Motorcycle Tasmania – South and West

We left the caravan park in Cambridge, Hobart, just in time to join the rush of cars trying to get their drivers to work on time. We detoured to the shopping centre, to restock the esky and the food box, while the traffic on the Tasman Bridge had time to clear.

Soon we were on our way, Dover bound. I wondered many times, while we walked the jetties at the Australian Wooden Boat Festival, “why are there so many boats in Hobart?” Then I laid eyes on the D’Entrecasteaux Channel and the reason became clear. This wonderful waterway, flanked by Bruny Island on the east, and the mainland on the west, is full of bays and beaches. The scenery was spectacular and as we rode south along the Channel Highway we had to remind ourselves about the importance of keeping our eyes on the road. Salmon farms do exist but not enough to spoil the view.

Mouth of the Huon River with
D’Entrecasteaux Channel and Bruny Island in the background.

We stopped for a cup-a-soup and a homemade ham sandwich at a lookout near Garden Island Creek. A shower of rain around the hills to the south kept us looking over our left shoulder. Steve picked blackberries and willingly shared them with me. At the visitor information centre in Hobart we asked, “Where should we stay Cygnet or Dover?” Without hesitation the guy said “Dover, there isn’t much going on in Cygnet.” Unfortunately we believed him and we rode on through the sophisticated little town, with its boutique wares and interesting port, before we realised we had missed something.

Although there wasn’t much happening in Dover, it was a true sanctuary away from the madding crowd and we took the opportunity to cook all our own meals and relax for a while.

This Huon Pine is 450 years old,
they live for up to 3,000 years.

We hopped on the tourist band wagon and paid $25 each to enjoy the Tahune Forest Airwalk. We learned a little more about the famous Huon Pine. On the huon trail we were introduced to a 450 year old tree. They call these trees the “old folk” of the forest. Apparently they only grow in the wettest areas of the state so I have stopped looking out for them on the hills and in the valleys as we ride along the many scenic roads.

A good day on the road is worth more than a good day at camp so when we saw that the weather looked clear we decided to ride for two days all the way from Dover to Ulverstone. The big tent was packed up and we were back on the road by 8am. We shopped at Huonville and then settled in for the ride through the city. Steve likes to take all the back roads and we had soon turned left and were winding our way along the lower slopes of Mt Wellington. This is one of those roads that probably should say “local traffic only,” but Tasmanians are kind to motorcycle riders and they allow you to ride everywhere. You have to settle in and ride at your own pace along these lanes because the consequence of trying to keep up with someone else doesn’t bare thinking about.

We have fallen in love with Tasmania’s Valhalla ice cream and it was no surprise that after lunch we were devouring a two scooper on the pavement in New Norfolk. Then we were back on the road again, trundling long the Lyell Highway. I don’t think there is a single straight road in Tasmania. Sometimes the corner speeds are indicated as a warning shot, but mostly you are left to your own devices regarding entry speeds. As I was riding along towards Tarraleah, it occurred to me that if you could get a giant rolling pin and iron out all of Tasmania’s hills and mountains, so that the apple isle was flat like Western Australia, I think the footprint would be quite large.

We pulled into Tarraleah late in the afternoon. There were two types of powered camp sites available. The grassy sites were covered in possum poop. I picked the poopless site, and Steve picked the grassy site, so we drew straws and Steve won. Next thing I know I’m down on my hands and knees picking up possum turds! Timing is everything and Steve happened to open the tent just as I swept up one of the drier pieces of poop. Unfortunately a gust of wind caught the dustpan and blew at least half a turd inside the tent. I’m still laughing about it now.



The ride from Tarraleah to Queenstown is simply stunning. The Red Devil and I looked after each other and the purr of her engine, as we wound our way along some of the steep mountain passes, was music to my ears. I only heard the word “crikey” once inside my helmet, now and again I heard myself cackling away; it’s just so much fun. On these roads you have to participate in the ride – constantly making decisions and changing up and down through the gears tires you out. I think four hours on the road here in Tasmania is more like riding for six hours on a conventional pavement.

