princes Highway to Cobargo.

The rally had been great, my first Fish Holes. The ride had been challenging: six days of mostly rain and some biting cold. That was unusual for the time of year, so I’ll chance it again. It might become a regular.

KRR

Posted on Apr 8, 2022 by Pogo

I got away to the Karuah River Rally back in February. This has previously been a catered rallty, but this year it was BYO. No problem, just different. I was watching the weather for the week before, it looked like being a wet rally.

I had heard that the ‘bottom road’ was closed because a bridge was out. That would mean going in over the top road. The top road is rough, and there is a creek crossing. I’ve come in that way before in the wet. That time I followed an experienced off road outfit rider who showed me that the water in the crossing rose and fell. We watched and waited until the level was low then I took Lola through in his wake. This time I would be ready.

To make sure that I had time to detour, I rode up the highway to Kurri Kurri and across the New England at Maitland. I stayed dry all the way as far as Patterson where I rode through a couple of showers, and was hopeful that the rally would be dry.

I had lunch in the Bank Hotel where I caught up with some Wobbly Boot Tourers and a couple of mates from the BMWTC. I confirmed that there was a bridge out. It was on the forestry road, so it didn’t show on the NSW traffic app, but it was listed on the Forests NSW site.

I bought some supplies at the bottle-o and loaded them into Lolita’s boot. When I closed the lid, smoke poured out accompanied by the smell of burning insulation. It seemed to take ages to find a key and get the boot open, by which time all I could do was make the burnt wiring safe and disconnect the wire to the battery.

On the way in, I noticed that there were a couple of bikes following me. I’m usually wary of holding riders up, especially when the conditions are bad, but I became concerned when they disappeared from my mirrors. I pulled over and stopped, thinking that I might turn back to see if they were ok, then I noticed that the bag holding my tent had disappeared from the pillion seat. Well, I knew where they were.

A few minutes later, the group arrived, one had my tent bag strapped across his bike. We transferred the load and discussed the road, then they went ahead to check out the creek crossing.

By the time I arrived at the crossing, they were long gone. The water was only inches deep and I crossed it easily.

The site at Frying Pan Creek can get very wet. Large puddles form in the low spots. My usual camp is on a high spot that stays dry, though It gets a moat on three sides.

I settled in with the Wobbly Boots in their corner for the afternoon.

Shortly after, a surprise attendee. Julie had ridden in, her first solo ride to a rally on that shitty road in the rain.

The awning near the fire became a drying cabinet.

A little later on another pleasant surprise. Bernard had ridden in on his lovely red Mandello Rosso.

He hadn’t heard that the bottom road was closed, so he just followed the detour signs and had a long rough ride in. He posted a video of his ride here.

At the awards presenation, to encourage anyone who had had a hard ride to tell their story, I stood up and tod the story of the burning wiring, and I won the hard luck award!

The evening slid away, sitting by the fire and telling tales.

The KRR either floods or bakes, this year it flooded. Maybe next year we’ll be sitting in the creek and talking about the last wet ride.

Fckn’ Can Am Spyder fckn’ rear guard shit AGAIN!

Posted on Jul 10, 2021 by Pogo

WARNING.

Persons who think that the sun shines out of BRP’s corporate arse might be offended. Look away now.

Back in June 2019, I rode Lolita, my 2013 RSS Spyder, to the Numduc Rally in W.A. While there, I discovered that she had succumbed to the Spyder rear guard disease. The three lugs that support the rear guard strut on the left side of the swing arm had broken and the guard was flapping around.

I was lucky to find Adds at 360 Custom in Boya who welded the lugs back on. Problem solved.

When I returned from the New Year non-event at Micalong Creek this year, I saw that there was a crack in one of the braces that BRP had added to the rear guard struts as a fix for the tendency of Spyders to crack their rear guard struts about every 10000 km. Lolita has about 90000 km under her wheels, so this seemed like a good, if not permanent fix.

I planned to take the cracked brace off and have it welded. While washing the dust off so I could do that, I found that the front lower left lug was broken. That would explain why the brace had cracked.

So instead, I removed the entire rear guard , struts and all, and took it to an engineer to have the crack welded and the broken lug repaired (again). He pointed out that both braces were damaged. They would both have to come off.

While removing the braces, I found that the inner guard had cracked in exactly the same way that Lola’s inner guard had, twice.

Canada is a big country, though Australia is bigger, and they doubtless have some dirt roads, so they can’t be unaware of the requirements. Why is their design so fragile? It should be possible to ride 50 km of good dirt road without breaking anything. It should be possible to ride 100000 km and still have the rear guard attached.

Why is it that after ten years of development, the same stupid faults exist? Why is it that there is a super abundance of plastic all over this bike, but the rear guard and its mounts are built up from crappy steel pressings? Why does the whole pressed steel, bolted together structure have to move up and down at wheel speed? Did someone get someone laid to have their over weight under strength crap design bolted to the back of the Spyder? Was it such a good lay that it hasn’t worn off after ten years?

Now I’m stuck. I have a ride coming up, so I need to get the guard back on. My engineer will do a good job, he made Lola’s rear guard last over 100000 km just by careful bracing. But now I don’t trust this hunk of junk. And that’s sad.

The basic concept of the Spyder is great. It has a good Rotax motor, it is stable and relatively easy to modify if needed. It has stability control, traction control, ABS, power steering, paddle shift… You can almost see the Phil Irving moment when a designer doodled a wheel on each corner of a Can Am snowmobile and thought what a great idea it would be to make it. But that seems to have been the last time that any thought was put into the design.

Ignoring the power steering debacle, there have been recalls for faults caused by dumb design, like the evap canister drain that exited over the exhaust or removing the heat shield that protected the brake master cylinder from the exhaust. Apparently they have to burst into flame before someone sees the problem.

Then there is the clever design that means that the bearings have to be driven out of the rear hub to dynamically balance the wheel. The mirrors that give a perfect view of the rider’s hands on the bars. Limp home mode if the brake lights go out, but only a warning screen if the brake fluid runs out…

This company has access to some of the best designers and engineers in the world. They sell motors to BMW, Aprillia and many others. They get Bosch electronics for the stability control, Brembo brakes, Fox shocks. They obviously appreciate good design, but dumb ideas get built into this bike and persist.

My current plan is to put the rear guard on the shelf as a monument to crappy design, make a simpler, lighter rear guard and attach it under the seat rather than on the swing arm. It only needs to mount the number plate, number plate light and reversing light. It doesn’t need to weigh as much as a kilo, nor should it bounce up and down at wheel speed.

I’ll keep you posted.

Edit. Next day…

My engineer did a great job. While cleaning up to repair the damage, he found a couple more cracks. He has repaired them all with neat welds, built up the weak areas and added braces to spread the load around stress points. We also discussed at length how best to mount the simple light guard replacement I propose.

I’ve painted the parts ready to reassemble the rear guard, and made a template to record the mounting points under the seat for the replacement. It will be a few weeks before we start making it and then farewell forever to cracked rear guard struts, broken lugs and cracked inner guard.

Some time later…

The whole rear guard replacement story is here.

Once more into the West…

Posted on May 21, 2021 by Pogo

Preramble

I’m on my way to the Numduc Rally in WA. My shake down run was the Ruptured Budgie Rally. It shook a few bugs out. On the way north I lost one of my good British wet weather gloves. These are very warm and dry and very necessary on the Nullarbor in June. I also discovered that I had left my warm gear kit, (beanie, scarf, gloves and leg warmer), behind. I bought a replacement pair of wet weather gloves online and had them posted to a mate’s place on the Sunshine Coast where I would be staying for a few days before leaving for the west. While I was there, I bought replacement beanie, gloves and scarf. It is apparently not the 80’s any more, so I couldn’t find a leg warmer. That will teach me.

Lolita had an oil and filter change while I was stopped, and I checked and cleared the fault codes. One might be a hassle, the throttle position sensor was out of range. I’m not carrying the tools that I need to adjust it, so I have to hope that it doesn’t develop.

Ramble

Day 1

Friday morning I left for Goondiwindi. I was a little overdressed, but I knew that it would be cool when I climbed the range to Toowoomba.

I had had a bad batch of fuel on the way to the Ruptured Budgie, Lolita returned only 10 km/l. So I was a bit concerned on the run to Millmerran when the fuel gauge was diving. I made it easily, and a check of the mileage showed that she was within the usual range, so I guess that the fuel gauge is reading low. That will give me something to worry about…

Roadworks delayed my run so that I got to Goondiwindi just on sunset. I held a committee meeting and decided by a unanimous vote (there was one objection, but we talked him around) to head to the Queensland Hotel (where I have stayed a few times before) rather than put my tent up in the gathering darkness (and falling temperature).

I like this pub. It’s an old style country pub, though I noted that she had tarted herself up a bit since I last stayed. There is now air conditioning in my room. The food is good and reasonably priced ($20 for steak and veg) , and the room is still at old style country pub prices ($45 for a standard pub room with shared facilities).

Day 2

After breakfast at a cafe in town, I did some shopping (tuna and noodles and dried peas), mounted up and headed down the Newell aiming for Warren.

I knew that I had enough fuel to reach Moree, but it was nerve wracking seeing the fuel gauge dive from low to no fuel in a short distance. I put my faith in Lolita’s rock steady performance, nailed the speedo to 100 km/h and watched the scenery drift past. I expected to be passed by a few cars as the speed limit on most of the Newell up here is 110 km/h, but was pleased to find myself riding alone. I filled up in Moree and pushed on with more certainty.

The land is pretty flat out here, so the sky is big. I like that feeling. I first noticed it when riding the New England Ranges. Because you are so high, the horizon is low and the sky is big. I’m looking forward to seeing that again out on the Nullarbor.

Through Narrabri and on to Coonabarabran the trees come up to the road and the road sways, adding some interest. Fuel and a leg stretch in Coona, then on to Gilgandra. The road climbs and dips giving wide views and close green spaces alternately.

Right turn at Gil onto the Oxley and on to Warren. We leave the hills behind and pass through more cotton country. I’m racing the sun again. I want to set up my tent and be closer to the country, but if the sun sets then that becomes a hassle. I’d passed through a couple of sections of roadworks on the Newell. It’s good to see some money being spent to upgrade these roads. On the way out of Gil I came across another set of roadworks and slowed. There was a sign warning of gravel road ahead. This usually means firm rolled clay base, sometimes with some small loose gravel and slowing to 60 km/h is enough. But on this patch the gravel was large and rolled around under Lolita’s wheels making us squirm and drift at 60. We slowed to 40 and hung on for what seemed like miles until the cheerful ‘END ROADWORK’ sign appeared.

Now with the sun setting, it was becoming a hazard. At times I’d be riding one handed, shading my visor so that I could see the road.

Just as I was deciding that it was too late to put up my tent, the sign for the Macquarie caravan park appeared. $20 for a patch of grass under a tree for the night. I had my little hooch up in no time and in the last of the sunlight, I feasted on tuna and noodles. This feels good.

Day 3

What a great day on the road!

I don’t know what the temperature was last night, but I know what it wasn’t. Warm. I spent the night cramping and finding ways to get warm. I eventually got up and got my fleece sleeping bag liner and the warm gear that I had bought. A beanie kept my head warm and the liner warmed the sleeping bag enough to ease the cramps in my foot.

I was up early (for me) and packed up while the sun got up and into its slippers and dressing gown. It was too far to walk into town for breakfast, and too close to ride, so I decided to put a few kays up and have breakfast in Nyngan.

It was 14 degrees when I fired Lolita up. I turned her heated grips up to 75% and rode with the sun on my back towards Nevertire, the end of the Oxley Highway. Right turn up the Mitchell Highway to Nyngan.

A few years back, on my first Nullarbor crossing, my lovely GTR Kawasaki Jolene had fuel issues on the way into Nyngan. It was a Saturday morning, getting late, but the mechanic at the Toyota dealership diagnosed a fuel vapour lock and re-routed her fuel line so it was all down hill. That got me back on the road only half a day behind. Each time that I have been to Nyngan since, I have wanted to drop in and thank them, and each time it has been on a Sunday and they are closed.

I filled Lolita’s tank and then found Vegemite toast and coffee in Nyngan. It was pleasant sitting in the sunshine checking my route plans and feeling the ride taking hold.

North out of town, turn left (West!) onto the Barrier Highway. I was surprised to see a flock of sheep grazing by the (unfenced) road. They thankfully didn’t look up.

The scenery changes so much and so often on this stretch that it is hard to keep up. The road passes from cotton country to sheep country and back again. There are stunted trees, no trees, saltbush and tussock. But slowly the soil changes from grey to red. That red.

Cobar is only 130 km from Nyngan, but I filled Lolita’s tank and my 10 litre fuel can, because fuel gets iffy past here.

I saw my first eagles some way out of Cobar. There had been kites and crows, but these were a pair of young wedge tails on a carcass. They were in the shadow of a tree so I didn’t notice them until they lumbered into the air. I was surprised to see them so far east.

The further west I go, the more enchanted I become by the slow dance of the scenery. The type of vegetation varies from ridge to valley and overall from saltbush to straggly forest. I noticed that when the grass was low there were lots of goats, but very few when the grass was high.

Goats are ok. They’re smarter than sheep. If a goat moves at all as I approach, it moves away. A sheep will look up, see a patch of grass on the other side of the road and walk out in front of me to get to it.

There were a few patches of roadworks on the way. Generally the condition of the highway is fair to good, but there are long sections that are rutted. One of Lolita’s wheels will start to track one of the ruts, and her stability control has a hissy fit. I always slow to the roadworks limit, partly because I once had a job as stop-go man on a roadwork crew. I roll off the throttle when the warning sign like ’80 AHEAD’ comes up, and am on the limit by the time I get to the site. I did baulk though when I came to a sign advising ‘0 AHEAD’. Probably a good thing, because that stretch went on for at least 5 km and it would have taken forever.

It’s 250 km from Cobar to Wilcannia. One tank of fuel with some leeway. But often the servo in Wilcannia doesn’t have premium fuel. 150 km from Cobar is Emmdale. I have no idea why they have a shop, caravan park and servo there, but they always have premium fuel, so I always stop and top up the tank.

I fill time by doing a calculation. If I have to put standard fuel in Lolita at Wilcannia, that will be 100 km’s worth out of 250 km’s in the tank. So (100 km x 91 octane + 150 km x 95 octane)/250 km = 94.4 octane. That’s well above the 92 octane that Lolita likes.

I stop, fill up, have a sandwich and a cup of tea and listen in on a conversation between a local businessesman and a young woman it emerges is from Denmark about a job that she is being hired for. So many businesses out here run on backpacker labour. They must have really struggled when covid stopped international travel.

Back on the road, one last push into the setting sun. I’m glad of my early start now. The sun is half an hour higher in the sky. I’ll get to my camp before it is fully in my face. I notice that there are actual hills that afford a wider view of the country. And because the vegetation is low, I get that big sky feeling. My camp is right beside the Darling River. If I blink at the wrong moment, I’ll ride past the turn off and cross the bridge into town. I see the one small sign pointing to the Victory Park caravan park and camping area and turn.

Things have changed a little. There is a sign telling me to take a covid declaration form to fill out and a key to the toilet block. The caretaker will find me… Looking into the site it seems very full and I worry that I might not be able to camp, but they are all softies in caravans and camper vans plugged into power, so I take my now usual unpowered site under a giant tree, fill out the form and put up my unpowered hooch.

Lolita and Talulla and my hooch under my usual tree at Wilcannia

Then with the setting sun painting the trees with gold, I go to see the amazing sight of water flowing in the Darling River. The bank is still muddy in places from the peak flow earlier in the week. The caretaker says that the level will be down below the weir in a week. I feel privileged to be able to see it in full flow.

The Darling River at Wilcannia just past peak flow

The sun sets and the temperature drops. I cook my tuna and noodles and have a coffee. I can see a tree across the camp ground that appears to be lit by a blazing camp fire and walk over to see it. It turns out to be lit by two blazing led lights and a small camp fire. I introduce myself and settle in to an interesting evening chatting with group from Victoria about travelling, roads, scenery and lots of tangential things.

Day 4

Some days are diamonds. You have to dig deep to see the sparkle.

I made an early start, showering and dressing before 8, but then people wanted to chat to me while I was packing and it was nearly 10 before Lolita and I rolled out to get some fuel.

The servo not only had no premium fuel, but had no fuel at all. Their pumps weren’t working. So I rode around to the BP depot where there was a queue of 4WDs and caravans. After I had progressed a couple of steps in the queue, the operator came to tell me that the queue was for diesel and that I could skip to the front to get petrol. As a bonus it was premium fuel.

It takes a while to settle into the ride out of Wilcannia. The scenery bounces around between scrubby trees and bare plains. The road surface is uneven and the road weaves around before settling on a direction. West!

There had been a bit of a breeze when I was packing up that ‘helped’ me get the tent fly and ground sheet folded. It was becoming insistent now, gusting from the right and unsettling us. I concentrated on the road and the scenery. It would just be part of the ride…

When a road train passed going the other way, the wind would carry its bow wave to hit us. Lolita would sway momentarily and I copped a blast to the head and chest. Pulling to the left as far as possible didn’t seem to lessen the effect.

The sky to the west was a dirty white smear. Not fog, not a rain cloud, but not inviting. The horizon began to show something surprising. More than a ridge, actual hills! Shortly the road began to sway and climb. At times a ridge would shield us from the wind, at other times, I had to back off the throttle to feel stable in a right turn across the wind. 20 or so kilometres of intermittent fun.

Then west again. The goats were fewer than I recalled in this area on previous trips. Perhaps the wind had blown them further south. I am sorry to say that the wind took the joy out of the ride. It became a transit stage to be endured.

About Olary, the road swings south, and I looked forward to a quick run with the wind behind us. Silly me. The road is being upgraded, the shoulders widened, and so there are several 10 km long stretches with an 80 km/h speed limit. I settled into this, discarding any hope of reaching Orroroo, and planned on Peterborough. I gained on and eventually passed a wide load, his escort was quite some way ahead, and I gained on a van just as we caught up with the escort. Then we all stopped. A section of roadworks ahead was single lane, with the direction and speed controlled by a pilot vehicle. The speed limit was 60 km/h. The pilot led, the wide load escort followed, weaving from side to side, presumably radioing back to the wide load about conditions. The van spurted forward and fell back, apparently not in the loop, the wide load got closer and closer and I figured that the speed limit was a serving suggestion and that I should stick with the escorts… All the way to Yunta where the wide load pulled off, the van disappeared, and I stopped for fuel.

