TRAVERSE 12
conversation. Months of training, thousands of dollars invested in motorcycles, tyres, suspension, travel and accommodation suddenly collide with the reality of what lies ahead.
This isn ' t a trail ride. This isn ' t a navigation rally. There are no scenic stops to admire the landscape or leisurely camps beneath gum trees.
From the moment the flag drops, survival depends on concentration. The track itself is alive. That may sound melodramatic until you ride it. Unlike many off-road races where competitors become familiar with the terrain after practice, Finke reinvents itself almost hourly. Every motorcycle, every buggy and every trophy truck reshapes the surface. A smooth line discovered during practice may have vanished entirely by race morning. A shallow sand section becomes kneedeep bulldust. Small braking bumps grow into metrelong whoops capable of swallowing front wheels whole. Nothing stays the same. Cox discovered this almost immediately.
Having spent several days learning sections of the course, she believed she had begun to understand its rhythm. By race day that confidence disappeared.
The first sixty kilometres that she thought she knew had become completely unfamiliar beneath the dust and destruction left by competitors ahead of her. Landmarks vanished. Corners looked different. Sections she ' d memorised during practice were impossible to recognise. " It was just like... I have no idea where I am." That uncertainty becomes one of Finke ' s greatest weapons. The race attacks riders physically, certainly, but perhaps its greatest challenge is psychological. Confidence evaporates. Fatigue clouds judgement. Tiny mistakes become crashes.
Even riders with extensive desert experience speak about Finke differently to other Australian rides.
Cox had previously crossed the Simpson Desert, one of Australia ' s iconic off-road adventures. It should have prepared her. Instead, it simply highlighted how different Finke really is.
" The Simpson Desert was really good," she said. " You could pick the dunes. You knew where they were going." Then came the comparison that every prospective
Finke rider should hear. " Finke was twenty times worse." Not because the terrain was necessarily more remote. Not because the sand was deeper. But because nothing stays predictable. The track evolves constantly. Morning conditions differ from afternoon. Training differ from race day. One lap differed from the next. The desert refused to stand still.
That relentless unpredictability affects everyone, from outright professionals chasing victory to recreational
competitors whose only ambition is to see the chequered fl a g.
It is also one of the reasons why simply qualifying for the start line deserves more respect than many people realise.
Among several hundred competitors, women remain a small minority. The numbers have grown steadily in recent years, but stepping onto the start line still requires breaking through assumptions; both external and internal.
For Cox, however, gender was never the defining factor.
She simply wanted to prove to herself that she belonged.
That determination became stronger through the friendships she built with other female competitors during race week. Conversations in the pits revolved around bike preparation, suspension settings, training rides and survival strategies rather than proving any point.
There was competition, certainly. But there was also solidarity.
By prologue day they were sharing advice, comparing notes and encouraging one another before lining up for one of Australia ' s toughest motorcycle races.
That quiet support would become invaluable once the real race began. Because once the flag falls at Finke, gender disappears. The desert treats everyone exactly the same.
The first twenty kilometres of the Finke Desert Race are often described as the most dangerous.
Not because they contain the biggest jumps or the deepest whoops, but because hundreds of riders, all carrying months or years of expectation, launch into the same ribbon of desert within minutes of one another.
Dust hangs in the air like smoke after a bushfire. Visibility shrinks to only a few metres. Every rider is searching for clean air, trying to settle into a rhythm while simultaneously reminding themselves not to become another statistic.
Veterans tell newcomers the same thing every year. Take it easy. The race cannot be won in the first twenty kilometres. It can certainly be lost there.
Those words echoed in Vikki Cox ' s helmet as she disappeared into the ochre haze.
" The guys on the line kept saying, ' Go slow for the first twenty kays. You can ' t see. Just think of yourself. Don ' t be stupid.'" It was advice she chose to follow. Only after the field began to spread out did the race reveal itself. For a brief moment she thought she had found her rhythm.
TRAVERSE 12