The road into Queenstown (which you can see at the bottom of the valley).
Yes, the Red Devil and I are in the picture.

Except for the locals and the super talented bikers, I don’t think the steep descent into Queenstown could really be described as a great motorcycle road. It’s just about survival as you negotiate the change in elevation from high to low. Queenstown is a wonderful historic town and if you stop for a moment you can almost hear the clatter and chatter from the time when the town was living its heyday. I just hope the West Coast Wilderness Railway train to Strahan keeps running so the tourists keep turning up.

If you have the opportunity to ride Tasmania, include Anthony Road (B28) which runs from Henty Glacial Moraine in the south to Tullah in the north. On the day, as we rode on easy, admiring the breathtaking scenery that is part of the world heritage Cradle Mountain – Lake St Clair National Park, it occurred to me that this was probably the most beautiful road I had ever cruised along.

Steve wasn’t finished with the back roads yet and although we were enjoying a good lick of speed along the Murchison Highway, Steve soon found the B18 and then a couple of “C” roads. These roads slowed us down as we navigated our way through the farming communities of Upper Natone and South Riana.

We ended our “Ride Tasmania” in Ulverstone. While we were resting in our big camp chairs and musing over three weeks of wonderful riding, a bird flew past and pooped right on my foot. “That’s supposed to be lucky” said Steve, “perhaps we should buy a lottery ticket?” to which I replied “perhaps we have been lucky enough!”

Australian Wooden Boat Festival 2013

You don’t have to be a wooden boat enthusiast to enjoy the Australian Wooden Boat Festival. The Tasmanian government have seen the wood through the trees and cleverly made the festival a free event. This concept lifts the attendance levels and gives the festival a wonderful atmosphere.

Couta boat in the pavilion.

There were over 600 boats on display and the festival is a true celebration of both new and old wooden boats. Boats of a similar design are displayed together, this makes it easy to wander the jetties and pavilions and enjoy the eclectic mix of vessels on display. Each vessel has an information board which tells you her name, designer, year launched and the construction material. I’m particularly in love with Huon Pine and vessels built out of this material received a big tick from me. I couldn’t help spare a thought for the large number of boats that remained on the waiting list and couldn’t exhibit at the festival; there was simply no more room.

Landfall and Sirocco.

The festival is a four day event. When we arrived and saw the boats and the display pavilions before us I said to Steve “where do we start?” We wandered along the jetties of the Kings Pier Marina and Constitution Dock and it was a little overwhelming to gaze upon the selection of wooden boats. Landfall (1935) and Sirocco (1939), two historic Sparkman and Stephens design yachts, nearly brought tears to my eyes they looked so grand. These boats are lovely to look at, but it sends a shiver down my spine when I imagine the hours of work that are spent to keep them in such immaculate condition.

I was thrilled to catch up with Cartella; this old ferry is now a centenarian. I remember being onboard her in 1975 after the Tasman Bridge collapsed. Cartella helped move commuters back and forth across the Derwent River.



Cartella

I particularly enjoyed the colourful display of Fazackerley Dinghies. It is estimated that Reg Fazackerley built over 100 of these dinghies and about 40 of them are known to be in existence because of the quality of their build and their collectability. One of the defining characteristics of the clinker Fazackerley dinghies is there are no ribs forward of the front seat.

The owners of Notorious, a full size replica of a 15^th century Portuguese caravel (the type of ship that carried the early European explores to the Far East), were enterprising with their fund raising and for $5 you could climb aboard and take a look around. However the replica Viking ship Russich which had sailed all the way from Russia, had only a donation box on the dock and would have collected only a fraction of the amount.

We noticed that Sea Shepherd was also in port. Sea Shepherd belongs to Sea Shepherd Conservation Society (SSCS) which is a marine wildlife conservation organisation. Looking down at her from the dock Sea Shepherd has a mighty presence. A film crew were conducting an interview with Bob Brown (former Australian Greens leader). Bob is now actively involved with Sea Shepherd activities and he looked much younger and fitter than he looks on TV. I over heard him say “I am 67 years old.”