South, in more roadworks, on perfectly good tarmac, a sign prompts me to to obey the speed limit, warning of a hazard ahead. Then the surface became loose marbles of gravel and 60 km/h was too fast. If matter transfer technology was ever to be a thing, I wished it to be now. Just get me the f*ck out of here.

At Oodla Wirra there is a quarantine station. I don’t know why it isn’t back at the border, but it isn’t. I stopped and answered the question “Are you carrying any fruit or vegetables” with “Not so much as a Fruit Tingle” and got a laugh from the inspector. We discussed the road and the weather and he wished me luck. Then, because I hadn’t been punished enough, I rode another 10 km of roadworks to the turn off to Peterborough, watching the sun on my right getting lower and lower. It was with mixed emotions that I turned across the wind to ride into the setting sun…

I had to decide where to stop for the night. My original fall back plan was to go to the caravan park and put up my tent. But the wind was going continue all night and into tomorrow, and rain was forecast for the morning. The thought of packing my tent away wet, in rain and with that wind blowing turned my mind to the simple pleasure of a pub room. But I had to get my washing done and the only laundry that I knew of was in the caravan park. So I formed two questions to ask the barmaid at the pub. “Is there somewhere in town where I can do my washing?” and “Do you have a single room for the night?” “Yes” and “Yes” were sufficient for me to park Lolita beside the Peterborough Hotel.

But… The kitchen in this pub is closed, so I have to go to the other pub for dinner and the laundromat closes at 6 (and it is a quarter past five). Why would it be easy?

I got my washing done and mostly dry (my riding jeans are on the back of a chair in my room with a fan on them) and had a good dinner. Now I can settle back with a quiet beer and let the day’s hassle pass. Except that this is South Australia, and the bars close at 8, which time it is now…

Goodnight.

Day 5 Peterborough

There was apparently 9 mm of rain overnight. I was pleased to not have to pack up my hotel room wet and in the already stiff northerly wind.

Breakfast became an issue. I knew that there were several cafés in town, but their opening hours were uncertain. So I walked the main street and eventually found one snuck inside the old Capitol Theatre.

Inside there was not just a café but a museum display of items from the town’s past.

My plan for the day was to see the motorcycle museum then the steam museum. The difficulty arose in finding the motorcycle museum. I had coordinates from the tourist map that would get me within a block so I walked to the closest corners without seeing a sign. I widened my search to a tourist (mis) information board without a result. Then, by chance, I saw a sign pointing down a side street to the motorcycle museum.

That was what I needed. Why there wasn’t a more specific listing in the directory I don’t know. The place is a gem. The collection spans thirty years from the 50’s to the 80’s and includes a lot of small bore Italian bikes, but in among those are several Laverdas, a couple of Moto Guzzis, and a few Benellis. Most are beautifully restored, some are racing royalty.

Go there.

Next on my list was the steam museum. Since it deals with locomotives, it is HUGE. But it has a lot of interesting exhibits and gives a great insight into Australian history. I spent several hours on a guided tour, looking at locomotives and carriages dating from the late 19^th century to the early 21^st. The café that I had intended to have lunch in closed at 2. The one that I *knew* would be open had closed at 3. If you don’t eat by the clock, you don’t exist in Peterborough.

Back at the pub, I chatted for some time with a local businessman about the problems of getting money into town. I specifically wanted to draw his attention to the motorcycle tourism trade and the broken link between the overtly motorcycle oriented hotel where I am staying and the hidden gem motorcycle museum. I’ll look for something positive from this where I next pass through.

At dinner at the other pub I met and chatted with a group from Melbourne who had been outback touring and were going to the Sound and Light show at the steam museum that evening. It was interesting to see what brought people to the town.

The Sound and Light show was useful in filling out the history of the town. My take away was that Peterborough was built as a railway town and when the railway didn’t need the town any more, it was expected to die quietly. In a more pointed example, I learned about Radium Hill, a town created by a market and destroyed when the market moved on.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Day 6

When I looked out, the sun was shining. The streets were wet but there were patches of blue in the sky. It looked like a win.

While I was packing, Hughey turned on a shower. I put my wet weather pants on so that I could sit dry on Lolita’s now wet seat. It would be too much trouble to put the wet liner in my jacket and the showers would surely clear…

Just out of town the road winds through some hills. It was a pleasant change from the previous few days of mostly straight roads. I could see showers ahead and to my left, but I figured that the road would weave between them, and it did, mostly… I got a little damp, but the drizzle passed and the sun returned and I got dry.

The road then straightened out, and playing chicken with the rain became more hazardous. I pulled over at the picnic shelter on the edge of Orroroo and put the wet liner into my jacket. That effectively stopped the rain.

It was sad to see that someone had been sleeping rough in the shelter. Orroroo is a fairly prosperous town. Surely someone could help.

The road twists and climbs through a range of hills just out of Orroroo, then there is a series of long straights on the way to Wilmington. It is tempting to open up along here, but the occasional dead kangaroo shows what is lurking in the bushes on the sides of the road.

Out of Wilmington is Horrocks Pass. The road winds through several cuttings while it climbs over a ridge. Coming down the other side of the ridge, I see the Spencer Gulf almost glowing aqua green in the distance. The view is marred by the strip of industrial structures on both shores. Turning right up the Augusta Highway to go to Port Augusta, I see a new development in the industrial strip on this side of the gulf. Lots of wind turbines are being constructed around the solar concentrator. There are more turbines on the hills across the gulf. It looks like Port Augusta is going to renewable energy.

I get fuel in town and then ride down the other side of the gulf. It reminds me of riding out of Broken Hill. The township just stops abruptly and then the outback starts.

This year I remembered well before I got there about the right turn onto the Ayer Highway and avoided having to brake hard and swerve across the road. Yay me.

The South Australian method of roadworks reappears. I took the time to check the distances. One stretch coming into Kimba is 30 kilometres long. Sitting on 80 km/h for that long is very frustrating. I can do the calculation and know that I will only lose four and a half minutes, but it feels so slow. I wonder if accidents are caused by people losing patience and speeding through the work zones.

I stopped for lunch and fuel at Wudinna. There was a time when stopping overnight at Wudinna seemed unavoidable, just the way that the distances between stops worked out, and I recalled rebelling, deliberately having a long day so that I would then ride past Wudinna to Wirrulla, which is where I planned to stop tonight. That has the danger that I spend the last hour of the day riding into the setting sun. Today I was pleased to see that the sky was cloudy.

Hughey noted my pleasure and proceeded to break up the clouds, lining up the breaks with corners or long straights. The change from shadow to setting sunlight was as annoying as riding straight into the sun. Well done Hughey.

Last time I stopped at Wirrulla I stayed in the pub. I had intended to put up my tent, but I thought that it would rain in the night and I would have to pack up a wet tent. The barmaid said it was not going to rain, and it turned out that we were both right. In the morning there was a fog so thick that you could cut it with a knife, but it hadn’t rained. Everything was dripping wet, but I didn’t have to pack up a wet tent.

This trip I set up my tent in the camp ground. A couple of blokes who were in a caravan nearby came over for chat and invited me to join them later. This I did, and had a great night talking about riding (one of them owns a Spyder) and travelling and all the usual bullshit by a small fire. For our added enjoyment, Hughey turned on a lunar eclipse. Partial, not total, but interesting to watch.

Day 7

It was a cool night, but there was no rain and only a light dew. I packed slowly, noticing that odd phenomenon of people who had retired and had no timetable, rushing to be on the road by 9 o’clock.

The Wirrulla camp ground is provided by the local Lions Club. It has a camp kitchen, showers and toilets, and it costs just $15 per night. When I went to pay my fee last night at the pub (because the general store was closed), they didn’t have any keys left and wouldn’t take my money. So I walked over this morning and paid.

With a cloudy start, it took a while for the day to warm up, but I settled easily into the ride to Ceduna, 90 km away.

I had intended to get fuel there, starting the sequence of filling up at every stop, but instead I took the bypass road. As I passed the (inbound) quarantine checkpoint, it occurred to me that they would want to inspect me if I turned back to get fuel, and so I pushed on. It is only 70 km to Penong. I’d get fuel there and be able to skip the stop at Nundroo.

Roadworks… It is only 70 km from Ceduna to Penong. I didn’t really expect that the entire strip would be at 80 km/h. But it was. At 100 km/h it would take 42 minutes, at 80 km/h it would take 52.5 minutes. Only 10 minutes longer, but it seems *so* slow.

We stopped behind a wide load at a one way section controlled by a pilot vehicle. The escort for the wide load waved us past. The speed limit in that section was only 60 km/h. As soon as it ended the limit went back up to 80 km/h, the vehicles in front of me went up to something well above that and drew away. The vehicles behind me sat for a while and then passed, until only the wide load was left.

I was torn. There was clearly an expectation that I should speed, but I knew the reason for the limit, knew that the trip time wasn’t much greater, even if it lasted the entire 70 km, and so I sat with the wide load behind me all the way to Penong.

I was half expecting a rebuke when I stopped for fuel, more so when the escort vehicles pulled in behind me, but nothing was said. I filled Lolita’s tank and had a pie and a coffee for lunch, then headed for Nullarbor Roadhouse.

I noticed in those 220 km that I didn’t much notice the scenery. There were odd flashes of interest, but I was more absorbed in just riding.

I arrived early, but it was planned to be a short day. I put my tent in the usual place behind the backpacker dongas then went to have a shower. Better to have wet hair that dries before bedtime than to put my helmet on over wet hair in the morning. While I was in the shower, I overheard a mention of some hassle at a border. I reconnected to the real world and found out that SA had closed its border to Vic. I was ok. But while reading that page, I discovered that I should have applied for a permit to enter SA. I did so then, but the form wouldn’t accept an entry date before today. So it seemed useless as a contact tracing tool.

Then it occurred to me that I would probably have to do the same thing to enter WA tomorrow. That was true, but the process was very involved. There are penalties for providing false information, but I simply didn’t have the information that was required to answer some questions, so I put in something likely. And that worked. So now I have a permit to be in SA for the night, and a permit to enter WA with some dodgy provisions for quarantine should it be necessary. F*ckn virus!

I cooked my tuna and noodles and watched a glorious Nullarbor sunset and realised that that was why I was here. A simple self reliant meal, and the pleasure of that beautiful scene. I looked around but couldn’t see anyone else enjoying it.

Half an hour after, the moon rose big and yellow behind a bank of cloud. Just for me.

The moon balancing on the mobile phone tower at Nullarbor Roadhouse

Day 8 Where did all the premium go?

I missed the sunrise. It was quite cool and grey when I woke, and the sun had already slunk behind the cloud.

I packed up with my fingers burning, filled Lolita’s tank and, with the wind behind me, set sail for the border.

It was a while before I noticed the clever distance signs, WA 170, WA 165 and so on. A while later I remembered that there was a parallel sequence with one sign every kilometre on the other side of the road. Out here it is nearly a whole kilometre out of sync, but it gains as the border gets closer. I’ve never seen the place where the two series read zero.

70 km out from Eucla, I caught sight of the ocean and got that edge of Australia tingle. It came again when we were 35 km out, with a view of the cliffs. That is one of the things that makes this trip unique.

There was a queue at the border crossing due to the need to check covid passes, so I decided to get fuel and breakfast at Eucla rather than lose my place in the queue. It took a while to get through. First the police checked my covid pass, was I the person who had applied?, then the fruit and veg quarantine checks, but finally I was approved and able to proceed.

I parked opposite the café at Eucla and had a steak burger and a coffee to fill up and warm up, then took Lolita to the servo to fill her tank. There was no premium fuel due to a leaking tank. I considered riding back to Border Village to fill up, but the thought of having to queue to come back again led me to decide to take on enough 91 to get to Madura, and plan to stop at Mundrabilla on the way.

I love the drop down from the ridge at Eucla onto the straight on the coastal plain. It looks like a classic motorcycle riding poster pic. Swerve left, sweep down the hill swerve right onto the straight…

And on to Mundrabilla. Which had even less fuel. No 91 either. I pushed on to Madura, now aware that I would have to buy whatever was there, and regretting not filling up at Border Village.

The trees along this route are beautifully sculpted by the wind. Most lean away from the coast, showing open crowns, though some hunker down forming tight spherical domes. It always reminds me of a ‘Yes’ album cover from the 70’s.

Madura appeared before my fuel disappeared and I rolled hopefully down the access road. I was very disappointed to see the nozzles on the premium pumps locked down with bright yellow “Sorry no fuel” flags. By now Lolita would be running on 91 octane fuel. I added another 10 litres, enough to get us to Cocklebiddy, and got back on the road. I thought that Lolita was a bit less punchy, but I was being a bit gentle on the throttle too. She didn’t seem to recover as quickly when the blast from a passing truck hit us, but otherwise seemed to be running happily.

It was with some trepidation that I turned into the drive at Cocklebiddy. That evaporated when I saw the premium pumps open. I paid $2.12 for each of 14 litres happily. The operator knew that there was no petrol at Mundrabilla, but did not know about Madura having no premium. He sympathised with me, he has a V8 that needs premium fuel.

Interestingly, Lolita’s fuel consumption fell on this run. There was a good tailwind. Maybe it more than made up for the loss of performance from the lower octane fuel.

One last push, another 70 km to Caiguna to set up camp for the night. The sun was getting low, the hour and a half time change at the border made it seem early, but the sun doesn’t jump backwards when we change our watches.

I found my now usual spot under a tree to set up my tent. The wind was up, so I turned the back of the tent to it. There is a small chance of rain tonight but very little rain, so I hope to pack up a dry tent in the morning.

Tucked under a tree to get some grass under the tent.

Water is short here. There is sign in the toilet advising of a $50 fine for washing dishes or utensils in the sink. So I shelved my plan to have tuna and noodles and decided instead to buy dinner at the Roadhouse. Beer is very expensive, even more so than at Nullarbor, but the cook made a hamburger that would shame some tv cooks.

I had a pleasant chat with a couple from Ceduna who had done the run to Caiguna today and were headed for the Kimberley. The woman said that she found the trip boring. I said that I thought she was too focused on getting to the destination and that she would enjoy the trip more if she watched the scenery and felt the mood of the sky. Tomorrow would be terrible for her, starting with the 90 mile straight.

So now I’m well fed and Lolita is well fed, we’ll settle down to a quiet night.

Day 9

When the sunlight hit my tent in the morning, I rose and began packing. I was surprised to see that quite a few of the caravans had left already. I can’t imagine why. The wildlife is still on the road and it’s not as though they have a 9 o’clock meeting to prepare for.

I had been warned to expect rain and put my wet weather gear on. I topped up Lolita’s tank. Better to arrive at Balladonia with too much fuel than with none.

I stopped for the traditional photo of the sign at the start of the 90 mile straight, then pulled out to begin the journey. Almost as soon as you enter the straight, there is a sign pointing to the Caiguna blow hole. I’ve never turned off, Lolita and Lola before her don’t like dirt, but I learned later that it is only a few metres off the road. I’ll plan to stop on my way back.

I was kind of hoping to see some eagles on this run, but as the scenery did its slow dance and the end of the straight approached, eagles remained unseen.

The straight ends with a left turn. I stopped and took a photo of the sign. I thought about last night’s conversation, and thought that the trip along the straight could be more fun with a couple of signs marking your progress. Maybe “Half way there. Keep going” and at the three quarter distance “Only three quarters there. Don’t turn yet”.

There are a couple of longish straights in the region. Balladonia is in the middle of a 50 km long straight, and there is a 30 km long straight soon after. I guess that there isn’t much for the road to have to go around.

I stopped at Balladonia for fuel, thankfully they had premium fuel, and had lunch in the café. There hadn’t been much rain, a few spots, and one of the people working in the café said that they had had just 3 mm in the past week. I was feeling overdressed, so took a warm layer off before mounting up to head to Norseman.

About half way, the rain became a bit more persistent. There were puddles to skirt, and passing trucks threw up a cloud of spray. By the time I reached Norseman I was very glad that I had put my wets on at the start. I thought that I should put a warm layer back on underneath, but I would be heading north to Coolgardie, and the rain was in the south west, so I turned north and waited for the rain to ease. And waited, and waited… I caught up with a road train but I couldn’t see through the cloud of spray that it threw up to pass, so I sat far enough back to be out of the spray and waited for the road train to turn off. The first opportunity came at the Kambalda turn where he didn’t. So I sat behind and waited some more.

We came to a long stretch of roadworks, rolled red clay. I gripped Lolita’s bars and prepared to drift and slide, but by riding in the road train’s wheel tracks we avoided all that. I looked in Lolita’s mirror at one point and saw my sticks covered in red mud. That would be messy to clean. But Hughey came to the rescue. Once we were back on the tar, he turned up the rain and washed the mud off.

The road train turned off about 10 km south of Coolgardie, but my progress was still impeded by a line of caravans. It was only 10 km. I’ll wait.

I had previously stayed at the caravan park in Coolgardie, both in my tent and in a donga, and thought that I would take a donga for tonight to avoid packing up a wet tent in the morning. But a better plan occurred. I would stay in the pub if they had accommodation.

They did. I must have looked like a drowned rat. People offered to help me unpack and to carry my gear up to my room. I was reassured that there was a heater in my room and that I could have a hot shower. The shower was very welcome and I felt much better in clean clothes.

I spread my wet gear around room and turned the aircon fan on full to dry it.

Downstairs, I had a beer and greatly enjoyed the music being played in the bar. All the 70’s rock that I grew up with. It was apparently a Spotify channel. I had an excellent dinner and enjoyed talking with a group of people at the next table about travelling.

There is a laundromat just up the road from the pub, and after dinner I took my washing there. Rather than wait alone in the laundry for the load to wash, I came back to the pub to listen to the music and have another beer.

The publican is new and has a great feel for the character of the pub. He is considering putting some dongas out the back for those who can’t get by without an ensuite, but wants to retain the original accommodation. I wish him well.

Day 10

In the morning my wet gear was dry. The rain had passed and the street was bathed in sunshine. I recalled passing a servo on the way into town that was advertising cheap fuel, so I took Lolita down to fill up. The fuel may have been cheap, but there was no premium, not even a pump for it, so we went up to the servo at the other end of town and filled up there.

Out onto the highway once more. I had it in mind that the highway turned south just out of town, but looking at the map, I saw that it runs pretty true west until nearly Perth. There was a strong westerly wind blowing. I expected that to shorten Lolita’s fuel range. But at least the sun was shining, and I amused myself by noting how far northward or southward we were headed around the setting moon.

Along this stretch there are signs pointing to various pumps on the pipeline that supplies water to the goldfields region. That pipeline is an amazing achievement. While it has been updated from the original steel pipes, it doesn’t seem to be much larger than the original. One day I’ll follow the historic route.

