A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil.
So we travel, leaving Melbourne taking the time to travel to the Broken Hill. What we seek are differences, what we find are similarities. Yet at some point we have traveled through time. To a time where there is time to be. To be friendly, courteous, interested in what we are setting out on, on our adventure.
A town, the same, as well as being unique. Again the tentacles of civilization reach out to bring the community closer to the fringe dwellers of the island nation, if not in distance then in time. First, by road, by air, by com cables, then by the amenities. We see a new water main under construction. Water, life, for an almost desert town. Pubs and clubs are no different to our local. Distance, distance remains the only unchangeable that separates here from there.
We are presented with a day of clear blue sky and cold that cuts like a knife. An ample hot breakfast is included on the start to the Outback. Broken Hill being the southern gateway to the outback does not disappoint.
Forty or so bike riders come together, around a close-knit family business called Maschine. Maschine, a strange name for a company that is so people orientated. This Maschine has a lot of personality. Maschine bring together a bunch of motorcycle individuals who like to share, in a fragmented style, an adventure. Each individual is in charge of their own adventure. Each has a responsibility to the group as well as personally. All are willing participants, all remain individual motorcyclists.
Outback asphalt highway is the opening start to our ride. It is a good beginning to a long day of changing road conditions. Riding through small towns whose history is steeped in travel adventure. Where Harry Ding got his start in business, then going on to give Tom Kruse with his Leyland Badger his opportunity at adventure. The Birdsville Track still considered an adventure right of passage today, even with all our modern gear.
Leaving the asphalt road with its parallel railway, we take the gravel road, the back road to the Flinders Ranges. This is an easing in, a precursor, a bit of a warm up for what lies ahead. For as we seek the outback the road tells the story of how few travel this way.
Puffs of bull dust rise from the plain way out in front of me. Lifted into the still cold air carried by a slight breeze. As cold as it is we appreciate the breeze when it takes the dust off across the plain, giving a clear view of the road ahead. Bull dust holes and stretches of wind blown sand start to test the riders alertness and skill. With enough of both to keep the ride interesting as well as raise the riders skill level, as long as they stay upright.
My reward for surviving the plains monotony interspersed with moments of terror are the rolling hills. Here the road surface becomes predictable. This is my sort of dirt. Yes the gravel can be skatey, but this is riding nirvana. Who ever built this road was in touch with his earth. Over rock ridges, across small depressions through the dry creek beds the ever-twisting curling road is formed. How do I know? I am that man. I would make this road as he has made this road. I ride the road never having been here before, knowing how it will be. This is my reward. This is one reason for being here, to experience this.
Leaving the rolling hills we climb into the valleys of the Ranges. Either side they tower above us. I travel through following the dust comets that preceded me. Two black pearls, two white pearls, the helmets of the riders that create the dust trails, evenly spaced, an imaginary string of pearls that twists and turns following the predetermined path.
Rocky ranges on either side of our road beckon to us, like Sirens of ancient times. Invitingly they stand above us, their gorgeous curves there to be ridden. Just as surely we know that, should we accept the challenge, the jagged rocks would take their toll. We return to the plains leaving the Ranges with their ever-changing hues unspoiled.
All too soon the day finishes as we arrive at the settlement nestled in the craggy rock gorge of the Wilpena Pound. A pleasant return to civilization, after a day out in the elements.
We are presented with a day of clear blue sky and cold that cuts like a knife. An ample hot breakfast is included on the start to the Outback. Broken Hill being the southern gateway to the outback does not disappoint.
Forty or so bike riders come together, around a close-knit family business called Maschine. Maschine, a strange name for a company that is so people orientated. This Maschine has a lot of personality. Maschine bring together a bunch of motorcycle individuals who like to share, in a fragmented style, an adventure. Each individual is in charge of their own adventure. Each has a responsibility to the group as well as personally. All are willing participants, all remain individual motorcyclists.
Outback asphalt highway is the opening start to our ride. It is a good beginning to a long day of changing road conditions. Riding through small towns whose history is steeped in travel adventure. Where Harry Ding got his start in business, then going on to give Tom Kruse with his Leyland Badger his opportunity at adventure. The Birdsville Track still considered an adventure right of passage today, even with all our modern gear.
Leaving the asphalt road with its parallel railway, we take the gravel road, the back road to the Flinders Ranges. This is an easing in, a precursor, a bit of a warm up for what lies ahead. For as we seek the outback the road tells the story of how few travel this way.
Puffs of bull dust rise from the plain way out in front of me. Lifted into the still cold air carried by a slight breeze. As cold as it is we appreciate the breeze when it takes the dust off across the plain, giving a clear view of the road ahead. Bull dust holes and stretches of wind blown sand start to test the riders alertness and skill. With enough of both to keep the ride interesting as well as raise the riders skill level, as long as they stay upright.
My reward for surviving the plains monotony interspersed with moments of terror are the rolling hills. Here the road surface becomes predictable. This is my sort of dirt. Yes the gravel can be skatey, but this is riding nirvana. Who ever built this road was in touch with his earth. Over rock ridges, across small depressions through the dry creek beds the ever-twisting curling road is formed. How do I know? I am that man. I would make this road as he has made this road. I ride the road never having been here before, knowing how it will be. This is my reward. This is one reason for being here, to experience this.