Over the four festival days we wandered along the jetties and through the exhibition halls and learnt about model boats, wooden canoes and boat building. Everywhere we went there was an unpretentious volunteer ready and willing to answer all of our questions. Whenever we needed to rest for a while it was easy to find somewhere to sit down and something delicious to eat. From Persian fair to a good Tasmanian scallop pie, everyone’s taste was catered for.

There was a good mix of talks and presentations to choose from and we particularly enjoyed Lynn and Larry Pardey’s presentation on storm tactics – how to hove to. Lynn is an expert presenter and she gained our full attention. I learned so much from her presentation.

The AWBF is a great place to hang out and we turned up every day. At times you would find us in the Wooden Boat Tavern listening to folk music and at other times we’d be in the pavilions again learning a little more about wooden boats.

In 1975, when I was just a child living in Hobart, my dad started to build a Hartley 17ft cabin cruiser. I can see him now using a hand saw to cut the ribs out of King Billy Pine. After attending the festival, dad’s boat project means so much more.

The festival was far and beyond any expectations we may have had. It is estimated that over 200,000 people attended the four day event which must have put a smile on the faces of the entire organising committee. I will never forget the sight of hundreds of dressed ships in the harbour and when the curtain finally closed on the 2013 Australian Wooden Boat Festival, I felt certain that one day the festival would lure us back to Hobart again.

Motorcycle Tasmania - North East

We are heading up there.

When we stepped out of our big tent, on our first morning in Launceston, Steve looked up at the clear sky and exclaimed “we’ve got to ride the mountain today.” As soon as the flasks were filled with hot water, and the esky was packed with cheese, biscuits, nuts and fresh fruit we were off on our first Tasmanian ride.

We rode on easy through the little village of Longford and then up we went past Poatina. The road was quiet and the views spectacular as we looked across at the Great Lake. We stopped for morning tea at Flintstone, to take in the wonderful views over Arthurs Lake, and then we lunched at Miena. I placed a chunk of cheese on a dozen crackers and then tried to protect our fair from the savage wind that was blowing across the lake. While we quizzed a local about the condition of the gravel road on the western side of the lake, he said, “We’re expecting a drop of rain this afternoon.” Any mention of rain when I’m at altitude with my motorcycle and I start hopping around all over the place and I said “gotta go, gotta go.” Five minutes later we were packed up and heading down the mountain as quickly as we could.



The Great Lakes - Western Tiers - 1300m, getting use to the gravel.

The gravel section was upon us in no time but the road was flat and the going was easy. Steve had done most of the map reading for the day and I was unaware that there was a second section of gravel. When we arrived at gravel road number two my heart sank, especially when the sign said 19km. Onwards and upwards we went. Dark clouds were gathering around the hills and a few spots of rain collected on my visor. I wanted to wave my fist at Steve but I needed both hands on the handle bars. With the weather closing in and some steep hair pin bends to negotiate, I wanted to turn back but we were past the point of no return. Luckily the 19km sign had been a joke all along and we were soon riding on bitumen again.

I can cope with a little light rain, but then the fog rolled in. I was in front and it was some comfort that I could see the dim glow of Steve’s headlight as we started the steep descent, with only the white lines on the edge of the road to guide us. Thankfully we were soon out of the fog but I was a little spooked by the gravel, and the rain, and I descended that mountain like a hairy dog; luckily only Steve was around as witness.



Cataract Gorge, Launceston.

We stopped to rest at the bakery in Deloraine. It was wonderful to watch our host make us an iced coffee with so much care and attention, even piping fresh cream on top. Riding in the mountains lived up to its expectations – four seasons in one day.

Be careful what you wish for. Our big tent was dusty and Steve was overheard to have said “a shower of rain will clean her up.” When we arrived back at camp, the rain arrived too and we settled in for a night and a day of continuous drizzle. The locals said it hadn’t rained for weeks. That’s what they always say and we didn’t believe them. The rain gave us the opportunity to enjoy the streets of Launceston which made a change from motorcycle riding.

