floated about in their basket , doing nothing , and preventing forward motion which ended up being a simple , no tools repair , taking around five minutes . In hindsight , I could have done this by the side of the track this morning when the bike stopped , but I would have missed out on hearing Dark Side of the Moon repeatedly .
Pleased , I set up my tent , cooked my dinner and sat by a roaring fire , made in an ancient fireplace set in the wall of a decaying hundred-yearold building .
Next morning , I packed ready to leave , and everyone pleased that I had managed to fix my bike , except me , because the bloody thing wouldn ’ t start . I kicked and kicked and kicked , but nothing . I checked for spark and compression , plenty , no odd mechanical noises , plenty of fuel .
Exasperated , I removed the air cleaner to check for obstructions , and found it was full of petrol . When the bike was laying on its side for the clutch repair , the fuel tank had overflowed into the airbox , soaking the air filter , and rendering it useless . I emptied the fuel from the airbox and wrung the excess fuel from the element . The bike started straight away , I was glad it didn ’ t backfire and cause an explosion .
It was a wet day ; it had rained overnight and was still raining heavily on this morning . The tracks were sodden and greasy and bog holes were so big as to be unavoidable and had to be traversed by walking the bikes through . We all ended up thoroughly soaked , and despite my new riding gear I was no longer a dry rider .
Balladonia Roadhouse on the Eyre Highway thankfully came into view , and I booked myself a donger with a heater to dry out my sodden outfit . Balladonia is a long way from anywhere , and is famous for being the crash landing site for Skylab , the space laboratory which returned to earth in the 1970s . NASA officials scoured the outback along with souvenir hunters competing for a piece of the ill-fated spaceship . The roadhouse has a museum dedicated to this , with several artefacts on display . Mostly fake .
The next day was a drone down the bitumen of the Eyre Highway , at eighty kilometres an hour , the bike screaming at top speed and the road heartbreakingly straight and flat and seemingly unending . The town of Norseman was a welcome sight , the first mobile phone reception since Port Augusta , and the first proper coffee .
We followed back roads to end up at Wave Rock , where we stayed overnight in luxurious cabins . Next morning , after the obligatory surfing poses on the rock face , we set out for our final destination , Perth .
Highways and country towns , a stark contrast to the wilderness we
had experienced in the past few days , and Perth , the big city . A group of filthy postie bikes and their ragged riders arrived at Kings Park in the late afternoon . I tried to celebrate with a cigar that I had brought along for the trip , in anticipation of my success , but the cigar had dried up and it crumbled in my hands as I tried to light it . It didn ’ t matter . I ’ d had made it and I had survived . MG
TRAVERSE 44