I caught up with a wide load after about 90 km. There was a B double and a couple of cars between us. I sat back to wait for an overtaking lane. A car loomed behind me, sat briefly then pulled out to overtake! There was no way that he could pass that line and he pushed in and sat so close to the B double that he couldn’t see the road ahead. I was concerned that he would pull out and have a head on right in front of me. I don’t know how, but he pulled out just as the two cars between the B double and the escort pulled out and got past all safely. Over the next ridge, the escort signalled me to pass which I did as quickly as I could.

I’d planned to stop at Southern Cross to fill up Lolita and have lunch at the great local pie shop. The pie shop was closed, probably because today is Sunday, so I had a lunch of ordinary pie and coffee at the servo. The temperature hadn’t risen much since we started out, and the clouds were gathering, so I put my wet gear on again and pushed on. My aim was Northam, and it was inside Lolita’s fuel range, but with the headwind, I thought that we’d stop for fuel at Kellerberrin.

The rain came suddenly, just out of town. A brief intense shower that got everything wet. Then sunshine, then another shower, and so on. There was a huge puddle in the driveway of the servo at Kellerberrin. I decided that I would look for a pub room in Northam rather than risk packing up a wet tent in the morning. To back that up, Hughey sent a light shower as I turned into Northam. Thanks mate…

The first pub that I stopped at didn’t do accommodation. They pointed me to one at the other end of town. That pub had a sign advertising rooms for $80 on Tradies Rates*, terms and conditions apply. The rate for blow ins was $110. Gulp. But I wouldn’t have to pack it up wet in the morning…

I chatted with a couple of locals and washed some unexceptional bangers and mash down with a beer, then went to my room. It was a reasonably well appointed but well used donga. One room and an ensuite. I checked the weather on the teev and went to sleep.

Day 11

I was a little disappointed to look out at the dry car park in the morning. At least it was sunny. I packed quickly and left. One last push… I would let my gps guide me around Perth and on to Vix’ place at Harvey. I was just getting into the swing of it when I came to the famous (around here) Bakers Hill pie shop. I remembered stopping here for breakfast on a bitterly cold morning. Good pies and great coffee. So I stopped, had one of each and got back on the road.

It’s a freeway flog. There are signs pointing to towns off among the trees, and the highway passes through a couple towns, but basically nothing happened to disturb the flow. I followed the gps prompts and was on the highway south when the need for fuel arose. A sign pointing to fuel appeared shortly after, and I turned off. I caught Lolita’s reflection in the windows of the servo and noticed that one headlight was out. I was off the route anyway, a bit of searching on my phone found an auto parts store nearby, so I added that as a way point. That’s what a gps is for. Found it. Bought it. Fitted it in the car park and returned to the route. Almost painless.

I wandered down a vaguely familiar road with vaguely familiar place names drifting past. Yarloop, where I had stayed a couple of years ago and where soon after a bushfire swept through and destroyed the town and the great railway workshop museum. Myalup where I had stayed on the way to my first Numbat Rally…

Finally Harvey. Turning left, we wander through unbelievably green paddocks with occasional cows, and then the town. That felt slightly odd, but I followed the gps prompts and rolled into Vix’ driveway.

Insert three days of nothing.

Day 15

We, Vix and I, were packed and ready to leave for the rally by 9:30. The weather was cool but fine, and the forecast was for three fine days at least. We got fuel in town and then headed up the South Western highway. It starts well, lots of green fields and trees, and slowly becomes suburban.

We made a detour that took us along some amazingly long straights, at least one is over ten kilometres long and exceptional riding, except for the intersections with minor roads.

We had a few errands to run on the way, finishing at Bindoon. By then Lolita needed a drink. The servo at Bindoon does not have any premium fuel, so Lolita had to make do with 91 octane again. Sorry girl.

We turned east along the Bindoon – Dewars Pool road that runs through broad acre farms, wheat and sheep, though I did spot one paddock with deer that made me briefly concerned that we might meet an escapee. Deer are better than sheep at jumping fences.

A section of dirt road came up unexpectedly. There was no turning back so we proceeded cautiously. It was a bit rutted initially but smoothed out. Some loose gravel was the only concern and after only five kilometres or so we were back on tarred back roads.

We arrived at the rally site with enough daylight to set up my tent, then went back to Dowerin to pick up some supplies.

Friday night was the quiet night, most riders would arrive on Saturday. I assembled my spud gun for the first time in two years, loaded and charged, click, click, click… Nothing. Clear the charge, recharge, click, click, click… Nothing. Clear the charge check for spark, plenty. Put it aside…

Simon and the boys from the West Australian Guzzi Club had set up camp earlier and had a good fire going. It was great to see them again and to be greeted like a long lost friend.

A walk around the site seemed appropriate. ‘The Pit’ had had a large pile of firewood placed in its belly for later. The Boom Boys camp was pretty quiet. A chateaubriand was being prepared. Hmmm, dinner… The caterers hadn’t set up, so dinner was ham sandwiches in the doorway of my tent, watching the sun set, then back to the fire for warmth, physical and social.

After a while, I drifted over to the Ducati Club fire. This is built in a three bay structure that includes a pizza oven and a barbecue. The main fire burns within a curved brick wall that reflects the heat. Quite a clever bit of design.

I was the last man standing at about 1:30 and tottered off towards my tent. It was a dark night, and the fire wasn’t visible from outside the wall, so I lost by bearings. A Ducati Club member found me wandering and directed me to my tent: on the other side of the hedge.

Day 16

I had a cold night in my tent and there was a heavy dew in the morning so it was a slow start. The caterers had arrived and begun to set up shortly after breakfast, so we had a coffee to sip in the sunshine while watching the riders arrive.

The Western Australian Z Owners rolled in and set up camp near us.

While chatting with Coxy from the club, I mentioned that I’d not been able to fire my spud gun. We wandered across to my camp and I went through the process with the same result. He asked if there was spark and I said “Sure, I’ll show you”. I unscrewed the end cap and blew into the chamber to clear out the charge, then pressed the igniter button so he could see the spark. A soft orange flame spread through the chamber which was a shock, as I thought that I had cleared the charge, but it showed that the problem was probably overcharging, too rich a mixture. After a couple of attempts, I launched a tennis ball about 100 metres into the field with a satisfying whoomp! Easy does it when charging.

By lunch time, most of the riders from around Perth had arrived and set up camp. The Western Australian Sidecar Club took up their traditional position in a far corner of the field, and other riders sparsely filled the rest of it. Very few dirt bike riders had set up on the ‘noisy’ side of the camp, but there were still several doing laps around the track near the campground.

The afternoon was filled with fire walking (not walking on fire, walking between campfires), talking with riders about their rides, finding out about the Numbat, which I missed last year due to covid restrictions, and catching up with friends we hadn’t seen for two years.

We sat by the Guzzi Club fire for some time and watched several shots of their cannon launching a repurposed coffee maker 150 metres into the paddock.

After dinner we went fire walking. The fire in the pit had been lit and there was a couple of bikes doing laps of the banked track around it. Quite spectacular to watch.

We drifted back to the main camp and I spent much of the evening chatting by the Ducati Club fire. I found my way back to my tent without needing guidance and slept very well.

Day 17 Gymkhana day.

It felt like it would be a warm day right from the start. After breakfast we made a quick trip into town to pick up some supplies, including ice to keep the esky going, and some sunblock.

The gymkhana began at 10 o’clock. Run by ‘Loose Bruce’ it included pool noodle jousting, a slow race, slalom races for both solos and sidecars, and some non-bike events such as an egg toss and a shot put. Sunblock was definitely required, even in the shade of the trees beside the track I could feel my skin tingling.

I spotted some stickers on a sidecar parked at the track for other rallies held over here. I had never heard of them, and asked ‘Loose Bruce’ about them. They are dirt road runs, suited to skilled off-road riders and well known in those circles. Not suitable for Lolita.

Awards were presented after the events. I was called out to receive the trophy for the longest distance rider, there being no other riders from ‘over east’ nor any from the top end. I’m proud to have received it and very grateful to the Ducati Club for holding the event that drew me there, but I wouldn’t mind if it went to someone else.

I was asked by several riders about my trip: how far did I ride each day, how many days, how was the weather, did I camp all the way, did I carry fuel and so on. It’s good to see that people are interested in making the trip, though I had to point out that the conditions are different going the other way because you are riding with the weather instead of against it.

After dinner we were sitting at the Z Owners camp listening to music and chatting. It had got quite dark and Vix asked what time it was. 7:09… Oh, is that all? It feels much later…

Some idiot put the MotoGP race on in Catalunya on the same weekend as the rally. Didn’t they check the calendar? Many people drifted up to the Ducati Club fire to watch the broadcast on somebody’s laptop. I watched for a few seconds, it looked like a motorcycle race and I drifted away. I would normally be interested, but it seemed out of place.

I strolled back to the Z Owners camp and enjoyed the warmth of their company and their fire until it seemed that sleeping was a better way to fill the night.

Day 18

By the time that I rose, many riders had already packed and left. So too had the catering van, so I made coffee for breakfast and we waited somewhat impatiently for the sunlight to gain enough warmth to dry my tent and Vix’ swag.

By 9:30 it was apparent that this was not going to happen soon enough for us to get back home before sunset, so I sacrificed my dry towel to hasten the process. After we had finished packing, we did one last fire walk to say farewell to friends. The hugs and handshakes are heartfelt, for most will not be seen again for a year.

Our route home was basically the reverse of our run up, with an extra wiggle to avoid the dirt stretch. I filled Lolita’s tank with premium fuel in town and we rolled out. I saw some pretty country and great roads. It seemed that Toodyay was the place to be that morning. I saw very many bikes in the street and the cafes were full.

After our first stop, we decided that, since Lolita would need fuel again on the way home, that I should lead. I set the destination in my gps and we turned down the Great Northern highway. There has been a fair amount of work on this road, and my gps was unaware of the new sections, so it often had me traversing green fields. I don’t usually mind this, the roads are well signposted and the maps will be updated some time. However, when it started directing me to turn down roads where there was no exit (nor road in some cases), I became concerned. At one large junction the changes were too new and we ended up going the wrong way. I called on Vix’ local knowledge to get us back on track (“Just stay on the Tonkin all the way”), and to a servo with cheap premium fuel on the way.

The afternoon had become quite cool. I’d had Lolita’s heated grips turned up to 50% to keep warm. The last 150 km, including the same amazing straights, were completed with clenched teeth and a growing desire for the ride to just end.

Every rally has one final pleasure. Once we had unpacked, a hot shower released the smell of the rally from my hair and skin: the smoke from the fires and the mustiness of damp earth as the dust washed away. It is as though the whole rally passes in that one breath.

Now clean and warm, there will be some chores to do and a catch up or two before I turn east in a few days time.

Day 26 Sadly heading for home

I had planned to catch up with some mates, get some washing done and then head home through the south-west. Hughey intervened, pouring rain on my one man parade, and I eventually revised my plan. I’ll backtrack, stopping at different places. Tonight I’ll head for Merredin, maybe Southern Cross.

I packed with grey skies above, my fingers burning in the cold, but the forecast for better weather along the way. I wrapped the warmth of hearty handshakes and over-long hugs into my jacket and gloves and I pointed Lolita up the South Western Highway.

Easy riding through pretty country, punctuated by occasional roadworks brought me to Pinjarra where the gloomy sky ahead overwhelmed my optimism, and I stopped to put my wet gear on. I set the gps for Merredin so it would guide me around the city and pushed north. An hour later I turned off the Roe Highway onto the Great Eastern Highway and turned off the gps. I won’t need it again for about 3500 kilometres.

I like that these roads are familiar. I know the big hill that climbs out of Perth and the names of the towns. I stop at Bakers Hill for a famous pie and coffee and pass Clackline where my first pop up tent was made. Fuel at Northam and eastward through Meckering, where an earthquake made headlines in 1968.

I’m watching the sky and trying to decide whether to pitch my tent at Merriden or to push on to try for a pub room in Southern Cross. Hughey helps me decide by turning on a shower and I stop at the tourist information centre to find a pub room in Merriden.

The publican warns me on the phone that it is an old style pub room with shared amenities, and I assure him that I am quite happy with that.

When I arrive though, I discover that the pub is not an old style pub. It is a 1970’s concrete block disaster. The rooms are out the back in a similar lack of style. Just enough room for a bed, a fridge and a cupboard and no hand basin. But it is a friendly place, obviously a favourite with the locals and the food is good if a bit pricey.

Day 27

Pharque it’s cold! My fingers get so cold that I stop packing twice to warm them under my arms. Lolita is very wet. It hadn’t rained in the night, but I would certainly have been packing up a wet tent.

Just out of town I rode into a bank of fog. The speed limit was a fanciful 110 km/h. I could barely maintain 80 km/h and wondered if I should turn back to wait the fog out in town. But it slowly lifted and the sun tried hard to push through. Slowly our speed increased and I felt safer. I recalled having a discussion with a truck driver in the pub last night about the dangers of slow moving vehicles. If his truck had come up behind us at 105 km/h (his top speed) in the fog, one of us would have finished up among the scenery.

There are lots of muddy, I guess salty, lakes in this area. They probably hint at all kinds minerals in the clay beneath. Mining drives our economy, and at first glance, these lakes, this land, is worthless. Marshy environments however are priceless. Does the money made from mining compensate for the environmental loss? Dunno.

As the fog lifts the temperature rises, from 6° when we started out to 11° in the sunshine. My heated grips are on 100% though and doing a sterling job.

It’s about 110 km from Merredin to Southern Cross. That should be well within Lolita’s fuel range, but the gauge looks low. It isn’t as bad as it was earlier. I suspect that whatever was in the bad batch of fuel that I had a while back put a coating on the fuel level sensor that made it read low. That seems to have fixed itself, so is this real? I watch the last bar on the gauge disappear and put my faith in Lolita’s rock steady performance again.

We roll into Southern Cross without drama and I want to check that the pie shop is still trading. It is, and I reward my faith in Lolita by having a pie and a coffee for breakfast. While I am enjoying the sunshine, a bloke asks “Is that your bike, mate?” It emerges that his brother-in-law had bought a Spyder at a good price without having a bike license. Now he had to learn to ride it. “Is it true that you have to lean the other way in a corner?”… I try to be helpful but I don’t know how much will be carried across.

I fill Lolita’s tank. There were more than three litres left. Bloody fuel gauge. Then back to the highway. Lolita’s temperature sensor has overdosed on sunshine, and she tries to tell me that it is 26°! Ha! A few kilometres up the road the cold truth emerges. 16°.

Now it’s a trek to Coolgardie. I’m a bit concerned that I don’t connect so much with the ride. Along the way I see two eagles circling and climbing and I get goosebumps. My attitude lifts. Going is still good, and seeing familiar places and things is nice. I floated through 180 kilometres of scenery, good country with great history, to reach Coolgardie. I fill Lolita’s tank and consider cleaning my helmet visor but the water is grey, and return to the highway. I’m tempted to toot Lolita’s horn as we pass the pub, but refrain and shortly turn right, down the Coolgardie Esperance Highway, towards Norseman.

I recall riding through red clay on my way up this road and wonder where we will strike it. It appears that the road that we are riding is the new section that was being created then. I’m happy to avoid the clay.

The sky has been becoming more cloudy and I have been considering whether to put up my tent tonight. To help me make a decision, Hughey turned on a timely shower. I decide to ask at the caravan park if they have a cabin. As I ride into town, plod pulls me over for a breath test. No problem. He asks about the ride, the bike and the weather, then waves me on. As I approached the caravan park, I searched their sign for mention of cabins and, seeing none, ride in to town to get a room in the pub. $50 with a heater! Bonus.

I’ve stayed here a couple of times. It’s a friendly place with good food. I struck up a conversation with a couple who have an accommodation business in town. He used to ride. We talk about the places we have been, the state of the Ulysses Club and inevitably covid. Later, a bloke asks if I’m on the CanAm and says that I should take my camera off it. I bow to local knowledge and get up to go out to Lolita. On my way to the door, the same bloke comes in with my camera. A bit rude, I thought, but I guess that he was trying to be helpful. I thank him and put the camera in my bag.

Suddenly it’s half past late. The bar is empty and I have the warm seat beside the fire. Probably time for bed.

Day 28

Yay! It rained! Lolita was properly wet, as was the inside of the camera case which my ‘mate’ had left open. I load Tallulah, dress Lolita and head for the servo at the top of town. $1.78 a litre is a bit of a shock, but it will be more at the next few stops.

I like that this is familiar, almost routine. We bump across the railway crossing and head northeast into the forest. The rain has brightened all the colours. The tree trunks glow red in the morning light and their leaves sparkle gold. There are no big puddles to avoid and we build speed and settle into the ride. It is cool though. Lolita’s thermometer says that it is 10°. I guess that the moisture in the 100 km/h breeze makes it feel colder. About 100km out, I pass Fraser Range, a working sheep station with a caravan park and campground where I stayed on my first Nullarbor crossing. I’m watching the straights grow in length. I get goosebumps when a straight bounces over a couple of hills and ends in a slot at the horizon. When one straight is 30 km long, I know that we are not far from Balladonia.

I am still cold, Lolita reckons that it is 15°. I have the heated grips at 100% and still feel the cold in my arms. Though I had a large meal last night, I will get a pie and a coffee when I stop to warm up. Although I am still wearing my wet weather gear (to break the wind and keep some warmth in), I take the opportunity to put my thermals on to gain some warmth.

I pay $2.12 a litre for fuel and roll back out onto the highway. I’m watching the weather. There are patches of rain to the north and south, the wind, though light, is in the south. I might just be catching up with last night’s rain and will pass through it, or it might be newly blown up from the coast. I think that it would be useful if my gps could overlay a weather map.

We slide along the rest of the Balladonia straight, do a couple of wiggles and then stop at the western end of the 90 mile straight to take a photo.

Nobody passes me. We roll onto the straight and I watch the slow dance of the scenery as the distance markers keep time. A 24 hour stop comes up, and I roll in to have a look. If the weather was good, this would be a place to stop instead of Balladonia. No services, but a bog and some picnic tables. plenty of places for a tent under the bushes. Back out onto the highway, up to speed. It feels like I imagine that flying a small aircraft would feel. I’m dimly aware through helmet and earplugs of the sound of the bike and the air moving past. I’m more aware of the surface of the road as Lolita rolls with the changes in camber, and the hills on the horizon approach and disappear in slow procession.

Five kilometres out from Caiguna, we come across the sign pointing to the Caiguna blow hole. I had a plan to stop, so I do. It is surprisingly close to the road, maybe twenty metres direct distance. There is a large car park/turning area and a couple of signs describing the blow hole and the Nullarbor cave system. It would be an interesting place to camp with supplies and amenities just down the road.

