“Bullshit!”, I mumbled to
myself. It seriously couldn’t be as cold
as the thermometer on the wall was telling me.
The sun was already up and it was four degrees below zero (Celsius). This was crazy. Sliding out of bed I wondered if the New
South Wales high plains were always this cold in the middle of spring.
I dreaded riding in the cold but knew I had to do it if I was to make the coast in time to watch the latest instalment of the Formula One World Championship. Fully layered, I packed the bike and took one last look at the thermometer, the temperature hadn’t risen, a fact confirmed by the GS’s warning lights indicating there could be ice on the roads. Nice!
Heading off down the Monaro
Highway, at an average altitude of around 750 metres, pretty high by Australian
standards, I couldn’t help but admire the beautiful country. I’d ridden this road a few times before,
never taking time to notice the landscape.
Mental note! Slow down, enjoy the
journey.
Thick bushland soon began to
line the roadside, I was riding through a plantation of hardwood forest,
Eucalypts of some sort. I was taken at
how quickly the landscape changes in Australia, I was thankful that my
determined route would take me through this land. It was a Sunday morning; I was the only
person around. A perfect day.
Dropping in altitude, the
landscape changed again, still hardwood forest only now old growth. The size of some of the trees was truly
impressive. I realised that this was
still logging country, the many humorous
billboards telling the truck drivers to slow down, return home to their
families were a dead give away. The
quality of the wide dirt road also had something to do with it. Riding this area was a pure delight. The only company I had were the occasional
kangaroo or wallaby. Most kept their
distance, every now and then one would come closer. I’d slow, enjoying the scene.
Sweeping around a bend, and
dropping down a short hill, it hit me.
Full force! Large enough to have
been seen a distance back. I slammed on
the brakes, sliding the bike to a halt.
Breathlessly I climbed from my machine.
Hardly able to contain myself I walked back to the sign. It was real, I hadn’t imagined it. I burst out laughing again. “Wog Way!”
What the hell?
The large wooden road sign did indeed read “Wog Way”. How could this be allowed, I laughed. Wog, a racist term for people of southern Europe. I continued laughing, knowing exactly what my close Italian friends would think of this sign. They would laugh too, Wog had become a term of endearment amongst us, just like Pom to the English … or ‘Captain Risky’, as seemed to be my new name after a couple of large accidents and my determination to not let them stop me from exploring the world by bike. I laughed again, wondering if this was an acronym for something, it was obviously marking another track that joined from the left.
Continuing in roughly a south
easterly direction on this great piece of road, more or less following the
border with Victoria, eventually I would reach the A1, the Princes Highway, the
road that follows the coast for most of the way around Australia. I would turn right and be back in my home
state, before that I knew I could turn off the main road and find some tracks
that would lead me to my first stop for the day.
Giant gum trees grew either side of the track as I ventured into the heavily wooded land. This track was less used but still in reasonable condition. I smiled to myself. This day was so far treating me well.
Riding for a few kilometres
through twists and turns I found that I had lost my sense of direction. It didn’t matter, I reckoned that if I kept
following this track I would eventually come out somewhere. A fork soon presented itself, offering the
choice of two paths to take, without a second thought I went down the track to
the right, after all this would take me more to the west, the direction I
needed to head. The track soon narrowed
as it twisted further into the dense bush.
The place felt darker, not only had the light diminished but I had a
strange sense that someone, or thing, was watching me. Maybe my hunger was just playing tricks on
me, I was yet to have something to eat, and without breakfast I really
struggle. The track soon reached another
fork. The route to the left seemed to be
in extremely poor condition, unused. I
went right and was soon upon an imposing homemade sign.
“DO NOT ENTER! THIS ROAD LEADS NOWHERE! PRIVATE PROPERTY –
KEEP OUT”.
“Shit!”, I thought. “Could this sign be any more explicit?”
Had I stumbled into something
I shouldn’t have? Was I about to find
myself in trouble? I could hear voices;
yet couldn’t determine from which direction they came. Panicking I turned the bike around and rode
away. My underfed, overactive
imagination was now running hyperactively, what the hell was this place? I returned to where I had come from and was quickly
back on the main road and headed towards the seaside town of Mallacoota.
Attracted to a sign reading
Lucy’s Homemade Ride Noodle House, I venture in for breakfast and was surprised
to find one of the best morning meals I have ever had. I gazed dreamily out of the window, wondering
what I had just encountered out in the bush, internally I laughed at
myself. Idiot! Through the window I noticed a small man
looking very closely at my bike and gear.
He pulled out a camera and began taking varied photos of the bike and the
many decals adorning my paniers. Eating
breakfast I kept a casual eye on the bike, I didn’t want to disturb this great
meal.
Looking around, as if trying
to find something, the man walked to the café and entered the main door, handed
a coffee by the young man serving. I
watched on curiously. He turned, and
smiled in my direction, I returned the gesture.
“By the look of your dirty
riding gear, that’s your GS,” he proclaimed.
I nodded.
“May I?”, he gestured to the
seat at my table. I nodded.
“I don’t mean to interrupt
your meal,” the man announced. I
couldn’t pick his strong Germanic accent.
“You see, I have a hobby. I
collect motorbikes, and yours is one of the best I’ve seen around here for a
while. It’s a real traveller.”
I must’ve look confused. He went on to explain he doesn’t collect the
physical bikes, just photos of them and the accompanying tale. They are added to a blog. Interesting! I couldn’t help be flattered, he must see a
lot of good bikes down here at the end of such a great road. We introduced ourselves and spoke about
travelling, about bikes, about life in general.
My breakfast had suddenly become much better.
Recounting my strange recent
encounter to Gerard, he laughed and explained he had never seen that sign, but
had witnessed a few odd things out there.
Nothing bad, just odd. We
laughed. Gerard told me of a few tracks I
could possibly take to head further west however, warned that some could be
closed due to recent weather. He warned
not to take them if they are closed, they can be quite treacherous.
Chatting, an hour or so passed
quite quickly, I had to keep moving. We
shook hands and parted company as friends.
Chance encounters like these were what travel by motorcycle was all about. I left Mallacoota more enriched.
Following the road along the
coast I came across a 4wd track. Narrow,
sandy and remote, yet not inaccessible.
It was a glorious ride through thick bushland. Winding its way in a roughly south westerly
direction I knew this would take longer but was the whole point of my
circumnavigation of my home state, to explore unknown paths and challenge my
very being. My injuries and self-doubts
were so far from the front of my mind that they seemed to be forgotten.
Above the comforting drone of
the GS’s engine a loud pop broke through the silence of the bush. “What the hell was that?” I thought.
I pulled off the track,
wondering if the strange noise had been from my bike. Enjoying the silent stillness of the bush, I
could see no indication to what had caused the noise.
POP! POP! Two shots echoed
through the trees. Bloody hell! Someone
was shooting. Had I strayed into a ‘game’
area? I got back on the bike and rode on
as quick as I could, mindful that I could be mistaken for an animal or be the
victim of stray bullets. The track wound
its way further into the bush and after a few kilometres I thought it safe to
stop.
The silence was again
blissful. I stood enjoying it when a
fallen branch snapped behind me. I
turned just as a pop rang out and the sound of air being split whooshed past my
head. “FUCK!” I yelped loud enough to
startle something into running. I’m sure
it was a biped, the hunter.
I stood in silence, to the
point of panicking. Was that a mistaken
shot? Or had someone deliberately taken aim at me? I didn’t want to find out. I was back on the bike and headed back the
way I had come, the whole time wondering why the hell people feel the need to
shoot animals. Perhaps my experience had
just given me some insight into the mindset of these people.
On the main road, my nerves began
to calm a little. Bugger the dirt for
now, I headed straight for the highway, the tracks that follow the coast would
have to wait for now, I’d be back. In a daze,
I 
was determined to get to Cann River, it couldn’t come soon enough. I needed to take stock of what had just
happened. Hindsight says I probably
should’ve reported it to the authorities.
was determined to get to Cann River, it couldn’t come soon enough. I needed to take stock of what had just
happened. Hindsight says I probably
should’ve reported it to the authorities.
Lunch was light and refreshing
yet I couldn’t get the sound of ‘whoosh’ out of my mind. Was it a bullet that had come so close that I
could hear it? Perhaps my imagination
had been running berserk again. The
circumstances seemed to be too much of a coincidence. Back on the bike I followed the coast as much
as possible, sticking to bitumen. I was
soon in Lakes Entrance. Settling into a
motel that had pay television I began to watch the Malaysian Formula One Grand
Prix, I’m glad I decided to do this, Daniel Ricciardo took his Red Bull to
victory. I didn’t celebrate, I fell
asleep before the sun had even slipped below the horizon …
Disabled toilet.
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