by Paul Carter
‘Fuck off, mate.’ Matt finally let go.
‘Excuse me?’ Rooster One was clearly not a fighting cock, you could see it in his eyes.
‘Leave us alone.’ Dan jumped up and Rooster One jumped back, dropping his $100 cigar.
‘He’s sick.’ I smiled. Poor Danny. ‘Sorry, we’re just tired. Enjoy your ride.’
Rooster One went back to the gaggle. They glared at us for a bit then roared off. The big guy with no sleeves came out with his latte. ‘What a fuckwit,’ he said. ‘Good luck on the chip burner, Paul.’
I love it.
We detoured off the highway to Kalgoorlie for lunch; Dan found a chemist and parked himself outside a coffee shop with a muffin. Matt and I wandered up the main street and back down the other side. Typhoid Danny was not feeling any better, so we kept going. That night we were in Norseman. Dan crashed early, full of Lomotil and flu night meds, and I sat up with Matty watching old horror films. The couple in the room next door had a fight; Matty was about to go over and join in but then they started shagging, though at first I thought he was murdering her. Together Matty and I got drunk and took it in turns to fart on Dan’s head. Childish? You betcha.
Then before I knew it, it was 6 a.m., and I was back on the Eyre Highway, about to start Australia’s longest, straightest, dullest bit again. Dan staggered into the cab, looking like he’d just spent the last three months living underground. As I rode I was thinking about Lola; I wondered what she was doing—would she be out at playgroup with Clare? I was miles away in the cotton wool, thinking about my girls, when BANG!—a punch in the head. I swerved, looked back; I couldn’t believe it, a bird had clocked me. A wind-blown line of blood tracked across my visor. Right, I thought, pay attention; worry less, ride more, and watch out for air traffic.
The road ahead was an agonising hollow motorcycle shaker into scrub emptiness. We stopped so Dan could shoot the big open nothing, and then got on the road again. And so we continued: shoot again, go again.
‘Dan’s freaking out about the lack of footage.’ Matt came over on the radio while Typhoid Danny stumbled into a mud flat with his camera. ‘He’s panic shooting mud now.’ I think Dan was developing Stockholm Syndrome; in his weakened state, Matt had devoured him.
At the halfway mark across the Nullarbor, Madura Pass made for a hilly bit, a nice change, and we spent the night there. I tried to get Dan to eat the quiche.
I’d done all this before with the girls, and it didn’t feel much different on the bike. The road was just mind-numbingly boring, an endless unrolling of blacktop, a long line of nothing. Those three days across the Nullarbor were a seamless blur of one long road punctuated by a sick cameraman, a demented driver, and a border crossing. We were burnt out.
On the morning we left Ceduna, it suddenly got cold, and the wind picked up as the day wore on. We just kept going; by nightfall I was a wreck, the road was slippery and I needed to refuel. ‘Pulling over, mate.’
Matty swung over to the side of the road and killed the engine. Dan was asleep in the cab and Matt fell asleep at the wheel before I’d finished doing my bio thing. I turned off the fuel pump, stowed the line and zipped shut the flap. The truck’s lights caught the rain starting to fall: gently at first, then it bucketed down. I changed the CVT belt, checked the oil, and then I just stood there looking through the truck’s windscreen at the guys, both fast asleep. The wind whipped past me, flapping the tarp covering the truck’s cage. Water was cascading down the glass, and I knew that inside the boys had the heater on. I was so tired; it was like my internal bike had just gone down through its gearbox from fifth to neutral while I was standing there: wwwhm, wwwhm, wwwhm, wwwhm. I pictured myself getting motivated. Harden up, I said to myself. I thought about pushing on to Adelaide, when suddenly there was a rhythmical squeak and a little Japanese guy on a bicycle loaded like a Pakistani mule pulled up beside me.
‘Good evening.’ He cut a big smile.
‘Where did you come from?’
‘Sydney.’ He beamed. ‘On the way to Perth.’
He had to be 50. If he could do it, so could I. Would I give up? Would I fuck. ‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked.