The blow hole itself is much larger than I had thought. I held my hand out over it and could not feel a breeze. Some dicknosed tagger had added infamy to his name. I hope that nature disposes of it without ceremony.

We dispose of the last five kilometres to Caiguna roadhouse and fill Lolita’s tank. While we are at the pump, a bloke comes out to ask if I had seen a white van stopped on the side of the road. Geez, mate, people stop all the time. Many of them are in white vans. I might have… It turns out that this bloke had driven off without paying and had then attempted to flag down several vehicles. Now driving off is a sin. Fuel is precious out here and not paying your share makes it hard for everyone. But that behaviour seems loopy. Maybe our man has issues beyond simple honesty… Dunno. I hope that he is caught and his issues get sorted.

It’s less than 70 kilometres to Cocklebiddy. I’ll be there about 3:30 by my reckoning. It’s another 90 kilometres on to Madura. That would have me there at 4:30 ish. But. There is rain coming. I’ve camped at Cocklebiddy and both camped and taken a room at Madura. The sunset at Cocklebiddy is spectacular. Madura is in a hollow and can’t see the western horizon. Madura is closer to the coast and more likely to see rain. It might even rain on the way. I’ll stop at Cocklebiddy and take a room there.

$130! Plus a $10 key deposit. Gulp. I pay up. Please rain, Hughey.
My room is surprisingly warm. The aircon is on and set to 23°. And all the lights are on. Fuel and water may be scarce out here, but power seems to be free. I bump the aircon down to 20° and turn off the lights.

After unpacking and getting my riding gear off, I take a walk to the playground beside the entry road and sit to watch the sun set. It does, in spectacular fashion, and I turn to see a rainbow behind the roadhouse. Go Hughey!

The temperature drops faster than the sun and I scurry back to have a sometimes hot shower (it’s the Nullarbor, you can’t complain) then walk to the roadhouse for dinner. I’m sure that I’m missing something. There are half a dozen cars parked outside the units, several campers/caravans in the campground and maybe half a dozen trucks on the roadway, but there was only one couple in the dining room when I entered at 6:30 (Central Western time), and they left before my meal was served. The meal was excellent, reasonably priced, and I bought a couple of glasses of wine to have with and after it.

I was sitting ignoring the largely irrelevant television news and updating my blog. Before I’d started my second glass, the bouncer came to inform me that the dining room would be closing shortly…
I took my wine and came back to my room. It tasted of vitriol. Are penalty rates a big thing on the Nullarbor? Power is clearly not a problem. But it seemed that those who ate here scoffed their meal while ignoring the sunset, then scurried back to their room/van/camper to watch the largely irrelevant news or something equally facile on television.

Day 29

I have been happier to see a sunny morning. Lolita was wet, maybe it rained, the puddles don’t look any bigger though. I pack and roll on to the office to redeem my $10 key deposit.

They can’t remember if I paid for my meal last night. They make a big thing of checking and can’t find that amount among the credit card reciepts, and eventually dock my card, promising to repay it if there is an error. It will take a couple of days to percolate through my account. I’ll check then.

On to the pumps to top up Lolita’s tank. Only 5.5 litres, but if there is still no premium fuel at Madura, then there will only 90 kilometres worth of 91 octane in the mix.

While I’m doing my fuel log, a bloke comes over for a chat. I learn that it was raining on the coast this morning and he points out that it is still raining to the east and north. So I put my wet weather gear on again and head out onto the highway. Three caravans had pulled out while we were talking, I’ll probably pass them before Madura.

A few years back I had a very wet ride along this stretch. The ruts in the road made by the trucks were 500 metre long puddles. The road has been resurfaced in places since then so I only find one 100 metre long stretch, and the puddles weren’t full, so we passed with only minor wobbling.

First van caught and passed. It can be tricky because even though there are lots of long straights, they rise and fall so you can’t see into the dips. The rain seems to be passing to the north, but the sky ahead is still low and grey. Second van caught and passed. Because the land is so flat, you can see a long way ahead on the inside of a left hand curve, so by the time it straightens out, you have seen far enough to be able to pull out safely.

I haven’t seen the third van by the time I get to the top of Madura Pass. Maybe he turned off. There is a great view as the road descends and I am tempted to stop to take a photo, but there isn’t really anywhere to stop, so I soak it in for my own pleasure and turn down the access road to Madura Roadhouse.

First impression is that there is still no premium. The two pumps that I can see have their nozzles locked down. But when the car beside me pulls away I can see that that premium nozzle is free. I back up and swing across to top up Lolita’s tank with premium.

The attendant remembered me from my visit three weeks ago and asks about the trip. Gee, how to convey two weeks on the road in five minutes? Awesome!

Outside, it occurs to me that I should apply for a permit to enter SA. There is no network coverage down here though, so I shelve the plan for later.

Back to the highway, the second van has just caught and passed us, so quickly out and round, then the two 4wds in front of him while the straight is clear. Now we are rolling along the ancient sea bed. I can imagine the stunted trees and bushes here as corals in shades of green and brown. The beach was a kilometre or so inland at the foot of those cliffs. Captain Cook hadn’t been invented and Tasmanian tigers still roamed the forests.

Mundrabilla approaches and I wonder if they have fuel now. I remember talking with Deb a couple of weeks back about when she worked here in the 70’s. It was a different place then. The Nullarbor was mostly dirt road. If you ran out of fuel, you could be stuck for days. Lolita would not have been happy.

As the cliffs at Eucla come into view, I see a truck approaching from behind. It’s very unusual for a truck to gain on us. I contemplate pulling over to let him pass but making him swerve to pass wouldn’t be helpful. He seems to be staying back now. We climb the hill to Eucla and I turn off to the café. I’ve got hungry, I need to sort out what time zone my watch and Lolita’s clock are in, and I need to apply for that permit.

The woman working in the café remembers me and asks about the trip. Fame is such a burden. I try to tell her where I have been, but they are all just place names. I can only end with “It was awesome!”

The form says that I should apply to enter SA seven days before I plan to enter. Yeah right. Seven days ago I was waiting for the storms to pass in WA. I didn’t even know when I would be leaving, let alone arriving. I give them a list of places that I have visited in WA in the previous two weeks. When asked where I will be staying in SA, again I don’t know for sure. I put “Camping” in the box and press the SUBMIT button.

I received a message saying that my application was successful. I turn Lolita eastward and am totally unsurprised to find nobody at the border demanding to see my pass. I fill Lolita’s tank and push on for Nullarbor Roadhouse.

Hughey starts messing with my head. A brief shower, brilliant sunshine, overcast and drizzly, more sunshine. Oh look! A rainbow! Drizzle… The edge of Australia drifts past. Hughey stops me photographing it by pouring rain onto it. I’ll deal with whatever there is when I get there. Five kilometres out, in fine drizzle, there is a stunning double rainbow to the right. If the road will turn just enough, the end of the rainbow will be over the roadhouse. But it doesn’t. There are huge puddles on the driveway. I’ll take a room. Again.

Puddles at the entrance to Nullarbor Roadhouse

$140. Cheeses! I think of the puddles. “That’s fine.” While I am unpacking, I hear “Pogo!” It’s a bloke I know from the OzSpyderRyders forum. He is driving a wide load to Queensland. We have another thing in common. The love of travelling distance. Apparently it is the same in a truck, with the added responsibility of not running a million dollars worth of equipment off the road.

While we are chatting beside his truck, one of the local dingoes comes up. Tentatively, sniffing around, ready to run if someone raised their voice. One of the pilots has a pet dog in the van, and food for it outside. That’s what the dingo could smell. He puts a handful on the ground and the dingo comes in to eat. Dingo lovers would go all gooey, dingo haters would want it shot and wildlife protectors would decry feeding a wild animal.

I was watching the sun and wanted to get over to the western fence to photograph the sunset. While there, I spoke with a woman who was trapped by covid. She had passed briefly into Victoria from NSW to buy fuel. Her g2g pass to enter WA had been approved, but she had been turned back at the border. Where do you quarantine for two weeks when you are camping? Ffs!

There is a tractor with a camper trailer in the carpark. I wander over to listen in on the discussion. They are heading to a re-enactment of a 2020 tractor trek from Steep Point in WA to Byron Bay. Apparently they raise funds for the RFDS. That’s worth it, I guess.

Byron Bay or Bust. This tractor had a long haul ahead

Hughey put on a double show. First the sun in the clouds, then, nearly an hour later, a red sky behind the rain.

I sat and chatted with my mate from OzSpydeRyders during dinner. He would be on the road at sunup, I reckon about 7am. He said that he’d ask his rear pilot to look out for me. That’s nice, but the numbers don ‘t add up. He’ll be doing 80 km/h for two hours before I start out. He’ll be 160 kilometres ahead. I’ll be gaining on him at 20 km/h so it would take 8 hours. He’ll be pulling up in Kimba, I’ll have been off the road for an hour or two at Minnipa.

Day 30

Yay! It rained. I had to negotiate a puddle to get to Talulla while I was packing. There was a small group gathered around the tractor that was heading to Byron Bay. I wished the trekkers well then rolled over to the pumps to fill Lolita’s tank. While there I talked with the couple who were stranded in SA by covid restrictions. It emerged that they had a mate who was considering having a leg amputated after a long, pain filled battle with an infection. I gave them my card with my number on it and said that I would be happy to talk with him about the joys of monopedalism.

And onto the highway with hope in our hearts. The sky ahead is low and grey, and the road is wet, but as we progress it fails to rain. The sun broke through and the warmth was wonderful (Lolita’s thermometer was reading 13°).

The distance signs count down to Yalata. I can’t think why. There was a roadhouse there many years ago but that closed down long ago. I guess that the signs predate that. The scenery is decidedly non-Nullarbor. Light forest comes up to the road. When we crest a hill, I can see that it is widespread, not just a decorative edging. The leaves are deep green, washed clean by the rain. As Yalata comes up, I see a sign saying “Caravan Park Open”. That’s encouraging. I’ll plan to stop there instead of at the Nullarbor Roadhouse on my next crossing.

On to Nundroo. I have stopped there several times, and camped in the campground. It was a sad place, just hanging on. As I recall, they didn’t have premium fuel, but I’d fill up because that was the drill. But I found that I could fill up at Penong and bypass Nundroo and still have fuel when I got to Nullarbor. That is kinda against ‘the drill’, but it shows how sad Nundroo was. But, on this trip I see that the signage is new and it looks like new owners. I’m not so excited that I turn into the drive. I note that they have a “Special unleaded” fuel. Is that premium? Couldn’t they have said that on the sign? I ride past for Penong.

About 30 kilometres out of Penong, the roadworks speed limit is 80 km/h. I grit my teeth and slow. It feels *so* slow…

In Penong, I fill Lolita’s tank and decide to roll across the road to the café/general store that has replaced the Famous Penong Pie Shop. That is I gear up, start up ride 50 metres stop. Gear off and walk to the shop. Which is closed. Which had actually been closing while I was taking my helmet off… It might have been remnant annoyance from the roadworks, but instead of walking back to the servo to buy a pie and a coffee, I gear up and ride on. Ceduna will have a suitable café.

I pass a couple of caravans on the edge of town, and immediately hit more roadworks. The caravans sit behind me for a while, but both pass and slowly disappear. I keep my teeth gritted and hold 80 km/h.

It’s wheat country out here. Rolling green fields on both sides of the road as far as the eye can see. And at 80 km/h, it gets plenty of time to look. There is a brief spurt up to 110 km/h, then back to 80…

I roll into the quarantine check point at Ceduna behind the two caravans that had passed me. Surely they can’t have taken that long to inspect? The inspector asks where I have ridden from and whether I am carrying any fruit or vegetables, and waves me on without verifying my denial.

I’m determined to find a café in Ceduna, so I follow the two caravans when they turn into town, and follow them until they turn into a caravan park, without seeing a café. I cruise along the waterfront, surely there’d be a café along here… I turn back into town at the yacht club, no café on the main street, find the highway and resume the ride. One day I will stay in this town and find out what’s where.

I’ve chosen Minnipa for my stop tonight. According to Wiki Camps, it has a campground managed by the Apex club, so if the weather stays fine, I can put my tent up there, and it has a hotel where I can stay if the weather is less amenable. It also has fuel, and I’m on one bar, so I’ll need to fill up there.

It’s pleasant riding with the sun behind me. The road wanders between silo sidings and the views are wide. Wirrulla rolls past. I stopped there on the way out, which is why I’m stopping somewhere else tonight.

I turn off the highway into Minnipa. I find the pub on the main street, but I don’t see the campground. I check the location on my phone. Ah, it was opposite the turn into town. So I backtrack and see the entrance across the highway. It is quite small, and with three large campers already in there, there isn’t room for me to put up my tent. That’s disappointing, but I can go to the pub.

The pub is booked out for somebody’s 100th birthday. They suggest that I try the motel at Wudinna. I’d been trying to not stop there because I had done so so often, but now it was all that was left. I note as I ride out of town that the servo that I had been counting on filling up at is closed. So back onto the highway and on to Wudinna.

Three kilometres short of Wudinna, Lolita’s fuel tank runs dry. Just 286.6 kilometres. That’s about 15 kilometres short of my expectation. But here we are stopped on the side of the highway. I get the spare 10 litres from Talulla and pour them into Lolita’s tank. That’s why it was there, though I’d imagined that it would be at a servo with no fuel.

I ride into town, fill Lolita’s tank and refill the spare 10 litres, then gear up and ride 100 metres down the road to the caravan park. While I am still sitting on the bike, someone comes out to tell me that they have no room because a bus is coming.
“Not even a tent site?”
“No. You might try the hotel in town or maybe the RV park.”

Back up the highway, turn into town and search for either the hotel or the RV park. The hotel comes up first, and I capitulate. Another night in a pub.
“We have deluxe rooms at $140”
“Do I look deluxe?”
“Or budget rooms at $95. They have ensuite and air conditioning”
“That’s better than a tent. If that’s all there is…”
“Or you could have a basic pub room for $50. There is no heating and you have shared bathroom and toilet. There is a continental breakfast included.”
“That will do fine.”

When did we become a nation of princesses?

So here I am, well fed and settled into a comfortable room. Only one problem left to solve. Lolita is well overdue for an oil and filter change. I’ve been trying without success for several days to contact some friends in Adelaide to see if I could stay there and use their garage. It will get tricky if I don’t hear from them by tomorrow.

Day 31

A month? Already? Gee, it’s dragged a bit some days, but not that long, surely…

I woke early(ish) and began packing. While I was shuttling my gear out to Talulla, the same woman asked if I wanted breakfast. I wasn’t hungry. Last night’s lamb shank had filled me up. I was on Lolita and ready to roll at 8:30. Why? It’s still cold, the sun is still low, why roll out now? Well, it’s part of a flow. It carries itself along. Stop – start rides annoy me. Once packed, the next thing to do is go. I’ll get breakfast in Kimba. And I went.

It was about 6°, I had left my wet weather gear on to break the wind, I wound Lolita’s heated grips up to 100% and sailed down the highway. The sun being so low caused two problems. First, the long shadows across the road made it difficult to spot any hopping death lurking by the roadside. Second, the constant flickering was disturbing. I tried shielding the left side of my visor with my hand, but, as when riding into the sun, after a while my arm ached and I had to choose.

The highway weaves slowly in a generally south east direction, sometimes more sunwards, sometimes away. The sides of the highway have about 20 metres of low scrubby trees before the wheat fields. Every once in a while, a gap shows the field beyond. One field had some sort of melon scattered in it. With the sun on them, they sparkled like scattered jewels.

I was thinking about Lolita needing an oil change. The main problem was that she would be getting low on oil. I found that after my New Year ride two years ago. So, against the possibility that I wouldn’t get to change her oil, I decided to check the level when I next stopped and, if it was low, buy a litre of motorcycle oil to top up the level. Then she couldn’t get too low. That made me feel better. Funny what drags at you on a ride.

There is a big roadhouse on the way into Kimba. I’d stop there to get fuel and check Lolita’s oil level. I’d ride on to the Big Galah for breakfast. Much nicer than a roadhouse, and good to support the small business.

Lolita’s oil was low. I found one (the last) bottle of motorcycle oil on the shelf inside, and spent a very long time pouring most of it into Lolita’s oil tank without a funnel. How did I leave home without a funnel and an oil pan? I don’t know, but half way across Australia, I made do without.

The shop was busy, there were queues at the pumps, I decided to get fuel as well as breakfast at the Big Galah. I noticed as I rode in that the only pump there was for diesel. Bugger. I’d have to go back to the roadhouse for fuel. When I pulled up, someone was trying to tell me something through helmet and ear plugs. I smiled and nodded and while I was removing those encumbrances to clear communication, he got into his car and drove off. People are strange. As I was walking to the bakery, a woman in a camper nearby called out “It’s closed”. Ah. That clears that up, and adds a twist. I’d have to forage among the contents of the bain marie back at the roadhouse for breakfast.

Ear plugs back in, helmet back on, gloves back on, fire up Lolita and go back to the roadhouse. Where there was still a queue at the pumps. I waited my turn, filled Lolita’s tank and paid, then parked her and went back inside. There I found a not indigestible pie and a coffee. Back at the bike, I was beginning to feel quite warm. I knew that no rain was forecast, so I took off my wet weather pants and removed the wet liner from my jacket. Riding out, I felt quite cool, but it was just the accumulated moisture evaporating. Wet weather gear is waterproof both ways.

The trees are fewer and further apart out here. The views across the fields are wonderful, with a range of hills in the distance. The sun was much higher, I felt warmer, the hokey – pokey dance back at Kimba was fading from memory and the ride was beginning to flow again.

Roadworks. 80 km/h. I grit my teeth. Sunday. There would be nobody working. Why are these stretches so long?… A car passed me and disappeared. Then another and another. Am I missing something? 60 km/h… 40 km/h… Oh come on! A kilometre at 40 km/h takes a minute and a half. Try holding your breath that long. Then, at the far end of the straight, a single lane flow with a pilot past active roadworks. Ok, I’ll let you have that one. The three cars in front of me were nose to tail. I understood their frustration, but, they are at least 100 kilometres from anywhere, another ten metres won’t take any longer, there is machinery working beside the road, just back off a little so you can avoid blocking the highway when it all goes wrong.

Then back up to 80 km/h. They remove themselves from my sight and I try to settle back and enjoy the views.

I’d arranged to call a friend about staying with a mutual friend in Adelaide at around midday. There is no coverage for long stretches out here. It was gone 1:00 when I got to Iron Knob where I knew there would be coverage. The stop beside the road there and describing it to them washed all the frustration away. I saw the beauty and felt peaceful. Sometimes you have to make yourself look.

