First stop ; Glendambo , a small town of two petrol stations , a pub , and a motel , where the Stuart Highway crosses the Indian Pacific railway line . Uneventful so far , I filled my tanks and jerry cans at the service station and settled in for the night .
Over dinner and a few beers at the pub I met the rest of the crew , the next few days progress loosely discussed . The immediate plan was for a pre-dawn departure , to a point not far along the railway track , to watch the sunrise . So , a 5:30am start .
Five o ’ clock and my alarm drags me from slumber and into the last shower for few days .
Suited up I ventured outside to discover my bike in a pool of fuel . I ’ d left the fuel taps on and the auxiliary tank had drained back into the bike ’ s standard tank and overflowed . The service station didn ’ t open until six . I made a mental note , turn the auxiliary tank off and only fire it up when the main tank ran dry .
The auxiliary tank was filled from one of the jerry cans before I set off to join the group , frustrated that this journey had started ominously , I worried about making the next fuel stop when already fifteen litres down .
It was pitch dark , a darkness you only find in the outback on a moonless night . A brace of feeble headlights did their best to illuminate the dusty road to Kingoonya ; I however , had anticipated the situation and fitted the driving lights . They turned out to be completely useless in the maelstrom of dust kicked up by the thirty odd postie bikes screaming through the predawn darkness . Thankfully , we soon stopped at a small hill and watched as the sun rose above a vast plain punctuated by the occasional tree and not much else .
Kingoonya turned out to be a collection of abandoned sheds , probably once important , now a rusting pile of scrap .
The road from Kingoonya headed south towards Lake Gairdner , home of the annual Speed Trials . Top speed on the postie bike was eighty kilometres per hour , ninety if you tucked behind a truck and got into the slipstream . But we weren ’ t heading that way , we were heading west along the track that follows the railway line , all the while questioning the legality of travelling this hardly used track .
Legality was the least of my worries , deep sand was my problem . I hated the sand and struggled every moment of the three hundred or so kilometres as we followed the railway line . Sand is not so daunting when you are riding a bike with plenty of power and big wheels , but on a 110cc bike with barely five horsepower , loaded to the hilt with gear and a fat old bloke , it ’ s a herculean challenge just to make any progress .
More experienced riders were
TRAVERSE 38