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By the time he rolled into Broome, Jayde had weathered the dryness, the isolation, and the long hours alone in his helmet. He pressed on eastward toward the Kimberley. It was here he made one of the more comical errors of the trip: realising after leaving Derby that he’ d forgotten his earbuds at the previous camp. Irritated, he rode back, only to find them sitting in the tank bag the whole time.“ That one stung a little,” he grinned. Halls Creek, however, left a more serious impression. The social issues there were visible, confronting, and difficult to rationalise with the postcard-like landscapes he’ d been riding through. It was one of the places that made him question what Australia looks like from different angles, and how many people ignore the uncomfortable parts.
Past Halls Creek he crossed the Northern Territory border, riding through country that was equal parts vast and intimate. Between Katherine and Darwin, he completed a roadside service, the DR650 leaning on its stand in the dirt as he swapped oils and checked bolts. Routine maintenance becomes an act of trust when you’ re alone; you become both rider and mechanic, and the consequences of a mistake seem more personal. By mid-May, forty days into the journey, Jayde had knocked over around 14,000 kilometres. He was sunburnt, dehydrated, tired, but content. It felt like a natural place to pause. So, he parked the bike, locked it up, and flew to Vietnam for the next phase of his gap year.
Four months overseas; Vietnam, Thailand, then Europe, opened another window entirely.
“ Travelling overseas made me see things differently,” he said.“ And it made me appreciate Australia a lot more. People don’ t travel their own country before they go overseas. There’ s so much here.”
When he returned to Darwin, the DR650 was waiting exactly where he’ d left it. The tyres were a little low. The chain a little dry. But it started, coughed once, and settled into that familiar thump-thump-thump that felt like an old friend clearing its throat.
He rode through Kakadu, watching wetlands flush with birds and light, then pointed the bike down the Stuart Highway. He’ d hoped to replace his chain and sprockets in Alice Springs, but availability forced him farther south to Port Augusta. The vast centre swallowed days in slow, shimmering increments.
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