Panorama of the country at the Iron Knob turnoff.

No bed arranged, but at least I had made contact. On to Port Augusta.

I have memories of crawling along this stretch at 80 km/h, not for roadworks, but trying to conserve fuel till I got to Porta. Looking back, it seems wasted. I was carrying 10 litres then as I am now, and I should have just stopped and relieved my anxiety. On this trip, the simple act of filling up at Kimba relieved me of that burden. The views along here are fascinating. Once we turn left and start the run north up the west side of the gulf, the hills on the far side are amazing. Uplift, I think, rather than glacial, deeply weathered but still sharp.

Then the scenery turns off and is replaced by suburbia. We roll through town and out the other side. I notice that they are building a new bridge across the gulf. That will ease the traffic. Fuel on the way out of town, then wake up the gps to set my destination for the night. 200 km? Crikey! Riding distance is about riding, not stopping to talk on the phone or take photographs. We’ll have to push along. I flick the gps off. I won’t need to be told to continue straight ahead for the next two hundred kilometres.

And we do, in our fashion. 200 kilometres will take two hours at 100 km/h no matter how fast we wish it were. Apart from the roadworks… A big sign warns of delays. We are in a queue behind a road train that is stopped at the roadworks. I can’t see the front of the queue. after a few minutes, vehicles start coming the other way. I can see the tail lights of about half a dozen vehicles in the queue ahead reflected in the sides of the passing cars. After quite a few more minutes, the road train ahead begins to move. We’re off! At 40 km/h… A sign on the side of the road warns of uneven surface ahead. I see the new work on our right straight and level, while the surface on our side pitches and rolls a good 150 mm beside it. This section is worth replacing.

Finally we pick up speed. The road train seems limited to 95 km/h. The line of cars behind push past in every tiny space. Eventually the road ahead is open, Lolita pulls easily up to way too fast and we pass safely, then settle back to our chosen 100 km/h. The delay has cost almost half an hour. The sun will be getting low when we get to Port Wakefield. Already I can feel the cool creeping in. The clouds are gathering, and I begin to wonder whether I will spend another night indoors. I recall that there is a pub not far from the caravan park and I make it even money against a night in the tent.

With 10 kilometres to go, I flick the gps back on to let it guide me to the caravan park. The town is a fair size, there are several servos on the way in. I follow my learned friend’s instruction to turn into the main street. There is the pub on the right. Where is the promised caravan park? I’ll try a left. There it is. Gee it looks small…

I’m greeted warmly. Yes they have a tent site. On grass. Grass! I haven’t seen that for weeks! The sun is getting low as I start setting up. It looks nice and golden… I pop over to the western side of the park and see what will be a great sunset in the making. I have about 15 minutes…

Tent up. That will do. Let’s go and catch that sunset. I’ll finish setting up after… For the second time, Hughey did a double banger. The first was all sparkly with the clouds edged with gold. The second, a slow burn that took an hour to build and then slowly fade. And I sat, and watched, letting all the hassle of the day wash out of me. I was back in my space.

Lolita, Talulla and my hooch at Port Wakefield.

Back at the tent, tuna and noodles for dinner and a cup of coffee. Then check my email, last ditch to arrange an oil change. Yes! Stu says “You can use my workshop. Call me…” Followed almost instantly by a text from someone else, checking that I’d made contact.

Day done. Tomorrow will be short on distance. I have to get my washing done, and then get an oil and filter change done. A celebratory sip of Stones, and into my sleeping bag.

Life is good.

Day 32

I had to get my washing done, so the day started with that while I showered and packed up the tent.

The run into Adelaide should have taken an hour, but… Roadworks… The scenery shifts slowly from rural to industrial to urban. I stopped on the way in to pick up some oil.

The oil change went smoothly, taking just a couple of hours. It’s amazing the difference that a professional workshop makes. Simple things like a clean floor with carpet so that lying down to work is less of a hassle. Thanks Stu for making it easy. Now Lolita has clean oil and filters, I have one less thing to worry about.

Having started late though. I finished late in the day. Getting out of the city would involve riding in peak hour traffic in a strange city in gathering darkness. I trusted my gps to get me through it and soon found myself on the freeway out of town. Hughey put on a show at sunset, vermilion red on deep blue grey, but I couldn’t stop to appreciate it.

I wasn’t going to make any distance though, and the prospect of hunting down a bed for the night after dark drove me back to where I spent last night. I solved the problem of putting my tent up in the dark by taking a cabin.

So total distance for the day, 220 kilometres. Distance made. 0 kilometres. A short day.

Day 33

My tin tent did the job. I didn’t have to put it up in the dark, and I didn’t have to pack it up in the morning.

I was aiming for Mildura. I’d take the back road through Morgan, some of which I had ridden before. I filled Lolita’s tank and wove a path through the roadworks towards Balaklava.

There is a string of lovely old towns out this way. Balaklava, Auburn, Saddleworth and Eudunda spring to mind. Little 19th century gems that speak of the fortunes made. Other smaller towns are sadly fading, but still show what they were. It’s wheat and sheep country mostly, but as the road begins to sway through the hills, small vineyards appear tucked into the valleys.

I stopped in Morgan for fuel and a warming pie and coffee. Hughey was having trouble getting the temperature above 13°, and there was a strong northerly blowing. Morgan would be worth a stop to take in its history as a paddle steamer port. From here the road sits up on a plateau above the Murray River. Saltbush and scrubby trees don’t hint at the water close by.

Fruit trees and vineyards become common as we approach Renmark. I passed into Victoria without being interrogated and roll on to Mildura. Lolita’s fuel gauge is on zero bars 20 kilometres out, but the servo at Merbein South has both pumps out of order. The first servo we see in Mildura gets our business. While we are stationary, I set my watch and Lolita’s clock to Eastern Standard Time, and feel sad that the ride is coming to an end.

Euston is a nice distance away to end the day. However, the accommodation there is limited, all seemingly aimed at the top of the market, so I decided to push on to Balranald where I stayed on one cold and wet ride about 5 years ago. It took me a while to spot the Shamrock Hotel, but once found, I had a room and the prospect of a good meal.

While I was enjoying that meal, I saw the tv weather. The rain will catch up with me during the night and give me a couple of wet days on the road. Oh well. I won’t have to pack my room up wet in the morning.

Day 34

It was raining lightly as I packed my gear back into Talulla and dressed Lolita. I swapped my gloves for my new waterproof gloves and put my wet weather gear on. I filled Lolita’s tank and headed for Hay.

My recollections of the road in might have been exaggerated, or perhaps there has been some upgrading in the past five years. The long water filled ruts were less frequent and those that I encountered were less water filled than I remembered. Lolita’s stability control still cut in a few times, probably when the rear wheel aquaplaned. I don’t mind having a mindless machine save me from getting sideways at speed in the wet.

The rain eased a little as we went further east, and I began to feel hopeful of outrunning the worst of it. Along the way we passed St. Paul’s rest stop. I spotted St. Paul sitting in the cab of his B double, resting.

I stopped in Hay for breakfast and topped up Lolita’s tank. Her fuel economy has been down a little lately. As it was raining at the servo, I couldn’t check it exactly, but my quick mental calculations had it below 12 km/l. It’s about 260 km to West Wyalong, my stop for the night. That should be within range, and I’m carrying 10 litres, so with some trepidation we took the B64, a new road for us.

I got behind a fuel tanker as we were leaving and decided to stay there. I sat back far enough to be out of his spray, but close enough to be able to ride in the dry line he left through the puddles. At one point, a car passed me and tucked into the space behind the truck. He sat so close to the truck that he couldn’t see the road ahead. I don’t know how he lucked upon a clear stretch of road to pull out and pass, but I am glad that he did. I don’t much fancy sitting in the rain waiting for the police and ambulance to arrive at the scene of a head on.

There isn’t much to see on the Hay Plains, and in this weather there is even less. I was on new road and looking to see new country, but all that I saw was saltbush and rain.

As we rode further east, the trees beside the road became taller. Different soil I guess, though it still looked like red mud at the side of the road.

There was fuel at Goolgowi, but I was sure that we could make West Wyalong, so I rode past. My guardian truck turned off here, leaving me to negotiate the puddles on my own. Weethalle has a sign advertising itself as a motorcycle friendly town. Lolita’s fuel gauge had fallen to pessimistic, so I was pleased to see a servo/general store. All the pumps were locked, however, so this motorcycle rode on unfriended.

To try to reduce Lolita’s fuel consumption, I reduced our speed to 90 km/h. It was only 50 odd kilometres to West Wyalong, so it wouldn’t add much time to the ride. At one point, just as a couple of cars had lined up behind us, I was sure that Lolita had died, so I swung us off the road, she hadn’t, however, and I chided myself for using extra fuel to accelerate back up to 90 km/h.

We arrived in West Wyalong without assistance, rolled down the main street looking for my motel and looking for fuel. I found both and decided to fill Lolita’s tank now to minimise the hassle of getting away in the morning. That particular servo had mixed up the labelling on the pumps. I chose one that looked like it was either 98 octane or 95 octane and filled Lolita’s tank. I had guessed well, it was 95 octane.

I checked in at the motel and went to my room. I turned the aircon up to tropical, turned on the fan and spread my riding gear around to dry.

I looked through the very outdated local services directory to see if there was a café that would deliver. There was, but I thought that $10 delivery for a $12 meal wasn’t good value. With the rain setting in for the night, I decided to have dinner at the services club. I could use my covid meal voucher to pay for it. If it was wet, maybe I could get the courtesy bus back.

The meal was good, very filling, but the restaurant was a separate business from the club and did not accept my voucher. To add a sting, they had a minimum $50 on eftpos with a $1 surcharge. I had carefully chosen my meal to be covered by the $25 value of the voucher. I knew that it would cost more than a dollar to get cash from the atm. They did too, I’m sure. So I paid and, as I turned to go, the attendant said “See you again”. I replied that it didn’t seem very likely and took my umbrage out to the street.

It wasn’t raining, so I walked back to the motel, rearranged my riding gear and went to bed.

Day 35 despair n. destroys courage and stops all effort.

The forecast said rain. I’m glad that they got that right. It would be so disappointing for them if it had turned out sunny. I organised my packing so that I could do short dashes out to Talulla or Lolita in the gaps. Sometimes that worked and we were ready to roll at 9:30 with no reason apart from want of comfort to not.

I’d figured that there had to be a Wyalong and indeed there is, immediately to the east of West Wyalong. It shows a prosperous 19th century front now dwindling. The major business in both towns seems to be motels, then agricultural supplies and industry.

The road out of town had a few minor rivers flowing across it, a hint of what was to come. My wet weather gear got a workout from above and below as Lolita’s front wheels sprayed water up and over me.

With the road being both rough and wet, we found it hard to settle into a rhythm. I’m not good at threading a needle, but I got lots of practise trying to keep Lolita’s rear wheel on the hump in the middle of the lane and weaving around the puddles on either side of it.

About 35 kilometres out of town, the B64 turns off to go to Grenfell and Cowra. It starts promisingly with a smooth concrete surface, but soon reverts to rutted tar with long puddles and occasional small streams. The road condition slowly improved as we approached town, and by about 35 kilometres out it was quite good.

I’d planned to have breakfast in Grenfell. About 10 kilometres out of town, a ute pulled out in front of me from a side road. A bit rude, I thought, but maybe he couldn’t see me. I slowed and waited for him to gather speed. And waited, and waited, and decided that he was being too cautious and pulled out to pass, at which time he discovered that he could do 100 km/h in the wet. So I fell back, and he slowed down, and the road grew some bends and hills that precluded passing. And when we had passed those, his right foot had a spasm… We were only 5 kilometres from town. I’d wait.

The main street of Grenfell is being dug up. Maybe they’ve found gold. Parking with a trailer anywhere near a café was going to be difficult though, so I set my sights on having breakfast in Cowra.

By now the major hazard was water running across the road, often from a driveway or a side road. Lolita would drift, Nanny would wake up and cut the sparks and we’d regain traction. It was so quick. I couldn’t have reacted that fast.

I filled Lolita’s tank and then went in search of a café. Hughey helpfully rained while I got off the bike and took my gloves and helmet off. I found a bakery that was warm, dry and friendly, at least they let me sit down with my wet weather gear on, and had a now traditional pie and coffee and waited for the current band of rain to pass.

The road now goes through some lovely country. I’ve ridden here a few times in better weather and greatly enjoyed the rolling green hills. This time it was just a transit stage. Carcoar and Blayney, the two cold towns, come and go. I’ve got my sights set on Bathurst, then Lithgow.

Coming along the ridge above Kings Plains, I see a snow and ice sign. I’m prepared to dismiss it because it is too warm (not cold enough?) for snow and ice and it is raining. Then I see some white lumps by the side of the road. Could it be? It really doesn’t feel that cold. Lolita reckons that it is 12°. That’s too warm. More white lumps. Nah… Must be something spilled. Styrofoam maybe? All the way into Bathurst and out the other side, the signs keep popping up to warn me of an imminent icy slide. But it never happens. Just wind and rain.

And roadworks. Oh joy. At least they don’t follow the South Australian model of tens of kilometres at reduced speed. Only the immediate works are posted at 60 km/h.

And finally Lithgow. I’ve been harbouring a vision of standing beside the fire at the Donnybrook Royal Hotel, sipping a glass of red while my wet weather gear steams and drips. As I wheel into the car park at the pub though, my hopes are dashed. There is no smoke coming from the chimneys, no lights on inside. A sign on the back porch says “Sorry we are closed”. So am I.

Plan B is to pick up a bottle of wine to take to my mate’s place to have with dinner. Actually, that was probably part of plan A, but it was fully executed.

Lolita is parked in the driveway, I’m in front of a warm fire and dinner is being served.

There was something to hope for after all.

Day 36

I woke to an unusual sight, sunshine coming through the window. I’m ready for the ride to end, and Hughey has turned on a cracker of a day for it. I said goodbye to my friends and rolled Lolita out onto the street to begin the end.

We trickle through Lithgow, being nice, looking at the glory of the old iron town, waiting for ‘the hill’. Through the first bend, climbing and pulling hard, we pass one car and have an open road ahead. Through the esses, over the crest, the speed limit increases and we soar. This is our road.

Lolita’s thermometer says that it is 9° out there. I have her heated grips on full and am quite comfortable. I had thought when we set out that we would stop at the corrugated café for breakfast, but it comes up too soon and we fly past, so taken up with the road and the sunshine. Maybe ‘Pie in the Sky’.

It’s been nearly a year since the bushfires came through. The trees still have their pyjamas on. Through the unusual open spaces, I can see wonderful valley views and amazing rock formations that were previously hidden. And we roll. The world is ours. The sky is a perfect mix of blue with puffy white clouds. Everything sparkles. One caravan. Easily passed on the inside.

I’m happy to sit on the speed limit. Nobody is pressing from behind, and there is nobody to pass. Valley view, mountain view, sweeping bend, long, easy straight. A blissful flow.

The traffic lights bounding the landslip at Mount Tomah are flashing orange. We slide through at 40, no pressure, interested to see what closed the road.

Bilpin comes up just as I am getting hungry. There are a few cars in the car park at Pie in the Sky, but it is not crowded. Covid rules. Mask up, socially distance. It’s a hassle worth tolerating to be rid of this f*ckn’ virus. A pie and a coffee and a chance to reflect. 10000 kilometres behind, 70 a ahead. Let’s do this.

Kurrajong. Great views. Kurmond. Creeping suburbia. Flick left, through Glossodia, down to the grass farms, don’t look as we pass through Windsor, back into the trees to pass through Kellyville to Dural. The familiar slide from semi rural to suburban. One last romp through Galston Gorge and it is over.

Trip meter B reads 241 km. It must have rolled over at 10000. Why would they do that?

As I unpack Talulla, I make a mental list of things to do. Talulla is not waterproof. That must be fixed. Lolita’s rear tyre will have to be replaced, and her drive belt is missing a few teeth. There is a brake warning, probably fluid level, and that stupid check engine fault to be dealt with.

The next rally is in a couple of weeks. See you there.

Tssst…

Posted on Apr 27, 2021 by Pogo

It wasn’t that long really, but it certainly seemed like it. When covid struck in March last year, I got to the Z Owners rally at Conondale and then to the Piston Broke at Broke in May (because the Ragged Fringe was cancelled due to covid). Then came a long drag while borders were closing and opening like a whack – a – mole game and quarantine periods made it impossible to get through in time for any rally that might still be running. I hoped for three months to get to the repeatedly postponed Numbat in WA, but when it was eventually scheduled in September, I faced four weeks of quarantine (two weeks in each of two states) on the way. There were virtual events such as the Ducati Club‘s 2020 Thunder Rally that allowed some clubs to keep going, but they were poor substitutes for actually attending a rally.

Then Imbil happened, and it felt weird being among so many people, but it was great to be on the road.

Another long pause in which I found that the Tas Rally was on in March at Buckland. I’d done one Tas before at Loyetea and greatly enjoyed it, so I prepaid for the rally and booked my ferry crossings and accommodation on the way.

I had a great ride apart from the rain around Melbourne (going both ways). The rally was odd though. It seemed that the idea was to bring your quad bike or pit bike on a trailer behind your ute rather than ride a road bike. But the three day long gymkhana was interesting in places (pit bike soccer was disturbing) and the longest distance award went to a bloke who’d ridden from France (that’s an awesome ride and given what covid was doing there at the time, who could blame him?). There was a Harley powered fridge trike doing figure eights on the track, and the burnout competition saw a couple of bikes wobble back to their trailer with a blown rear tyre. Pointless, but good fun.

I rode back to the ferry over the north east to see some prettiness. I was sad to see that the Elephant Pass pancake café was closed and up for sale. Lolita turned over 100,000km just out of Scottsdale on the way. The run through Weldborough was beautiful and with the sun setting and boarding time approaching, I ran out of fuel five kilometres from the ferry. It was a long weekend Monday, when people traditionally don’t break down, so the RACT phones were switched to after hours auto response “… Please call back during business hours…” I rang NRMA on the big island and they chased up someone who organised a serviceman to bring me more than enough fuel to get to the ferry, and I tagged to the end of the queue.

Oh, accommodation. To get to the rally, I planned to go down the east coast of NSW and Vic. through the forests and make a loop on the way back. To avoid an out and back ride, I’d booked at different places each way. On the way down I stayed at Lakes Entrance and on the way back I’d booked at Nowa Nowa. The ride from Bairnsdale through Bruthen to Nowa Nowa was brilliant and I arrived just after 5. There are no staff on site, they send a text with the code for the lock on your door. A bit impersonal, but covid was making people do things differently. The room was at the tavern, but the tavern was closed, and appeared to have been closed for some time. Not just no beer, but no food. This was not mentioned at the time of booking. The café across the road was closed for the day, as was the general store a couple of kilometres up the road. I’d had a long day swimming out of Melbourne and following the coast so I needed a feed. Back on the bike and twenty k’s down the road to Lakes Entrance to stay at the same motel (at a vastly increased tariff) to get a feed and have a beer without having to be on the road after dark. I think they had been too wise at Nowa Nowa and renamed it from Noway Noway. I won’t be back again.