Convict built bridge, Campbell Town.

When the sun decided to shine once more, we took the bikes on an easy run to the historic towns of Campbell Town and Ross. Of the 200,000 convicts sent to Australia, Tasmania received an incredible 70,000 prisoners. These guys were so resourceful that the bridge they built in Campbell Town is able to withstand modern heavy vehicles and is now part of the main highway connecting Launceston and Hobart.

I remembered enjoying the Ross Rodeo when I was a child. It seemed like poetry in motion that the day I rode into town on my motorcycle, the rodeo was actually taking place in the little village. While we ate our lunch I could hear the rodeo’s PA system in the distance and it took me back to a time long ago.

On Sunday 3^rd February we moved our camp to St Helens. The road twists and turns all the way to Scottsdale and beyond. It’s easy to forget that although the distances are short, the ride time is long.

You learn something every day. Getting two motorcycles through a caravan park boom gate, with only one access key, used to seem like a circus trick. Steve would operate the key. As soon as the gate opened I would shoot through, leaving Steve to perform the hero’s part which was to try and sneak past the gate before the boom came down and knocked him of his bike. What we hadn’t realised is that as soon as I went through the gate, the gate sensors said “vehicle through, close gate.” All you have to do is line up and ride through together; it’s as easy as pie even though the warning sign on the gate says “No bicycles or motorcycles.”

Great fish and chips, afloat at St Helens.

If you stay at St Helens you’ve got to have fish and chips. Our host talked us into trying travella, claimed to be one of the best table fish on the planet. The travella was soft eating and very good but these days we have developed a taste for flake which is our favourite.





Elephant Pass.

From St Helens we took the bikes on a run to Bicheno. We timed our ride perfectly so we could enjoy the famous Elephant Pass and then have lunch at the Elephant Pancake Kitchen. While I was waiting for my all berry pancake to be served, I decided to inspect the contents of the sugar bowl. Now I should tell you that the dudes that run this establishment have a sense of humour and there are signs around that say things like “don’t even think about blocking this gate…” and “uncontrolled children will be taken care of.” So when I lifted the lid on the sugar bowl and saw a lizard sitting inside I thought it was a joke – until his eyes moved and he slithered onto the table. I gave a controlled yelp, which I felt I was entitled to. All the other patrons laughed and the waitress said, “That’s what you get when you live in the bush.” Then she continued to serve tea and coffee and didn’t even pretend that the sugar bowl would be cleaned out. I can report that the pancakes were excellent but be warned – this restaurant only accepts cash and the pancakes are quite expensive.

By the time we made it back to camp it was time to replace the ice in our esky. We freeze two litre orange juice containers, the square ones are the best as they fit neatly inside the esky. Steve went to the camp kitchen but our container was gone. The manager just happened to wander past our campsite and I mentioned it to him. He said that “the girls" had probably cleaned out the freezer and thrown our bottle away as the park does not tolerate the freezing of plastic bottles; it doesn’t leave any room in the freezer for food. On this occasion the freezer was like the park – empty. I thought about this for a moment and then asked to be shown the sign which indicates that you cannot place bottles of water in the freezer. There was no sign. I told the manager that “the freezer needs a sign” because everyone freezers bottles and how were we to know. I said to Steve “if there isn’t a sign on the freezer by the time we leave the park I’m going to write to the management.” The following day the manager wandered over with the news that our bottle had been found and it was back in the freezer! All was forgiven and no letter was written.

On Thursday 7^th February, it was time for a ride to Hobart. There is something magical and exciting about moving our camp from one destination to another. When I look back on our days on the road, one of my favourite moments will be when we ride out of town, both bikes loaded up and the trailer in tow. At that moment we are carrying everything we need and it feels good.

Bikes all packed and on the road, Triabunna.

We picked a warm day for our ride to Hobart and finding a shady picnic spot can seem like an impossible task. The roads are in exceptional condition here in Tasmania and they are a pleasure and a privilege to ride on. We stopped for a break at Bicheno, Swansea and Triabunna. At Triabunna the ferry captain approached us and said he was trying to encourage biker dudes to enjoy a trip to Maria Island by offering secure parking near the ferry terminal. We suggested he should advertise in the Ulysses Club “Riding On” magazine.