I like the pub in Kimba, the Community Hotel. We had a feast in there that night. One more day on the road and we’d be done. A few people came up with words of encouragement. Matt looked rested and ate well for once, and Dan was on the mend too, chatting up a blonde at the bar. My phone rang. It was a guy called Jock from the Australian Motorcycle Association; he’d been following the ride online and asked if a few of the members could join up with me in Port Wakefield the next day and ride with me into Adelaide. I was chuffed; I never thought anyone would want to join up and ride with me.
The next morning, riding into a feral head wind, we rounded into Port Augusta and found our rally point. There were eight bikes waiting, a really nice group of men and women. Those last 100 k’s were wonderful. I stopped just outside the city and called Colin.
‘The press are here, you on time?’ He sounded excited.
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes mate.’
‘See you then.’
The plan was to ride back to exactly the same spot from where I had left three months ago. I left Dan and Matty behind; riding through the last set of lights and into the university grounds felt surreal. I couldn’t believe the bike and I had made it. Then I looked around, bewildered: there was no sign of any media. Colin, Rob, Phil, Steve and the mechanical engineering students were all standing on the far side. As we all pulled up, Colin ran over.
‘You’re never going to believe this.’ He rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Everyone just bolted down the road on foot, five minutes ago. Apparently the Premier of South Australia just called a press conference to deny shagging a parliamentary waitress in his office.’
I was gobsmacked. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Sorry mate, bigger story.’
‘Let’s have a drink.’
I looked over to see a familiar face. It was Rob Egan, my biggest sponsor, all the way from Singapore. He shook my hand. ‘Well done, mate.’
It was weird standing there surrounded by people after spending so much time alone with my thoughts on the bike. Now I was getting bombarded with questions and going blank. It was over. I was so familiar with Betty that I just expected to get back on her, ride off and keep going. But it was done. Now, weirdly, I didn’t want it to be over. I didn’t want to leave Adelaide and leave that bike behind.
Finally, Dan and Matty pulled up. In the morning they were flying back to Sydney. Poor Dan’s job wasn’t over, though; he had nearly 200 hours of footage to go through and turn into a DVD.
Rob took us all out to dinner in a great Italian place close to the uni. The drinking went on all night. Quaily shouted me a flash hotel suite in the city—what a guy. My plan had been to get back in the truck in the morning and, you guessed it, drive it back to Perth. However, as we all went our separate ways that night Rob handed me a business class ticket back home, and told me Ashley Taylor and Ron Currie—two other sponsors—had chipped in to pay for the truck to be freighted back to Perth. I could have kissed him.
I slept the happy sleep of the righteous and woke feeling energised and newly alive. I walked into the uni workshop that morning and started unloading a mass of spare parts, then wandered about looking for Betty like an anxious parent. She had already been stripped; I found her, in the same spot where I’d first laid eyes on her, now just a frame, surrounded by her parts, her wiring splayed out over the floor in an empty room. She was looking very sad indeed, I felt like what identified me with her had been pulled out before I got a chance to say goodbye. We had a connection; after all, she tried to kill me once.
‘Don’t worry, mate.’ Rob came round the corner. ‘She’s getting rebuilt again. Nice work on the frame and brakes, by the way.’
‘That was Matt Bromley,’ I said.
Betty was getting a new engine, a new paint job, a new start. The engine I had used was getting mounted on a stand and sent to the National Motorcycle Museum in Nabiac as an exhibit, the first bio-fuelled engine to power a motorcycle round Australia—nice one.
In the meantime, though, Betty’s bigger, badder high-speed sister sat out in the main workshop somewhere, waiting for me. I hoped we would get on better than Betty and I had.
Colin came over while I was talking to Rob. ‘You’re gonna want to see this.’
The last time I saw the High Performance Diesel Motorcycle it was just an engine on a table. I rounded a corner, anticipation rising, and the first thing I saw was Dan picking up his camera. He moved aside and there it was: long, low, and very mean. Now it was a weapon.
Colin started going all rocket scientist, talking about gearing, thermal dynamics, piston acceleration. But I was long gone. That bike had me at hello. I climbed on, lay over the beast and grabbed the bars.
‘You ready for this?’ Colin looked buzzed.
I could feel prickles of adrenalin run through my body. Was I ready? Was I fuck.
The current land speed record for a bio diesel motorcycle is 267 kilometres per hour . . . Well, not for long.
Betty and I did 14,500 k’s around Australia.