Last weekend the Autumn Leaf was on. Because of the covid restrictions in place at the time that it was being organised, it had limited numbers and was prepaid only, but it went off beautifully. Great ride in, cold nights in the tent, partying in front of a band, catered by the Ducati Club (thanks guys) and a slow ride home.

So many people said, as if they were surprised, that they hadn’t seen me around much. I can’t think where they would have seen me since there were no rallies on, and I excused myself with that fact.

We did all agree that it was good to be out after so long and that we looked forward to the rally scene getting back to normal.

I’m planning to go to the Ruptured Budgie in a few weeks, then head west to the Numduc Rally in WA.

Light blue touch paper and stand well clear.

By the intervention of angels

Posted on Dec 14, 2019 by Pogo

My riding is made easier by people going out of their way to help. Here are some examples from the past year.

Back in February, I had call from a Spyder riding mate whose Spyder had broken down out of Moree on the way to the Ulysses Club AGM.

The fault was the cam angle sensor. He had got it to a Can Am dealer in Moree. They didn’t sell Spyders, only quads, but were willing to check the fault. My mate had his own copy of BUDS, so they could run the diagnostics and confirm the fault.

They had ordered a replacement part, and my mate had paid extra to have it sent by express courier so he could be back on the road by the weekend, only a day behind.

BRP were up to their best. They were totally uncontactable when the part didn’t arrive as promised. Despite having specifically arranged to send the part by express courier, they had sent it standard. It arrived over a week later.

My mate wanted to know if I knew if the cam angle sensor from a quad would fit because the dealer was happy to try it but with no guarantee.

I offered to bring the cam angle sensor from Lola’s old engine. It took only ten minutes to remove. I sent a photo to check that it had the same connector and then drove up to Moree with it.

We delivered it to the dealer who was able to fit it next day and get my mate back on the road.

The guys at Thomas Lee Motorcycles in Moree are angels. They went out of their way to help. If you need anything motorcyclic when you are in the area, please give them a call.

When I was in Western Australia for the Numduc rally in June, I found that Lolita had succumbed to the Spyder rear fender disease.

Without me asking, Mon’s mate Doc whipped out his tools and with the addition of a couple of zip ties, had got the guard stable. Doc is an angel.

I then had to get the failed strut repaired. Simon from the W.A. Guzzi Club offered to put me up while I found someone to do the work. Nothing was too much trouble for him. I could stay as long as I needed, he fed me, let me do my washing, and gave me the key to the house. Simon is an angel.

I hunted down the nearest Spyder dealer and asked if they could do the work. I baulked when they wanted to order in parts before seeing the job, but they kindly referred me to 360 Degree Sport & Custom out at Boya.

Adds was extremely helpful. He does control modifications for disabled riders and was interested in Lolita’s brake mod. His main business is creating custom vehicles.

He took the job of repairing Lolita’s rear strut on immediately. He drove me to town so I could get a coffee while I was waiting. He repaired the broken strut and checked the other one to be sure that it hadn’t been weakened. Adds is an angel. If you are in the west and need any custom work done, give him a call.

One Day Shock Swap

Posted on Dec 14, 2019 by Pogo

It began inauspiciously. I had two bikes, same model but five years apart. I would swap the rear shocks, putting the better, after market shock on the newer bike, and the little used standard one from the newer bike in its place on the older bike. It would only take a day. Four bolts out, swap the shocks, four bolts in and then go for a ride in the afternoon to try it out.

I’ve got a good technique for getting the lower shock mount bolt out as I do that to remove the rear wheel without disturbing the belt tension or alignment when it is time to change the rear tyre.

I rarely touch the top shock mount bolt though as it is a bit fiddly to get to. The panel under the seat has to be removed, but that is only six screws. On the older bike that was straight forward, but I could see then that at least one rear side panel would have to be removed to avoid working in a cramped corner under the seat.

I was half way there anyway, six more screws (the front upper side panel obscures a mounting screw for rear side panel…) and it would be free. Oh, and the pannier rack would have to come off to give room to remove the side panel. Four bolts, no problem.

So off came the left side pannier rack, front upper side panel, and the left rear side panel. The top mount came easily, the lower mount almost as easily and the shock was in my hand.
I didn’t want to leave the bike sitting on a jack, so I dug around and found her long disused original rear shock to install. As I was tightening the lower mounting bolt, I noticed that the plastic spacers were deforming unusually. But it would hold for now. I would cancel my afternoon ride to figure it out.

Now over to the new bike for the same procedure.

The new bike has a Classic Towbar hitch fitted. This has to be partly removed to be able to remove the under seat panel. Two more bolts and a couple of spacers… Down came the under seat panel, and I was back on track.

Now the pannier rack. On the new bike, the pannier rack is supported by a bolt that used to just mount the seat. This has been substituted for a longer one to carry one of the hangers for the trailer hitch. There is a nut on the end inside a cross member that can be reached with a socket on a short extension. The head of the bolt is tucked away under the very back of the seat. To get a spanner onto the head, the seat has to be lifted much higher than the gas strut under the seat will allow, so the gas strut has to be released. Fiddly. Don’t let the spring clip spring… Now it is barely possible to get an open ended spanner onto the head of the bolt. A slimish ring would fit, but as the bolt rose, the ring would be trapped. As the bolt rises, it strikes the tailpiece trim. This has to be held aside with a screwdriver blade while turning the bolt a sixth of a turn at a time… Eventually, the bolt can be pried and wiggled and teased up out of the hole.The other two bolts come easily enough, and the rack can be manoeuvred off under the grab rail.

Front upper side panel off. Rear side panel off. Oh. The lower belt guard has to come off. Three screws, easy. The front screw came easily, but the two rearward ones have a nut on the inside because they form part of the rear guard strut mount. (Why any engineer would include a chunk of plastic in a mount that is supposed to be rigid is beyond me). So off comes the lower belt guard and now, finally…

Shock mount bolts out. Shock out. It is looking hopeful. New shock in, top mount first as it is the fiddly one. Line up the lower mount… Crikey! It is a bit short. About 30mm short. The jack can’t have lifted 30mm on its own. The shocks must be different lengths. Top mount out. New shock out line them up side by side. Yep. Easy 30mm difference.

After trying fruitlessly to attract a passing crow with some well modulated crow calls (I can’t think how one would have helped with the task in hand, but misery loves company), and kicking a few inanimate and immovable objects, I resolved to put the old shock back in and go back to contemplating the distorted spacers on the other bike.

So, shock back in, top mount first because it is fiddly. Line up the lower bolt hole and slide the lower mounting bolt back in. Lower belt guard front screw in. The rear screws require much fiddling to align four holes, belt guard, guard strut, swing arm lug and nut. (did somebody actually design this?) Rear side panel back on. Upper front side panel back on.

Pannier rack, half an hour of tedious wiggling, prising and finally one sixth of a turn at a time tightening and the pannier rack is almost done. The two other mounting bolts are easy, The nut for the trailer hanger is a problem. As the nut is tightened from below, the bolt unscrews… I can get a spanner onto it, but with a limited range of movement, I can’t wedge it to hold the spanner still, and I have to use both hands to manipulate the socket inside the strut under the seat. Screaming and crying don’t provide a solution, so I enlist some help. It takes a couple of starts before the meaning of “hold the bolt still” becomes clear, but finally the nut is tight and I can slide the slots in the under seat panel over the hangers and replace the panel screws. Replace the hitch and nobody would believe that anything had been done on the bike. And they’d be right.

Back to the distorted spacers. I pulled the lower bolt and slid the spacers out. They are, it seems, Wallaby Bob’s brother. But why? The shock was the original. It came with a mounting spacer that slid through a boss in the lower eye of the shock. And it had likely slid out of the boss and into a pile of munt that I regard as ‘spares’. The plastic spacers are an inner and outer pair. With no mounting spacer to restrain it, the inner plastic spacer had been pushed into the eye of the shock and the outer one had deformed to stretch over the eye. Roo Ted.

The spacers on the after market shock are a tight fit. None of this slidey slidey malarkey. So it will go back in without a problem. Tomorrow.

A Capital idea

Posted on Jan 16, 2018 by Pogo

Rallying is a lot about tradition. Traditionally, the first rally after the New Year Gathering at Micalong Creek was the Capital Rally, traditionally held at Brindabella. Nature isn’t much on tradition. She will change the course of a river on a whim. She did so at Brindabella, and made the Capital Rally move to a succession of new sites. It became a bit much for the overworked organisers to manage, and the rally lapsed.

But this year, a traditional rallyist, Scarfey, took on the task of organising the Capital. He found a good site, the once home of the Wombat Rally, at Stewart’s Crossing. He arranged it as a back to basics rally to minimise the workload, though he did have a portable bog on site.

I left after lunch on the Saturday and flogged down the Hume. The forecast for the weekend had been very wet, but I rode in sunshine, hindered only by a fierce headwind.

I stopped at the servo at Sally’s Corner to fill up. The ATM in the servo was out of order, so I asked if I could get some cash out over the counter. Yes, that was possible, but I’d have to buy something. Now I had just bought a tankful of fuel, but that didn’t count. I smiled and bought a chocolate bar that I didn’t want, and got enough cash to pay my rally entry. I can see why the system worked that way, but it was annoying at the time.

Back on Lola, we rolled through the next 30 odd km to Marulan. Now my GPS wanted me to go out to Goulburn, down through Tarago to Doughboy and back to the outskirts of Braidwood to get me to the rally site. that was 50km further than going directly through Bungonia turning just south of Nerriga and heading straight to Stewart’s Crossing Road. So I ignored its pleading to turn west and kept on southward.

I like the Nerriga road. It has some great scenery and some excellent riding. I passed a group of push bike riders struggling into the wind at Windellama (which I call Windy Llama because it is always windy there, and there are several alpaca farms in the area), turn towards the site of the Winter Rally and go on.

The tarmac turns to dirt which is quite corrugated in places. Lola wisely slows, as she has cracked guard struts on roads like this. We make the turn onto Stewart’s Crossing Road and the GPS, thoroughly miffed by being ignored all this way, cracks its mount and dangles precariously on its cable. I drape it over the remains of its mount, and push on the last couple of kilometres to the rally site.

It was only as I came to the river crossing that I recognised it at the home of the old Wombat Rally. The Shoalhaven river is flowing across the concrete causeway but only shallow, so I ease Lola across, raising a pair of waves about half a metre high from her front wheels.

There were many 4WD’s on the opposite side, and it took a while to spot the rally off to the right. The site is very different from my memory of it in the mid 80’s There is much more grass in the camp area, and a wire rope barrier separating the camp area from the bend in the river.

I set my tent up on a mound, preparing for the possibility of rain, and cooked my traditional tuna and noodles while the light lasted.

Then I took my traditional bottle of Stones over to the BMW camp to chat with some mates there. Paul, Tony and Cheryl, Anders, Dave, Scarfey of course and several others had stories of rides and roads and rallies that kept me entertained until the last of my Stones was gone and I slid happily into my sleeping bag.

I was woken about midnight by the sound of heavy rain on my tent. There were no trickles or splashes inside though, so I drifted back to sleep.

The next noise I heard was the sound of people packing. My watch said it was 6:30, but I know that only exists in fairy tales, so I lay and listened until my watch was prepared to behave more civilly.

While I had my traditional Vegemite toast and coffee for breakfast, the SCUM Tourers packed and left.

There was a stiff breeze and bright sunshine, and I decided to let them dry my tent before I packed it. I packed my gear inside and loaded it onto Lola, and talked with other rallyists taking a more leisurely approach to packing. I untangled the disgraced GPS from its broken mount and stowed it for later reproach.

By about 9 my tent was dry and, with no help at all from the breeze, I packed it into its bag and onto Lola’s rack.

I decided to take the long way home, the way that my GPS had wanted to bring me in. The dirt road south was no better than the road in, but it eventually gave way to tar seal, and Lola and I agreed that the sunshine made up for the headwind.

As we turned right just before Braidwood, I calculated that we would have to stop for fuel at Bungendore. I had hoped to catch up with my mate Pete there, but missed him.

Fuelled up, we turned north towards Tarago. This is a great ride. It starts with views of the giant wind turbine farm that was built to power the Sydney water desalination plant. Farms and forest fly past. The headwind that we beat into leaving the rally was now a tailwind, and I was surprised how quiet the ride had become. The wind noise on my helmet had been greatly reduced.

I stopped at the Loaded Dog hotel at Tarago for lunch. This is a favourite spot. Good food and friendly hosts bring a constant stream of riders to the pub along some great roads. I had a very tasty steak sandwich and an average tasting mid-strength beer (a new one from Carlton, Iron Jack), and headed back to the road.

As I approached Goulburn, I thought that I would turn east, go back through Windy Llama and stay off the highway for a few more kilometres, but the road was closed, so back to the highway we went.

The Hume isn’t too horrible here. It has some great scenic parts, and if the traffic is light it is fun to ride. But by Marulan I wanted to return to the back roads. I turned for Bundanoon. The road roughly follows the railway through farms and forests, passing through the small towns of Penrose and Wingello. I first spotted this road from the train on my way home after Connie, by lovely V1000 Guzzi, had failed to proceed. It has become a favourite when I am riding home from the south.

Bundanoon, Exeter, Sutton Forest then across the Hume to Berrima and up the old highway to Mittagong, all lovely scenic riding at an easy pace, but that easy pace was adding time to the ride and telling on my bony bum, so I returned to the Hume for a quicker run home.

Nothing apart from a fuel stop happened for a couple of hours, and I rolled Lola into the garage after a Capital start to the Rally year.

Return to the West (again)

Posted on May 24, 2017 by Pogo

Preramble

I’m not sure exactly when it dawned on me that the Ulysses Club AGM was on the week before the Numduc Rally, but once the idea had set in, I was going to do the Numduc.

It would be my first Numduc. I’ve done two Numbats previously. They are held in the even numbered years at Balkuling. The Numduc is held in odd numbered years at Dowerin.

When I did the Numbat last year with a couple of mates, I’d missed doing the Ruptured Budgie, and that was kinda special, so this year I lined the two up: Ruptured Budgie, then an easy ride across the northwest of NSW to Broken Hill, Port Augusta, Ceduna and on to the Nullarbor, on my own.

I like making plans. They seem so simple, so clear cut and obvious. I even add slack days to allow for mishaps on the way, and it all fits into one seamless flow. Tick, tick, tick.

Ramble

My run to the Ruptured was pretty straightforward. I had planned to choose when I got to Singleton up the back road (Mangrove Mountain, Wollombi, Broke, Singleton) whether to go up Thunderbolts Way or to take the New England to Uralla, my stop on the way.

Singleton was there because I had heard, and had no reason to doubt, that CSR, or some other heartless mining giant, had closed Wallaby Scrub road, so cutting off a nice back road run to Muswellbrook.

But as I left Broke and came to Charlton Road, there was no sign saying that the road to Warkworth was closed, so I turned. And when I got to Wallaby Scrub Road, there was no sign saying that the road was closed, so I turned, and had one more delightful run along Wallaby Scrub Road to Warkworth, on to Jerrys Plains and the Edderton Road to Muswellbrook.

From there it is a highway run to Uralla, improving as the coal mines slip away and the farms predominate.

A couple of years ago, I met a bloke on the way out of Tamworth who was going to the Ruptured. We became good mates on the ride. He helped me cope with Lola’s fractured rear guard strut, and I helped him find a bed in a full hotel.

On that trip, he bought a charger cable for his iPhone, and I charged his phone using Lola’s power socket while we rode. When we parted after the rally, I still had the charger cable in Lola’s tank bag. It was useless to me, but I hoped to catch up with him at a rally somewhere and return it to him. I thought about that as I rode up the New England into Uralla.

I paid for my room, at a good rate because I rode in, accepted the offer to move my bike inside the bottle-o later that evening and wondered who was riding the Lemans in the carpark.

In the bar, I met a friend from some years back, and was chatting with her when I heard someone call my name. It was Dave, the iPhone charger cable owner. We had a great time catching up, moved our bikes into the bottle-o when prompted, and retired, a little the worse for wear after a late night.

The morning was cool and very overcast. We had breakfast at “The Alternative Root” (yeah, I know, but they have good coffee) and returned to retrieve our bikes. I dressed for rain and gained some heat retention as a bonus. For added pleasure, a cold drizzle came and went. Not enough to rain, just enough to be wet and sticky and to slick the road.

Dave’s misadventure this time meant that he had come without a tent. Some searching with his phone found a tent at Armidale, so we set off to buy it. By pure luck, the store was not far off the road into town. We found it, made the trade, and returned to our ride with little fuss. Except that Dave had nowhere to tie the tent to on his bike, so we put into Tilly with my gear.

As we climbed Black Mountain, the temperature dropped two degrees. The rain dropped as before. We accepted humbly the “you must be brave to ride in this” comments and roundly denied being cold when asked at the now traditional servo stop in Glen Innes.

Lunch was at the Tenterfield Tavern, where a cheap steak and chips soaked up a beer for me, and we bought some supplies for the weekend. The run to the rally site was damp, but uneventful.

Huey must have been miffed by our bland acceptance of a wet ride, and turned up the drizzle to near rain while we set up out tents on wet grass. Dave gave me a hand to get started before putting his own tent up. Thanks mate.

We set to putting a dent in our stock of Coopers while chatting with our neighbours, then spread out to see who else was at the rally. I spotted a couple of other Spyders at the site. It turned out that I knew one rider and we spent some time discussing riding, modifying and servicing Spyders.

I tottered over to the Aigor camp, and chatted for a while with Tony and Mal while the sun set, and the drizzle continued. I was impressed by Tony’s Vango tent, and put one firmly on my next tent list. It is a two man, single pitch tent with a huge vestibule space which would be much more amenable than the huddle outside my three man tent for making coffee and stowing gear.

With the smell of Mal’s curry wafting around the camp, I set off to the food tent to buy something a bit more steak sandwich-ish. Thus fortified, and with the bar at hand, I settled into helping the club recoup its outlay while lounging in the lounges they had so thoughtfully moved under the cover at the bar.

I chatted with a mate from Brisbane about the non-appearance of some mutual friends about bikes and roads and riding in the rain. A bloke had arrived in a ute, his bike a mess after hitting a kangaroo about 30km from the rally.

On the way in, Lola’s left clearance light had popped up from the left front guard and surfed the breeze. At that time I remembered that it had done that on my way home from the Numduc last year. It was a little distracting, but I had simply popped it back into place. I thought that I would leave it loose, and (jokingly) claim the hard luck award for it at the rally. With the mangled bike and broken rider in mind, I decided not to.

The music was playing some classic rock and blues hits, well chosen as usual, and as darkness fell, I got up to dance. As usual, I was the only solo dancer. Women get up to dance together, men will sit and watch. While I was dancing, I met a woman who said that her name was Jolene. She was surprised when I told her that Jolene was the name that I gave to my beautiful red Kawasaki sidecar outfit.

Several beers and dances later, I wandered back to my tent and slept well until quite late.

Huey had given up. We were obviously not paying attention, and so he had turned off the drizzle. It was still cool, but with plenty of sunshine, I got the wet gear out from my tent and draped it on and about Lola to dry.

I went camp hopping, looking at the various ways that people provided shelter, and particularly the larger gazebo type structures. Some used these to provide shelter for the whole camp, putting a couple of tents under one with a dry space to keep bikes and gear. Others simply had an under cover outdoor space with chairs and a table under the cover. For a standing camp, these looked like a good option. Certainly easier that the traditional tarps on poles.

As I was heading back to the food stall for lunch, I was approached by a mate who asked if I would contribute to his wedding ceremony at the rally that afternoon by carrying the bride in from the front gate on Lola’s back seat so she could wear a wedding dress on a bike “with some dignity”. Of course I agreed.

I met up with Maughan and The Publican from the NSW Guzzi club, and talked for a while about where we had been since we last met at the rebooted Far Cairn Rally. I also caught up with Freddy Farkle from the same club, who I hadn’t seen in ages. It was good to see him still riding and enjoying it.

When the gymkhana started, I sat and talked with the long awaited Simon and Carol. They were heading to the Ulysses AGM at Wauchope. For some reason they had camped out near the gate instead of on the main campground. Anyway it was good to see them and talk with them.

After the gymkhana (funny, I don’t recall seeing the dunny roll race or the egg and spoon race), I went back to camp and unhitched Tilly from Lola. I couldn’t, in my haste, find the towball cover, and hoped that the bride would not get grease on her dress.

I took Lola out to the gate and waited for the bride, who was arriving fashionably late… While waiting, I made myself useful at the control tent and chatted with the blokes there. Sue finally arrived, and I worked out with her how she could sit side-saddle on Lola’s pillion seat and hold on for the ride. Photos were taken there, and on our arrival. They will probably appear on the MGCQ web site, and I will link them here.

With the bride safely delivered, Lola and I slunk away back to our camp. I grabbed a beer and went over to the aigor camp for some idle chat while waiting for the nuptials to complete. I caught up with Lawrence there, who was rather keen to have an aigor red run. There hasn’t been one for some time, though anyone could initiate one. The idea is quite simple. Find a nice pub on a nice road, ride there, drink their red wine shelf dry, sleep it off and then ride home. Maybe, if Princess Red reads this, she will be spurred into action and make one happen.

With the sun now set, I went to find dinner and a beer. After building my strength with a couple of steak sandwiches, I was seen dancing with a very interesting young woman who is studying some form of brain-ology (I’m sorry, but it has slipped away). We discussed at length the prospect of her taking on a Masters or even a PhD.

Facing a long ride tomorrow, I slipped away to bed and a very restful sleep.

The morning was low, grey and damp, and I feared that Huey had returned to trying to dampen my spirits. It failed to actually rain though.

A while back I was talking with a mate who owns a bike gear business about my Rossi riding boot. I had broken the spine of it when I ran over a kangaroo a long time ago. I’d truncated the toe standing on a hot iron fireplace surround some time before, and the sole was about worn out. Gee, it has only lasted 40 years…

He said that he had a sample, a white road boot with racing clips to close it. It had been on the shelf for ages. If I wanted it, I could have it. Free is a jolly good fellow, and I took him up on the deal.

But as I put my boot back on, I could feel that it was wet inside. And with a thick sock on, it was tight. Perhaps it would give while I rode.

I said goodbye to Dave who was going up to the Gold Coast, packed a wet tent into Tilly, reunited her with Lola, and rode out of camp.

I picked up fuel in Tenterfield and headed south to begin my run to the Numduc. The weather lifted as I rode, but my boot kept spoiling the ride. I couldn’t relax enjoy being on the road. I couldn’t put up with this all the way to Perth. I determined to stop in Armidale and have a look for a replacement. And so I did. But I didn’t know where the bike shops were, and it was after midday on Sunday, so most businesses were closed.

I looked up a mate who said that he had Monday off, and could show me where the shops were. We spent a quiet evening discussing riding and rallying, and rose at the crack of lunchtime to go boot shopping…

I found some very expensive boots that fit perfectly, but decided that I should look further. Many stores had limited sizes, though they were sure they could have a pair in my size in a week… I eventually found a pair of racing boots, you know with sliders on the toes, which I could buy for 25% off because I was only going to use one.

So back home for a proper quiet night so that I could get on my way one day late but in much more comfort.

Did I mention how much I like making plans? That last one drifted a bit, and I got away about 11, bound for Narrabri. Along the way I decided that it would be easier to head to Gunnedah. The weather was kind and I was making good time, but coming into Sunny Gunny, a surprise thunderstorm opened up.

I chose the Courthouse hotel rather than put up my tent in the rain. A good choice. I got a room for $40, the food was good and they offered to lock my bike in the shed overnight.

I actually made a good start in the morning, and located a cafe to start the day well with some Vegemite toast and coffee. Well fortified for the journey, I set off for Nyngan. The road flowed, the day practically sang. I stopped at Warren for lunch, which I ate in a park across from the servo on the way into town. Then a short hop to Nyngan and I was in plenty of time to christen my new pop up tent.

I chose a spot in the lee of some bushes so that if the breeze picked up overnight, I would be protected. A bloke came over as I was about to start. He was a rider, currently touring in a camper, though he often towed his and his wife’s BMWs behind it.

He warned me that there were burrs in the grass. He suggested that I look for a spot near the amenities block. That looked a bit too exposed, and so I took the risk and set up in my chosen spot. I only picked up two burrs in my hands…

Tuna and noodles for dinner and an early night to make an early start.

Perhaps I ought to stop saying that. I had a cold night. The inside of the tent was wet with condensation, and the outside wet with dew. I used my camp towel to dry it, and then spent half an hour drying the towel in the microwave. So away at 10:30 and finally some outback scenery.

This was what I had come for. Long straights that disappeared into a notch on the horizon. My first goosebumps for the ride. I made Cobar in regulation time, sitting behind a B double for protection from wildlife and a guide to the road ahead. With few hills, he barely slowed from 100 km/h.

I stopped for lunch and to pick up some fuel. I had intended to go to the BP, but the queue wasn’t moving…

Back on the road for the push to Wilcannia…

Wilcannia has always struck me as a desperately sad place. It seemed to me that the people that I met there were stuck there. So I had never stayed there. But for this trip I decided that I would stop there, and part of the
drive for doing 400km days was to see things that I had always ridden past. I was heading for Victory Point Caravan Park, on the east bank of the Darling and just out of town.

I was riding west into a setting sun. It would be a race to get there in time to get my tent up with some daylight. But riding faster wouldn’t help much, and would increase the risk of not getting there at all. At one point, this came to me:

There are diamonds on the highway
The sun is getting low
There are ‘roos beside the road
And I have 80 kays to go.

I like seeing diamonds on the highway. I first saw them on my first trip to Tasmania and was struck by the simple beauty. They don’t occur often. The road builders have to use the right type of gravel, and the sun has to strike it at the right angle, but the effect is amazing.

I spotted the turnoff to the caravan park just as I was approaching the bridge across the Darling. I stopped at the caretaker’s place and was greeted by two serious guard dogs. The caretaker was friendly and helpful, though. He suggested a good place for my tent with grass and close to the amenities.

His suggestion was perfect, and I got my tent up just before sunset. I wandered over to see the mighty Darling, and had a brief chat with a small group sitting at a fire who invited me to join them.

After dinner and a shower, I took up their invitation. They were a couple of mates from Victoria, touring with their wives in caravans. One owned a Boom trike and we talked at length about differences in handling and performance, about roads ridden and yet to be tried. It emerged that he felt the same drive as I do to ride distance. Not racing, not setting records, just riding as far as possible for the pleasure of it. I had met a soul mate.

Reasonably early to bed after one last look at a near perfect black sky studded with stars.

It was a cold night, and I spent many hours lying still waiting for sleep to overcome me.

In the morning I woke to a beautiful sunrise. I packed as quickly as I could, I waved off my friends and returned to the highway. There was no premium fuel, but I had enough 98 in the tank to lift the 91 to about 94, I calculated, and that would do.

The supermarket across the road still struggled to display its window posters through the bars on the windows, but I felt better about the town than I had.

On the run into Broken Hill, I saw the first goats of the ride. Goats are ok, they usually walk away from the road, unlike their dumb cousins who will take it into their tiny mind to cross the road just as a vehicle is approaching.

I filled with premium at Broken Hill and pushed west. I had passed through Cockburn a number of times, and this time I determined that I would stop there for lunch.

The Border Gate truck stop actually straddles the border between NSW and SA. Inside, you can have a drink in NSW, and relieve yourself of it in SA.

When I passed this way (in the other direction) last year, I was smitten by the display of green foliage against red soil. It had been raining, and the colours glowed. I saw little patches that raised the same feeling, but for the most part it was goats, sheep and the occasional kangaroo that attracted my attention.

As Olary came up, I slowed to look at the camp ground across the road from the pub. It was green and fairly empty. Recalling the words of the publican at Yunta, I thought that I could stay there one time, but I should bring food and drink in case the pub was closed.

There are several ranges of interesting looking hills in this area. Interesting looking hills have interesting geology, and that eventually brings miners. They must have left disappointed though, because between the interesting hills are wide paddocks, not open cuts.

Yunta was my next stop, for fuel. It seemed to be the same as last year, a pub, a servo and not much else.

The road south has many signs advertising the attractions of Peterborough, but the distance signs point to Terowie. I had the nagging thought that I had missed the turn, or misremembered the route.

I found the turn ok. The signs advertising the motorcycle museum, the railway museum, and several hotels increased in density.

When I reached the town, I went looking for the free camp that my new friends at Wilcannia had told me about. I found it on the way out of town. Half full of campervans and caravans, and not that inviting for a tent site.

I turned back into town and followed the signs to the caravan park. What a gem! A grassed tent site with a light and a tap nearby, good amenities and a pleasant view across a wide field.

There was rain forecast for the night, so I added a tarp over my tent to keep it dry, and hoped that it would make it warmer. That half worked. The tent got very wet on the inside from condensation, but the outside was mostly dry.

The morning began with a golden sunrise. Huey was playing his distraction game. On the other side of the sky, dark clouds loomed. I got Lola and Tilly packed dry, but discovered that there had been water in the boot that had soaked the piece of carpet that I use as a boot mat. With no way to dry it, I wiped the boot dry and left the soggy carpet in the bin.

It was cold and showery as I headed out through Orroroo and Horrocks Pass to Port Augusta. I like Orroroo, and had wanted to stay there, but holding to short days for this ride made it just 40km too far. Next time…

I like the ride north out of Orroroo. After some nice bends, there are some amazing long straights with wide views across fertile fields to distant hills before the road gets to Wilmington.

A few years back, I was riding through Wilmington on Jolene on my way back from the 30th Anniversary Worlds End Rally at Quorn. About 10km south of the town, Jolene cut out and would not start. The AAA picked me up and took us to see a bike mechanic in Wilmington. He agreed to try to fix the problem (on a Sunday) and did so in a couple of hours for a small sum. So despite the servo not having any premium fuel, I like Wilmington.

I also like it because just out of town is Horrocks Pass.The road has history, some lovely stonework, a lookout and monument to John Horrocks, some great bends and some great views.

On this day, it also had a rather slow four wheel drive which nonetheless caught up with an even slower campervan, and so I sat back and enjoyed the scenery in the pass rather than any challenge in the ride.

Coming out of the pass, you see the Spencer Gulf laid out in front of you. Even with the crass industrial hardware splashed across it, it is a great view.

I turned for Port Augusta, a town which seems to exist only because whatever industry remains here requires people. I picked up fuel and headed out the other side of town. In little time, the road is dwarfed by the scenery, apart from a few intrusions such as a huge ramp to cross the railway, and some artistically graffiti-ed concrete tanks.

The start of the Eyre is easily missed if you are still thinking about the tanks, but once taken, a pseudo-Nullarbor begins. The road heads west past Iron Knob, a town at the base of massive mountain of iron that is still being mined.

It was nearly a ghost town when the mine closed a few years back, but the mine has reopened and continues to export high quality iron ore.

After the harshness around Iron Knob, the fields begin to roll and Kimba, the town half way across Australia is the next major stop.

I stopped in Kimba for lunch. It was closed.

I got a pie at the Big Galah (which is for sale) and pushed on towards Wudinna.

Wudinna, specifically the Gawler Ranges Caravan Park, had been a stop on each of my crossings. Sometimes, as on the first crossing because the weather was horrible, sometimes, as in several subsequent crossings, because I like the lamb pot pie they serve in the restaurant, but also because it is at a point where a break is needed.

This day the weather could not make up its mind.There was sunshine, showers of rain and gusty wind in various combinations. I had hoped to save a dollar by camping, but Huey turned on a downpour and I took a cabin.

The ownership has changed, and this night the restaurant was having an ‘all you can eat’ smorgasbord for $25. I would eat about $2.50 from that, so I spread my gear to dry inside the cabin, put my washing on, and had tuna and noodles while Huey kept up his mix and match weather.

Next morning, Huey continued to help me justify the money I had spent on the cabin by raining while I packed Lola and Tilly. I put my mostly dry riding gear on and headed west with Nullarbor on my mind.

With the price of a cabin for the night on my mind, I detoured into the Wudinna town centre and noted that the pub offered accommodation.

The road was wet, but not as wet as on my return from the west last year. This time there were no kilometre long puddles in the wheel ruts. I rode past the various granite outcrops and promised myself that I would come back to see them properly one day.

Huey eventually tired of his game, perhaps the effort of turning the weather on and off became too much. He left the wind on, and that cleared the clouds and dried the road, so that by the time I reached Ceduna it was a fine sunny (if windy) day.

At Ceduna, you turn right, it feels like turning west, but in fact the initial turn is north, and the position of the sun seems odd.

Last year I stopped at Penong to have a pie at the famous Penong Pie Shop, only to find that it had closed, and so I had a pie at the servo, which was a bit second rate. This year I found that the servo had been remodelled, the food was good and well presented. Not quite the panache of the Penong Pie Shop, but not such a come-down.

Some way out of town, I saw a Subaru ute pulled over to the side of the road, with a bloke under the front of it. I didn’t know what I could do to help, but I stopped to ask anyway.

The bloke said that it had begun wobbling. I suggested wheel bearings or a tie rod end, but, with the car on a gravel slope, it could not be lifted to check. I suggested that he drive on (carefully) to Nundroo roadhouse, where he could at least park on a concrete slab to lift the front.

He arrived at Nundroo just as I had finished filling Lola (with 91, they don’t have premium). While we talked, it emerged that he had recently replaced one of the CV joints, and that the boot that held the lubricant was torn. I said that I thought that he had identified the fault and its cause and suggested that he turn back to Ceduna to have the CV joint and boot replaced.

He was however determined to make Eucla, about 300km on.

I passed him on the side of the road short of Nullarbor, talking with another driver. I could smell hot oil, and thought that he would be stranded, but he said that he would wait for it to cool and then continue.

If it had seized, it would have thrown the car across the road, perhaps into an oncoming vehicle, but he would not stop.

I stopped at Nullarbor Roadhouse. I set up my tent in its traditional place behind the dongas out of the wind. I beat the four minute timer on the shower and came out clean, and got back to my tent in time to catch a beautiful Nullarbor sunset.

I was lying in my tent after dinner when I heard dingoes howling in the distance. It’s an eerie sound. Some time later, I heard one howling, quite close to the camp, and then I am sure that it was in the camp on the other side of the dongas.

In the morning I rose to a beautiful Nullarbor sunrise. While I was making breakfast, I got chatting with Jan who had an interesting looking camper trailer.

She had heard the dingoes too, and was excited that they had been so close.

Later we were talking with a couple who were playing the Nullarbor Links, an 18 hole golf course with a hole at different roadhouses and towns across the Nullarbor.

It turned out that Kath had been on the organising committee several years ago, and that this was her first opportunity to see what she had been part of.

My plan called for me to stop at Cocklebiddy that night. I had had a brief encounter with an unhelpful attendant there back in 2010, and wasn’t sure how it would be this time. I consoled myself that if it was actually unpleasant there, I could push on to Caiguna, just 70km further.

I got away a bit late, the penalty for being sociable, and headed for Eucla. It would be about lunch time according to my stomach when I arrived, though I would lose an hour and a half when I crossed the border.

The locals have for some time had a convention of using Central West Time, three quarters of an hour behind South Australia, and three quarters of an hour ahead of Western Standard Time. It kind of works, and I’m sure that it is good for them, but it is fiddly to change a digital clock by that amount, and it leads to there being four time zone changes when travelling across the country.

It seems to be sensible to me to move the time zone borders to the north-south (mainland) state borders, to have South Australia and the Northern Territory an hour behind the eastern states, and Western Australia a further hour behind that. Put a fiddle zone in around the borders for towns that do most of their business across the border, and have just three time zones.

I like the run west from Nullarbor. It is tantalisingly close to the ocean. Sometimes there are hints of cliff tops, and there are several signs pointing to scenic lookouts. The ‘edge of Australia’ feeling is inspiring. 70 metres down to the Great Australian Bight, and 3000km to the cliffs on the opposite side of the country. But this time I rode past.

About 30km short of Eucla are a couple of parking areas with great views. I swung into one and remembered it from my first crossing. There were several piles of stones marking nothing obvious. The cliffs here give way to steep slopes down to the ocean. The white sand on the bottom makes the water look tropical.

I was expecting to see the bloke with the Subaru at the garage in Eucla, but he wasn’t there when I rolled in. I parked Lola and went to the cafe for lunch, and sat enjoying the warm sunshine outside. I recalled that it was quite cool when I stopped here last year, and that I had to caution my companions on that ride to not take the “extra” two hours to mean that they should ride for two more hours.

I stopped at the start of the Eucla pass to take a photo showing the colour of the ocean beyond the plain below, and pushed on to the straight.