The temperature was a humid 30 degrees which made riding a little uncomfortable. As we approached Orford I noticed it felt a little cooler. I looked down at Devil’s LCD and it said 27 degrees. The temperature kept falling, half a degree at a time, until it felt cold at 22 degrees. Then I noticed the wind had picked up and bark was being blown off the trees. As we rode past Prosser Bay I saw a cloud of sand approaching the road. I called out “steady up” and me and Red Devil just managed to pull up in time to watch a willy willy cross the road. Five minutes later it was 30 degrees again!

We were hot and hungry by the time we arrived at Richmond. A scallop pie and a Tasmanian made ice cream calmed us down and made the crew smile again. By 4pm our canvas cabin was up once more and we were on the net, checking out the program for the Australian Wooden Boat Festival. Boat show here we come.

Spirit of Tasmania



The ferry about to dock as we arrived.

We timed out run for the ferry with military precision and at 7pm on Monday 28^th February we rode our motorcycles up the ramp and onto deck 5 ready for tie down. Red Dwarf (R1200GS), with the trailer in tow, was sent away with the tin tops while Red Devil (F650GS Twin) and I were herded to the motorcycle tie down point amid ships. Spirit of Tassie crew were quickly in attendance with the tie down straps and one over enthusiastic dude grabbed Red Devil’s hand guard, instead of the handle bars, gave it a tug, then realised the error in his ways. The strap was quickly released and secured to the correct position. I was left alone to inspect the new angle of the hand guard; luckily no damage had been done.





Looks like we will be leaving on time.

Steve’s bike was given a little rough treatment, too. The tie down straps were pulled on so hard that the force rotated the handle bars on their risers. No harm done, although Steve had to adjust to a new, sporty, riding position for the 100km ride from the ferry to Launceston.





Once onboard, we dumped our gear in our little cabin and headed straight to the ships galley. Dinner was paid for by the plate full; $25 for a large plate, $18 for a small plate. You get to stack your own plate and no one complains if you stack your plate higher that what would be considered reasonable; we had a plate each but we noticed a lot of couples were sharing one plate.

At Melbourne.

When we retired to our cabin, we were sailing along in calm waters as we hadn’t cleared the heads to Port Phillip Bay. Once we were into Bass Strait, the wind was up and the ships shuddering motion kept me awake. I lay in my bunk for hours wondering if the welds were going to hold. Steve slept like a baby and refused to believe that we’d had a lively crossing until he saw the salt spray on deck 9.





There's always a queue, but only an hour this time.

After an early breakfast of a “bring your own” apple and a bottle of water, we were back on our bikes. A quick answer to the question, “Are you carrying any fresh fruit or vegetables?” and we were through quarantine and onto Tasmanian soil ready for a three week adventure.

20th International Island Classic 2013 – Phillip Island

The Red Devil, main straight, Phillip Island.

The Island Classic is a race meeting for motorcycles born before 31^st December 1990. This year’s event sported teams from Australia, United Kingdom, New Zealand and USA, with top guns Ryan Farquhar (335 career wins, including three wins at the Isle of Man TT), Jeremy McWilliams (12 years competing in the world GP championships) and our very own Cameron Donald all putting in an appearance. Giacomo Agostini was the guest of honour and when you saw the crowd of press photographers, at the start of each of Ago’s demonstration laps, it was obvious that the event committee had made the right decision.

Cameron Donald.

On Friday 25^th January, after the early showers, we cruised down to the Phillip Island Circuit to collect our tickets and T Shirts. As soon as we arrived at gate 1 we were totally absorbed by the magic of this amazing racing venue. Racers love this track and spectators are well rewarded with many vantage points where you can see the action in every direction. The pits were open to everyone, all weekend, and it was pure entertainment to saunter from one pit garage to another, admiring the hundreds of classic bikes and sidecars that were participating in the weekend of racing. It difficult to tell who was who as the Island Classic is an unpretentious affair and there wasn’t a pit garage sign in sight.