We did two complete bike rebuilds, chewed up sixteen CTV belts, 600 litres of bio-fuel, four tyres, and two of everything else.
Twelve thousand dollars went to charity and education in Western and South Australia.
I got my bike trip and something to write about.
I sit here now in comfort; nothing’s sore or broken, my seat is not vibrating and I can feel my hands again. I wanted another adventure and I got it, but more importantly I realised that I’m not at all what I thought I was. I look at the footage Dan shot and think, ‘Wow, you’re actually a complete muppet’—but I hope to improve on that.
I’m not a hard-faced, hard-core, well-financed professional traveller, I’m just a regular bloke trying to do something with his fleeting existence on this earth other than just plod through life paying bills. The road trip—this road trip—was to be as much a journey into the darkest reaches of my soul as it was a turning point in my life. I wanted to know if I could do it, all of it. And I did, but only with the help of family, friends and colleagues.
At 40 I’m constantly looking to exorcise my ghosts of respectability in the pursuit of another journey. But now I realise that can’t happen anymore. My girls are the real journey I couldn’t see through the dream of dust and bio-diesel. It wasn’t until I got my first real look at Australia, not until I was thousands of empty miles away from them, that I understood that at last. I set out on the trip wanting to feel like I used to on a bike miles from anywhere, but I didn’t, I couldn’t. Everything has changed. The internal road that plays out in Clare and Lola’s world is where I’m headed.
Well, as soon as I crack 300 on the salt.
It’s with much pride and heartfelt gratitude that I try to start the thank-yous without writing another book in the process. So before I start saying thanks I’ll remind you why it’s so important that I do say thanks, especially when you consider the global financial market I was lucky enough to get sponsorship from. If I missed you out, I was on drugs.
My wife Clare for the leave pass, for backing me up, for putting up with my madness. Lola for shoving those dummies up my tail pipe. Peter West and Craig Voight for letting me take the time off and for doing my job while I was gone, especially the part when you let me come back even after realising how little I do. Dr Colin Kestell for his unwavering support and total commitment to helping me get this off the ground; his brilliant students; the guys in the workshop—Rob, Steve and Phil; and all the team at the University of Adelaide—thank you! My drivers for not running me over, for putting things right; in the right order, ‘Drug Free’ to ‘Free Drugs’ Howard Fletcher, Shane Edwards, Phil Downey, Mathew Downey, Gavin Kelly and Carrie Downey: you all did me proud. Dan Stevenson for his support, brilliant camera work and ability to drink and shoot at the same time. My dad Alan for so much help along the way. And the outstanding team at Allen & Unwin, especially Catherine Milne for her patience and advice all the way from San Francisco.
Graeme Barton for a great paint job, Ross Luck for so much advice, Paul Bettles, Donald Millar, Neil Boath, Stephen Digby, Ron Currie, Charlie Morgan, Shaun Southwell, Dare Jennings, Ben Monroe, Matt Bromley, Taka Aoyama, Peter Keegan, Arthur Palmer, Anthony Black, Jordan West, Bob Hicks, Lou Amato, Steve Hudson, Siggi Buba, Paul and Christina Blair, Peter Gerrand, Eleanor Collins, Rick Popik, Senior Constable Ben Lavington, Detective Kent Crane, David Easton, Chris Brinkworth for the Macallan and for being a legend, Stephen Yarwood, Sky Di Pietro, Jane De La Vega, Gail Lodge, Peter Hymus, Peter Dewar, Nigel Michalaney, Leo O’Hagan, John Lloyd, James Ward for the DB9, Haydn Harper, Greg Waters, Doug Howard, Dave Sadler, Nigel Begg, Clayton Jacobson, Claire Balart, Liam Kelly, Charlie Morgan, Tim Walker, Nikki Wright, Brad Neenan, Janine McBride, Mitch Elkins, Sue Hines, Christa Munns. The staff at Longreach Hospital, Mel and Kim the paramedics; Marlee, Evan, Trevor and Ruth at Bullo River Station; Dave Henry the chopper pilot; Simon the BMW guy; Rory Panetta at Gimoto Leathers; brilliant photographers Christos Doudakis and Brendan Beirne; the musical Craig Doherty; and Erwin Herczeg—see you on the salt.
Here’s to the riders.
My sponsors, all good people who thought I was mad but backed me anyway: