people once upon a time , having started life in the 1870 ’ s as little more than a hole in the ground ( literally , a well was sunk here ) where the train gauges switched from narrow to standard . However , a lingering drought turned dreams to dust , with the school and post-office closing down in quick succession , then the store , with the final resident leaving in the 1980s . Little relics of a bygone age still exist , such as chimney stacks , old engines and a bathtub left open to the elements ripe for exhibitionists , dirt , or dirty exhibitionists . As we departed , half a dozen bikers on featherlight scramblers pealed from the dust , like extras from Beyond Thunderdome . If we didn ’ t feel far from home already , a sign related ‘ remote area ahead ’, that is , you break down out here , you ’ re on your own , sweet cheeks .
It started fairly easy going though , and I was thankful that Justin and Steve gave me some tips from the Jeremy Clarkson school of motoring : powerrrrr !!!! However , I soon realised this might be trickier than anticipated as the hard gravel track was a rutted mess of a thing . Even the corrugations had corrugations ! There is a theory that you can overcome the constant bumps if you go fast enough , which seemed true , but to reach that velocity involves some proper rollercoaster jolts . Eventually making it , I felt I had to keep up the untarnished speed , never wavering , because slowing down meant bucking all over the shop .
My fellow travellers told me to keep pressing on , keep the steering as straight as I could , and eventually the motorcycle will forge ahead , finding balance if I had faith in it . For an atheist , my faith was mounting exponentially . I was ‘ pressing on ’ so I hard I was hitting Mach 3 . I gulped for all I was worth . Concentrating like my life depended on it , I switched across the track often to the smoothest surface , failing just as often , and became truculent when an approaching 4x4 had the audacity to use part of the track for their own selfish means .
The dust was another difficulty not only when vehicles passed , but from my fellow riders . We pulled into the wonderful Williams Creek at about three in the afternoon , emptied nares full of dust , and settled for a well-deserved cold refreshment . I probably could have checked-in for a lie-down . Sitting around an old beer barrel , we pulled up some chairs and read the scrawled graffiti of fellow adventurers , marvelling at the number plates , money and business cards that littered the walls . A laminated paper clipping of Anna Creek ignited the grey-matter : we ’ d blithely just waltzed into the biggest cattle station in the world .
Anna Creek : here lies a farm , a single farm , that is seven times larger than anything the USA has to offer . It is , according to Wikipedia , slightly bigger than Israel . Although it would take twenty-five hours to walk across its 24,000 square kilometres , I felt that with my Grandma-slow riding , I could complete this in only twentyfour .
We got underway again , my companions excitedly , me rather less so . At every turn , I was unsure if the tyres were slipping underneath me or my seat had become particularly slick around the crotch area . My beamer , for all she was worth , was far better equipped for the ride ; I was merely a participant trying to keep up with my friends that within minutes would disappear around another far-flung corner .
We turned off towards Marla , taking an equally scrappy track west . At one juncture I came around a bend to see a monitor lizard the size of a house scarpering across the road , causing me to slow in time to see Justin walking towards me , waving me down as I spluttered to a halt in a gully of sand and pebbles .
Ahead , Steve had fallen , his motorcycle upturned halfway up the embankment . Our global-adventurer stood with a big grin on his face , in high-spirits and taking pictures of the damage . Fortunately , nothing untoward had occurred to him or the bike other than him hitting the foot-thick pebbles , losing traction and then he was caught with an overwhelming , urgent need to review the daises twenty feet away . I was really impressed with the Triumph and his kit ; the aluminium panniers had some scratches but were fine , and the bike started first time once we righted it .
At dusk I motioned to camp in the outback . It befuddles me why stocks of people abscond to the countryside only to huddle within ten feet of one another in a powered campsite . For Richie , he needed the loo several times a night , so I could understand his need , but with the clear sky I was excited to sleep under the stars . Besides , the famously rubbish lights on my BMW weren ’ t any help . There was good reason why every other Beamer we came across sported auxiliary lights !
About one hundred and fifty kilometres shy of Marla , we found a flat bit of red dirt to make camp . I was so tired . We watched Steve set-up his large tent again , and when done they both bought out their mini stools , chatting like schoolkids enjoying themselves . I just slumped quietly , dreaming of tarmac .
On the second day , about every hour or so that morning , I ’ d lumber around a bend to see them both patiently smiling , leaning back on their motorbikes , waiting for me to catch-up . Nerves shattered and concentration at an absolute maximum , I ’ d turn the engine off and sit quietly for a few seconds before ambling over bow-legged and quiet , trying to put on a brave face . The bastards would crack a few jokes ,
TRAVERSE 96