Our bikes were parked at Doohan Corner and we were sitting in our big camp chairs when the racing commenced on Saturday afternoon. The event had attracted a large number of competitors and the racing was excellent with some divisions sending 40+ bikes scrambling for a position in the first corner. We stayed a while at the 50 meter braking zone, observing the different techniques and trying to learn something.

Ago's waving at me.

We were at Siberia for one of Agostini’s demonstration laps and I found myself arguing, with another spectator, about whether Ago was waving at him or me. Once we had settled that score, our new found friend tried to talk us into joining in on Monday’s track day. Reading between the lines, the slowest rider in the slowest group is still circulating at a fair lick of speed. It would be great to ride the circuit and try out the bends but the Red Devil and I are not interested in doing 200km an hour down the straight.

While we were watching the action at MG corner, we met a true motor racing enthusiast. Not only had this guy attended over 1400 race meetings, but he had catalogued all the programs, including the race results for every race. It was amazing to see him meticulously documenting the results for even the support races.

Ago signing my poster and pass.

On Sunday we were wined and dined in the club classic lounge overlooking pit straight. In between eating dainty quiches and Danish pastries and drinking copious amounts of coffee, we stood by the window to catch a glimpse of the day’s events. The best part about the lounge is you get to look down on the pit area and watch all the bikes assembling in preparation for the next race. The grid line-up and race starts are great, too. Watching a motorcycle whizz past at 280km hour isn’t as much fun as a vantage point at Siberia or MG, the slowest corner of the track. As promised, Agostini made an appearance before lunch and with the patience of a saint he signed each and every piece of memorabilia that was presented to him. Some punters abused the system and turned up with a dozen things for him to sign. Ago never faltered, and his film star smile was ready for every clicking camera. I thought his visit was tinged with sadness as he said “It has been a long time since my last visit and will probably be the last time for me to come to Australia.” At 70 years of age he still has an eye for the pretty young babes with long hair.

A little older than my beemer.

The catering staff must be forgiven for serving lunch when race three of the International Challenge was underway, but when you are in the corporate lounge if seems the focus is on different things.

It seemed like the weekend was only just getting started when the last race was being run; Steve and I would quite happily have kept turning up at the track day after day. To help dissolve the post race meeting blues, we retired to Cowes for pizza on the pavement.

Would we do the Island Classic again? You betcha!

Ceduna to Phillip Island

If you want to upset the locals, who live in the arid parts of this country, all you have to do is complain about riding in the rain. We were delivered the speech specially prepared for inconsiderate people like us. At Poochera we refused to believe that the rain would continue and we only donned the bottom half of our wet weather riding gear. Our leather jackets will keep us dry in a light drizzle but when it turns into steady rain, slowly but surely the leather gives up the struggle. By the time we arrived at Kimba we were feeling a little wet and weary. The lunch time temperature of only 15 degrees is basically unheard of in this neck of the woods in January. The roadhouse was full of travellers escaping the rain and we joined the queue for homemade pumpkin soup and a bowl of hot potato wedges. We stayed a while, enjoying the warm dining room and talking with other travellers. All of us were concerned about travelling in extreme heat – the fear of breaking down first and foremost on our minds. One guy had given the problem some thought and said “the first thing I would do is put the tent up.” Good thinking.



The big tent, known as the Cabin, in Melrose.

That day we rode in the rain for over 400km, and we were relieved to arrive in Melrose late in the afternoon. We managed to erect the “big tent,” for the first time, with hardly a cross word spoken. The bikes were filthy, covered in a white wash that lay foaming and frothing in the road. In 2008, water restrictions in South Australia were so severe that we were not even allowed a single bucket of water to wipe away salt spray that had collected on our bikes on a rough ferry crossing. Although the seasons have moved on, and there is water in the lower reaches of the Murray River, we didn’t dare ask if we could clean our bikes, we just grabbed the hose and washed away.

With clean bikes we were back on the road again, enjoying the lanes and towns as we rode south towards the Adelaide hills. If someone had told me that one day we would ride through the Barossa Valley, one of Australia’s premier wine regions, carrying a bottle of New Zealand wine and a six pack of Mexican beer,” I never would have believed them. One of the big conglomerates made us an offer we couldn’t refuse and we voted with our hip pocket. Drinking our BYO New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, on the pavement in Tanunda, felt like a criminal offence and we kept the bottle well hidden away.



With plenty of time up our sleeve we made the maritime town of Goolwa, on the Fleurieu Peninsula, home for nearly a week. Our camping character was well and truly tested when one of the days reached a maximum temperature of 45 degrees. I lost the battle with the caravan park kids and the door remained open to the air conditioned camp kitchen; in the end there was nowhere to hide. That night, when the cool change arrived, the tent was tested, too, with wind gusts exceeding 30 knots. The big tent moaned and groaned a little but she stood her ground and in the morning everything was intact.

Causeway to Granite Island, Victor Harbour.

On Tuesday 22^nd January, we left the comfort of Goolwa and started a three day ride to Phillip Island in preparation for the Island Classic Motorcycle weekend. The little tent came in handy for a good night’s sleep in Naracoorte. Unfortunately, the following morning, I didn’t fasten the lid properly on our thermos flask and one litre of scalding water trickled out all over our maps and the laptop’s transformer. Steve went ape, although I did notice than an hour later he was reading one of the sodden maps with a half smile on his face.

We stayed on the back roads, some only one lane wide. The navigation was difficult but with hardly a car in sight it was wonderful riding. We touched down on the Great Ocean Road at Lorne; big mistake. Lorne was preparing for the Australia Day long weekend and there was barely standing room in the trendy seaside town. We tried to book in at the town’s caravan park but when the receptionist said “$60,” (twice the amount we were paying), Steve protested and mumbled about a bed and breakfast up the road for only $99. The receptionist retorted “off you go then” and turned her attention to the next paying customer. Although we were hot and thirsty we rode out of town. Unfortunately a copper, riding a motorcycle, hopped onto my back wheel and you could almost hear him laughing “gotcha, you West Aussie dude.” He rode with me for almost 10km, tracking my every move as I navigated one slow corner after another. Once I realised he was just along for the ride, I relaxed and did my own thing; you don’t want to run out of talent on a road like that. When I’d had enough, I moved over to the left to give him chance to go and find Steve; a couple of bends later he had disappeared from view. It was late when we set up the little tent in Torquay for $65 per night; after a long day on the road we had stopped counting the money.



Steve and I on the Queenscliff to Sorrento Ferry.

By 10am the following day we were on the car ferry which runs from Queenscliff to Sorrento on the Mornington Peninsula. We could have relaxed for hours on that ferry, enjoying the scenery of Port Phillip Bay, but 40 minutes later we back on the bikes and riding into the clutches of congested Melbourne traffic. “Stay as close as you dare,” said Steve, “or we’ll get separated at the traffic lights;” We only had to stop twice to regroup. Our pre booked camp site was waiting for us in Cowes on Phillip Island. The big tent was up in no time and by 5pm we were drinking beer and being eaten alive by sand flies. Welcome to Phillip Island.

Ride the Nullarbor



Coffee at Gibson Soak



The longer the list of “things to do,” the more the open road beckoned. When we finally pulled out of our driveway on Wednesday 9^th January 2013, I never looked back, not even to make sure the gate was closed. The house had the last laugh of course. Steve thought he had a win by remembering to move the bikes out of the garage and onto the driveway before the reticulation fired up. Unfortunately he overlooked the strength of the south westerly wind and when we were ready to leave my bike was soaked to the frame with bore water.



It seemed like it might take 1000 miles before the magic of motorcycling found us but luckily only half an hour from home I was chasing the vanishing point and looking for the road markings and the tree line around every bend.

Steve’s Red Dwarf (R1200GS) and my Red Devil (F650GS Twin) are not equipped with radio communication. The second rider has only two messages to convey to the rider in front. 1) Stop as soon as it is safe to do so (hazard lights flashing). 2) Stop at the next available opportunity (left indicator flashing); there is nothing else to say. The rider in front can do whatever they like.

The sweltering weather at Southern Cross and Coolgardie forced us to ride south from Perth in search of a more temperate latitude to begin our journey eastward. We stopped for tea at Williams. While Steve was admiring his new Kevlar jeans he noticed they were covered in oil. Turned out the oil filler cap was loose. From Williams, Red Dwarf led all the way to the Kojonup Bakery. On the outskirts of town, a lone emu made a nuisance of himself by standing in the middle of the road. We slowed to a stop waiting for the big bird to move out of the way. When we finally got going again, the emu decided to race us to the bakery and I clocked him loping along the road verge at 40km hour.



Day three breakfast near Fraser Range.

I led the way from Koji to Mt Barker. While we were queuing for fuel, a car full of local dudes pushed in. When it was our turn at the pump, Steve decided to mention the error in their ways. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the large dog sitting on the back seat. Luckily the dudes just mumbled and carried on their way.

We were safely tucked away at the Porongurup’s by mid afternoon. Before we were allowed a cold beer, our bikes were checked over and our helmets cleaned ready for the next day’s ride.

We crept out of the Porongurup National Park long before the kangaroos had gone to bed. We enjoyed the view of the Stirling Range until the mountains disappeared in our rear view mirrors and by 9am we were fuelling up at Jerramungup. The weather was cool and the riding most enjoyable. I peered down many a gravel road and wondered about the remote communities that live within their boundaries. The old town halls tell the tale of a time long ago. We stopped for tea many times. At Salmon Gums Steve popped the question “how about pushing on to Fraser Range?” But me and the Red Devil were looking forward to happy hour and were psyched up to end the days ride at Norseman. While we were registering at the caravan park at Norseman, our hostess said “it was 45 deg here yesterday.” I said to Steve “looks like we dodged that bullet nicely.”



No shortage of trucks across The Nullarbor.

Our little three man tent is a breeze to put up and take down and it was easy to self cater at the camp kitchen in the caravan park. We were back on the road at dawn and there is something magical about turning eastward at the start of The Eyre Highway. A pink ribbon, tied to a roadside post, confirmed that the wind was slightly behind us. People in cars started to wave, so I did my bit for motorcycle awareness and I waved in return. We always enjoy hanging out at the remote roadhouses. At Caiguna we met Andy, a fellow biker on a new Triumph Tiger. Andy was riding bare knuckled as his riding gloves were rolled up inside his sophisticated biker tent. He said it was easier to wear sunscreen that to unpack the tent again. East of Caiguna the road was covered in road kill; a large wedge tailed eagle standing proudly on each fresh kill. When we arrived at Eucla, Andy was there too and we talked and laughed about the wild horses we had seen, and the camels we hadn’t. Life on the road was turning out to be as good as we remembered.



Eucla campsite.

We were riding out of Eucla town just after sun up for the last day of our Nullarbor crossing. While we were negotiating some slippery blue metal at Nullarbor Roadhouse, I noticed a tourist filming us from inside a tour bus. I said to Steve “whatever you do, don’t fall off now because it will be all over Youtube in an instant.” Apparently during the Christmas – New Year break, six cars filled up with fuel at Nullarbor Roadhouse and left without paying. The guy, taking the money for fuel, though it was caused by a lack of preparation and some people simply didn’t realise how far and how expensive it would be. The weather remained kind to us until we were 100km west of Penong. Then a fierce SE wind set in; if I had remembered the lean angle of some of the trees I wouldn’t have been surprised. We stepped up our concentration and we allowed the bikes to drift with each and every gust. Luckily I narrowly missed clipping the wing of a large wedge tailed eagle; that would have been ugly for both me and the bird.

We arrived in Ceduna and checked into the tent friendly caravan park right in town. That night we drank beer and celebrated with fresh scallops and prawns from the local fish and chip shop. We had just completed our easiest Nullarbor ride.