asked, “where’s my beer?”
The bewildered campers said noth-
ing, handed him a beer and watched
him pour it into his mouth. The si-
lence continued as he looked around,
then asked, “where are all the other
bikes?”
The group laughed, pointing out
he was at the wrong camp and still
had about 30 kilometres to go. He
climbed back on his bike, and the
group watched the small red taillight
disappear into the inky black desert.
With a belly full of bacon and
chicken wings I climbed into my tent,
the sound of dingos shuffling around
the tent was no concern, their growls
and mating howls echoed through
the surrounding dunes.
“Hey Leigh,” a voiced giggled from
nearby. “Are you alright? What’s that
noise? What are you doing in your
tent?”
I didn’t have to answer, Willy and
I both giggled like school kids before
drifted into a deep sleep.
The morning sun revealed the
beauty of our camp. Cockatoos and
Galahs squawked as they flew from
tree to tree in massive clouds of
white and pink. Dingos in the near
distance kept a watchful eye, hoping
the motorcyclists would drop some-
thing they could scavenge. It was a
stunning scene, setting up a day that
would see the toughest travelling for
support vehicles and possibly the
easiest for the riders. Then we were
called aside …
Clay Marks, organiser of the
Frontline Safari, had been speak-
ing in hushed tones with his fellow
organising riders and team leaders.
Something had been afoot and now
we were being drawn in.
“Guys,” Clay looked down, he was
clearly disappointed. “We’ve made a
decision, we’re not going to return to
Birdsville via the Simpson.”
Willy and I looked at each other,
we’d assumed that this would be com-
ing, yet couldn’t believe what we were
hearing.
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