This is an amazing place. I like the feel of riding along the ocean floor from 30000 years ago with the cliffs to the north being the shore.

As I passed Mundrabilla, I saw something unexpected. An eagle on a carcass beside the road. I had thought when I first saw it that it was a kangaroo carcass with one leg in the air. I knew that there was no point trying to get a photo. By the time that I had stopped, turned back, stopped again and got my camera out, the eagle would be a single black pixel among the blue.

It is unusual in my experience to see an eagle that far east, and I wondered if conditions further west had changed to force them east, or if they had just spread. That thought deepened when I saw a further two eagles in the next ten kilometres.

I filled Lola’s tank at Madura station, the most expensive fill so far and braced myself for the ordeal of Cocklebiddy.

There are some great views from the top of the hill above Madura, and the scenery changes dramatically. Up here the wind dominates, vegetation is low. Down in the pass it is sheltered and tall (for the region) trees grow.

At one point an oncoming car flashed his lights and waved me to slow. I did so, and just around the next bend saw two sheep grazing on the other side of the road. I passed the warning on the the next few vehicles that I saw.

I found myself racing the sun, wanting there to be enough light for me to go on to Caiguna. As I arrived at Cocklebiddy, I could see that the end of that mad dash would be after sunset.

My greeting there was warm and friendly. They had a grassed tent site (most unexpected) and I was given two shower tokens in case I took a little longer than the norm.

I just got my tent up before a beautiful sunset.

The attendant was right about the shower. I used about a minute of the second token, and was glad that I had it to use.

Back at my tent, I was a bit puzzled as to where my torch was. I carry a dynamo torch so that I can always have light and never have to replace batteries. I hadn’t put it in its usual place inside my tent, and I couldn’t see it in Lola’s tank bag. It was getting late, I would look in my clothes bag when I packed in the morning.

I had eaten the last of my tuna and noodles at Nullarbor, so tonight I would eat in the restaurant at Cocklebiddy. The prices were reasonable, considering the location, and while not Haute Cuisine, the menu was varied and appetising. I chose the budget conscious bangers and mash, and was served a huge plateful. Not wanting to waste food that had been trucked in, I ate and ate and ate.

A couple at the next table invited me to join them. We talked first about a friend of theirs who had lost a leg in a pushbike accident, then about our trips and things to see on the road.

I walked back to my tent under a velvet black sky strewn with stars.

The sunrise next morning wasn’t as good as some, and so I let it pass unphotographed. A woman who was camped with her partner nearby came to help me fold the tarp that I had over my tent, and that sped the packing process a little, but it was well after nine when I handed in my amenities key and mounted up to head to Caiguna for fuel.

As I was late, I let the idea of visiting the Caiguna blowhole pass, but put it on my list for the return ride. I checked the time as I started onto the Ninety Mile Straight, and was surprised to find myself destination driven, working out how long it would take to get to Balladonia. That kinda rankled for the rest of that ride. I wasn’t as involved as I had been, or wanted to be, in the slow dance of the scenery and found myself counting down the distance to the end of the straight at each milepost.

At Balladonia I was interested to see a desert racer from Bruce Rock on a trailer when I arrived, it was gone when I came back after lunch, but I learned that the Finke Desert Race was on the coming weekend and it was likely that it was heading there.

While the Ninety Mile Straight is quite long, it is surprising that the road continues in long straights with a single bend between them for quite some distance after it. I wondered while I was riding why the roadmaker didn’t simply continue, making the 150 Mile straight.

Eventually the road begins to sway through some low hills as it approaches Norseman. The low desert plants are slowly replaced by trees, and the trees are taller where the hills get more rain.

I reached Norseman reasonably early in the afternoon so that I could do some shopping, for tuna and noodles at least. I had stayed in the caravan park here on my first crossing, but was unsure of its location, so I walked up to the tourist information centre to ask.

As I passed several children in the skate park, I was pleasantly surprised that they said hello instead of ignoring me.

I got directions to the park and found it easily, The directions that I got from the office at the park to the camping area were a little vague, but I saw a couple setting up a camper in a cleared (but very sandy) area and set up my tent beside them.

As I walked across to check out the camp kitchen, I saw on the other side of the camper a cleared area with patches of shadecloth on the ground, and recalled that that was where I had set up my tent previously. Oh well. It could stay where it was for one night.

My first task in camp that night was to get my washing done. While I was digging in my clothes bag, I looked again for my torch, again without result, and began to be concerned that I might have left it back at Nullarbor roadhouse.

While I was waiting for my load to finish, a woman came in to the laundry to retrieve her load from the dryer. She helpfully told me that the dryer she had used was much faster that the other. I appreciated the tip.

A couple of people stopped to chat on my way back to my tent, saying that they had seen me on the road, asking where I was heading and commenting that we had been leapfrogging each other on the way. I liked having that connection with other travellers.

At the servo the next morning, I had a weird conversation with an attendant who had obviously mistaken me for someone else. She asked about where I had been to and how I had overcome some minor failure, and my answers just seemed weirdly out of place. In the end she wished me a safe journey without further mishap, and I wondered how I could have fallen into the conversation in the first place.

I had picked my next overnight stop, Merredin, from the map on the basis that it was about 400km from Norseman, and that I hadn’t stopped there before. I headed north for Coolgardie where I would get fuel.

It is a pleasantly forested ride through some interesting scenery, beginning with a causeway across Lake Cowan, a large red mud lake just to the north of town.

On my last crossing, we were heading to Coolgardie to camp for the night, and got to the outskirts of town just on sunset. Today I arrived mid-morning and rolled down the wide main street between some beautiful 19th century buildings to the servo across the road from the caravan park where we had stayed.

From here the highway runs westward following the water pipeline that supplies Kalgoorlie as well as the other towns along the way. I had a line “westward, ever westward, till the ocean meets the sky” in my head for some time. The westward bit is from Henry Wells, a founder of Wells Fargo, I don’t know where the ocean bit came from, though there is a book with a similar title, and the thought seemed appropriate.

I caught up with a (very) wide load. It tool up half of the oncoming lane, and all of the shoulder on my side. At first, it looked to me that the pilot vehicle was being hard towed behind the load, it was that close. I’m sure that the driver could see nothing ahead of the load, and that the truck driver could not see his pilot. I guess that they communicated by radio, but it seems odd to follow so close. In any case, I had to wait for an opportunity to pass.

I remembered seeing a couple of similar loads approaching us on my last crossing. I pulled over when I saw how big the load was, but for a while I thought that my companions would try to ride past it.

This time I waited for quite a while until the road widened to three lanes, and I could see well ahead past the load, and passed easily, but we did spend some time on the wrong side of the road travelling well above the speed limit.

Now in front of the load, I was surprised that there was no lead pilot vehicle. I got about a kilometre ahead of the load before I caught up with the pilot. I saw some large trucks pulling to the side, and figured that they might need that much distance to find a suitable place to stop.

I was beginning to feel hungry and thought about where to stop. Yellowdine came up, but was little more than a servo. I remembered stopping in a cafe a few years before, but couldn’t recall the name of the town. The next one signposted was Southern Cross, and I would have to stop there for fuel, so I thought I would have a look around there.

When I saw the Caltex servo, I remembered stopping there last year. George had taken a photo of the bikes to send to some friends. This time I filled up across the road, and left myself an awkward turn around a road island to get into town.

However, once I found the main street, I recognised the cafe that I had had in mind, and stopped there. The owner of the cafe was interested in Lola. He knew of a couple of people who had ridden them, and one disabled person who was interested in buying one, and wanted to know how easy they were to modify, so I showed him Lola’s hand brake, and we talked about the differences between different models and which might be best for his disabled mate. It was a nice connection.

As I rode out of town, I remembered that we had stopped in Merredin last year for lunch. We had by luck stopped outside a Jaycar reseller, and George was able to buy a cable there to charge his phone.

By now I was convinced that I had left my torch back at Nullarbor, and thought that I would try to buy a replacement at the Jaycar in Merredin. I found the store fairly easily, and spent some time deciding between two torches with different features for the same price.

With that problem solved, I next went to the IGA to buy some needle and thread to make some repairs. One loop on my Airhawk seat was torn, so that it could not be used to secure it to Lola’s seat. On Lola’s tank bag, a strip of Velcro that held the bag to the frame was separating from its strap and would not allow the strap to be properly secured.

So with needle and thread (and needle threader and thimble), I sat in the sunshine in a park in Merriden and made my repairs. I probably won’t win any awards for my petit point, but both repairs held when I put them to the test, and I was pleased to have solved two problems in one day.

I rode into the caravan park and enquired about a tent site. It was (quite) a bit more expensive than I had become used to paying, but I didn’t have an alternative. The site was, like the site at Norseman, sand with shadecloth patches. I got my tent up and headed to the amenities for a shower before dinner.

I don’t know why there isn’t a seat in most shower stalls. While I have a disability that makes this lack particularly inconvenient (having one leg missing means that I have to sit on a wet floor to put my pants on), I’m sure that every user would find it more convenient to be able to sit while undressing and dressing. But it rankled even more having paid much more than I had expected for the campsite that the showers here had this deficiency.

I headed to the camp kitchen to cook my dinner and was surprised to find six or so people inside. It felt like I had intruded on a local dinner party. I returned to my tent and cooked my tuna and noodles there. Half an hour later the kitchen was in darkness and I was able to sit warmth and comfort to update my blog.

I had deliberately planned for the next day to short so that I could get my washing done and buy some supplies before heading to the rally. We did a similar thing when we stopped at Northam last year. It is a pleasant park, lots of grass and trees, and I recalled having several friendly conversations with people staying in the park then.

I very nearly missed the turnoff. It is signposted as though it is separate from the exit to a road train assembly area, but they are in fact the same turn.

I paid too much again, I thought, for a tent site but again I hadn’t planned an alternative, and at least the site here was grassed. The park was surprisingly empty though. I didn’t see anyone walking around, and when it came time to cook dinner, I had the camp kitchen to myself.

Back in my tent after dinner, I was experimenting with my new torch. I found it surprisingly hard to use the dynamo, I guessed because the battery was so flat that it drew a lot of current to charge. I figured out how to tune the radio, and then tried the torch itself.

I went looking for the sewing gear that I had bought the day before, and had dropped into my tank bag. I wanted to move it to a pouch on my clothes bag. There it would still be accessible, but not in the way of finding the things that I use frequently.

Looking for a reel of black cotton inside a black bag by torchlight takes a bit of effort, and while moving things aside to find the reel of cotton, I found my original dynamo torch, way down deep inside the tank bag…

When we were packing up to leave here last year, my tent was very wet from dew. I had used my towel to dry my tent, and then used the microwave oven in the camp kitchen to dry my towel.

When I woke and looked outside, the park was shrouded in mist. I like the effect. It softens edges and colours and it seems quieter. It hadn’t wet my tent as much as I expected and I was able to pack up fairly dry.

I had intended to use the laundry at the park to wash my clothes so I would have a clean set to start the rally. I thought that the price to use the machines was too high though, and used my phone to locate a laundrette in Northam.

I rode into town looking carefully for the laundrette. I also needed to find an ATM to get some cash, and to buy some beer to take with me, on the premise that the pub in a small country town where the rally was being held would be likely to run out of beer early.

I found it very hard to see the street numbers, and so I parked Lola and walked. I discovered two things: Northam seems to have a ‘no street numbers’ policy, or at least to not encourage businesses to display a street number, and the ad for the laundrette that I had found had the wrong address for it.

So I rode back up town to the laundrette and took my washing bag inside. The attendant was friendly and helpful and I loaded a machine, then found that these were even more expensive than those back at the caravan park. Well, I had made my bed, I would have to lie in it. I paid the price and got my washing clean and dry in a little over an hour, and resolved to try to be less hasty over matters involving a dollar or two.

As I left, the manager saw t

Lola and commented on her. I told him that I owned her, and we had an interested discussion on what she was like to ride, how much she cost whether she was reliable and easy to service. He was so keen that I thought he was on the verge of making me an offer for her.

I located an ATM and filled my wallet, then found a bottle shop just up the road from where I was parked and rode there to buy my supplies.

I checked my map and it seemed to me that I could simply ride back out of town the way that I had come in, cross the highway and continue to Dowerin. When I got to the highway however, there was no road on the opposite side. I turned one way where it seemed that road might once have come out, but found nothing. I turned back and rode a kilometre or so to the other side of the intersection and did not find a road, and so I turned on my GPS and got it to plot a route for me.

It took me back into Northam and then out through the houses. I was beginning to think that I had entered the wrong town when I saw that the road I was on passed under the highway. I had probably passed over it without seeing.

This is wheat country. The crops have long been harvested, so the fields are broad and brown and roll over the hills in every direction. Beautiful riding. I had just 70km to go to Dowerin, and almost regretted arriving.

It was by now lunch time, so I turned into the main street to look for lunch. The hotel seemed most likely. While I had my fish and chips, I talked with the barman who told me that quite a few riders had already been through and picked up their supplies on the way, so that I felt that I had been wise to buy mine when I did. He also told me that the rally was just a few kilometres down the road, and so I was pleased that I had chosen to come to this end.

In just a few minutes I located the entry to the rally and rolled down the farm road to the check-in tent which was not manned. The site was large, divided into two by a wall of tyres, and those two halves were further divided by hedges so that it was difficult to see how many people were already here.

I noted where the Moto Guzzi Club had set up, and then found a sheltered area to put up my tent, not far from what appeared to be a pizza oven. That was different.

After putting up my pop-up tent for the past ten days, it took me a surprisingly long time to put up my usual rally tent. It was much more comfortable inside though.

I had noted at the past two Numbat rallies that several people had spud guns, and so I had made one to bring to this rally. Now that I had set up camp, I pulled it out to fire. I loaded a tennis ball into the barrel, charged the chamber with butane, aimed the barrel high over an open area and pushed the firing button. Click… Click… Clickclickclickclickclick… Damn.

I cleared the chamber and recharged it. Foom! The ball was launched a good hundred metres. That was very rewarding.

I was to meet two people at this rally. My good friend Vikki, who had put me up on the two occasions previously when I cad crossed to attend the Numbat Rally, and Mick Harris, whose wife Debra had said that she would put me up this time.

Now Debra is a Guzzi rider whom I knew from the aigor list, and so I expected to meet Mick at the Moto Guzzi camp, but we had never met, and I had no idea what he looked like. I went to the Guzzi camp, and found Simon, who I know from the aigor list. We talked for some time about my ride across and other things, but I never thought to ask if Mick was there.

I’d had a message from Vikki saying that she would be at the rally about 4, and with that time approaching, I took a beer for a walk to the gate to wait for her. Along the way, I started to see that there were indeed quite a few people already there, perhaps a hundred. By half past four, Vikki had updated her arrival time to about five thirty.

I walked back to my camp and launched a tennis ball out into the paddock, then spent some time talking with a bloke who had a metal spud gun (mine is plastic), that he fuelled from an LPG cylinder. There were clearly many ways to solve the same problem.

When Vikki arrived we spent a long time walking and talking. The sun set and getting dinner became important. The thing that looked like a pizza oven was indeed a pizza oven, but there were no pizzas being made in it. The food at the Blackwattle Catering stand was tasty and filling.

After dinner we went fire-walking and followed the sound of a guitar and some spirited singing. The guitar player was Hagrid, not the Harry Potter one, and the singing was produced by a group of enthusiastic amateurs. We caught their enthusiasm for a few songs then continued our lap.

We became separated during the evening, and I wandered back to Hagrid’s fire where I sat and drank my bottle of Stones and talked until the east began to glow. I slipped into my tent and slept soundly until about 10.

I started my day with a coffee as the campground began to fill. I saw Mon setting up with the WA Z Owners. We had had a great talk at the Numbat a few years ago about her PhD and research in general.

I wandered over to the Guzzi camp and was introduced to Mick, who I would be staying with after the rally.

There were lots more tents in lots more places, and so I began another lap. I spotted the three wheeled bike that I had seen last year. It had lost a wheel to become a rear wheel steered bike. I was told that it was tricky to ride.

There was also a two engined bike that relied on the CVT in each drive to keep the wheels in sync. Some people just can’t help turning silly ideas into real things.

I followed the wall of tyres, trying to figure out how many tyres it contained. I gave up. At occasional gaps, where usually a road would cross the wall, an old vehicle had been placed to close the gap. It was an ingenious reuse of an otherwise wasted resource.

The day ended with a beautiful sunset. I spent some time watching it slowly deepen then fade away.

Fire walking that evening, I found a hollow log, standing on end and blazing spectacularly.

I was drawn to the fire in the middle of a banked circular track where some bikes had been lapping earlier in the day. Someone had a blue LED pointer and was pointing out something in the fire. The something was hissing and flaring like a Stones bomb, but was much bigger.

I stood to watch, camera at the ready. A Stones bomb went off at the camp of the silly ideas.

I was talking with the director of the pointer when the object of its direction went off with a massive boom and a tower of flame. I missed the shot…

Sunday is gymkhana day. I rose at a civilised hour and was surprised at the number of extra camps that had sprung up. As the site is quite large, my previous laps had skipped the more distant regions, but with more to see, I took up the challenge.

The two sides of the great wall of tyres had been labelled Zone 1 and Zone 2, but these had grown appendices…

I found a camp with a pneumatic spud gun. It was pressurised by a 12V compressor and fired by a solenoid valve. Its range was impressive and it was very reliable: never a misfire.

The source of the wrecked vehicles that had been used to fill the gaps in the wall was a quite surprising line of wrecks. At the top of the hill, waiting the deluge, was a boat which had been appropriated as a billboard for one of the clubs attending.

Over near the far fence I found a motorised platform, like a Segway but not self balancing, being demonstrated to a small audience. After hearing that most test riders went over the handlebars and face-planted when stopping quickly, I declined a test ride.

I’ve been interested in a camper trailer for a while, and looked at many variations on the theme. This one tickled my sense of the inventive. A ute canopy mounted on a box trailer.

These two lovely bikes show what works of art were daily rides thirty or more years ago.

As the gymkhana got under way, I returned to the main arena. This oversized helmet was apparently made from concrete and weighed “a ton”.

The pink jump suit did little to help the poor postie bike underneath it in the slalom.

I was called out to receive my award for riding the longest distance to the rally, 4381km.

I had heard that there was another rider who had ridden from Coffs Harbour, and I wanted to find him and compare notes, but he had not been seen since checking in.

The afternoon drifted into quiet celebration. This hat is typical of the spirit

as is this T shirt.

I wondered if this bed was left behind after a rally, or provided as a rest stop for a disoriented rallyist.

Way too late in the evening, over near the pizza oven, a Stones bomb fizzled in the fire, while its audience fizzled on a nearby lounge.