- by Zik Saleeba, 23 Feb 1998
I knew I'd made a big mistake when I rolled into town. "Town" was like something out of a "first settlers" movie. Perched on the side of a hill were a few wooden shacks, a general store and a corrugated iron church smaller than my bathroom. When I pulled the VTR up outside the general store a couple of filthy young urchins ran out to gawk open-mouthed at the spectacle like they'd never seen a sportsbike before. Maybe they never had.
I was lost in the middle of Australia's Great Dividing Range, aching from hours of riding a sportsbike on terrible dirt roads, I was covered in dirt and almost out of fuel. The sun was threatening to set and even if I did find fuel it was doubtful I'd make it out of the dangerous bush tracks before nightfall.
I wasn't happy.
It had all started as a simple afternoon jaunt. I'd headed 100km out of Melbourne towards the famous Black Spur - a brilliant riding road which runs through about 10km of mountainside twists and turns. I was a little late heading out and on the way out gave the nod to quite a few riders already heading back to Melbourne. At the foot of the Black Spur a group of twenty or so were stopped at the side of the road and gave me a big thumbs-up as I headed into serious scratching territory.
The Spur was fun but as always it was over all too quickly. "Well," I thought, "why not do the Reefton Spur as well?" This was my first mistake. You see I'd never ridden the Reefton Spur before and had only the vaguest idea of where to go. I thought that I'd have a look around and if I couldn't find the route I'd head back. A fine plan in concept, though as it turned out the execution lacked a little.
I headed off the highway through Marysville and a while later I hit dirt. Now I'd heard that there were a few kilometres of dirt road on the route so I was expecting it. But frankly I hate dirt. I really hate it. I'm worried enough about traction when my tyres are sticking to a nice bitumen surface. On a dirt road where your front is hammering off corrugations or sliding around on gravel I have zero confidence and just have to take it really, really slow. Soon enough the dirt ended and I was back on bitumen road and enjoying the nice long sweepers.
One second I was happy as a clam, then the next I spotted fine gravel spread all over the road and before I could do a thing the back stepped out and I was fighting for control. Quickly standing her up I managed to scrub off enough speed that I could take the remainder of the corner under control, albeit on the wrong side of the road.
Of course what I'd missed in all the excitement was the turnoff. I was unaware of the fact that I was headed completely the wrong way, directly into hundreds of kilometers of dirt-only roads... Maybe I should have twigged to my mistake when shortly afterwards there was a sign saying "Have you checked your fuel? No petrol for 57km". I just thought the next petrol must be at Warburton and that it was further than I'd thought. Still, I'd filled up before I left home which left about 60km before the fuel warning and some unknown distance on reserve after that.
A couple of kilometres down the road I hit more dirt. This really peeved me. If I'd known there was so much dirt on the route I'd never have come this way. Still, I thought it would probably end soon and I didn't want to have to turn around and cover the same few ks of dirt again getting back to Marysville. This track was worse, too. Corrugations abounded, leaving me skittering around the corners at low speed with very little feeling of control. The gravel had piled up into dangerous drifts between the tyre tracks, leaving me slewing around if was unlucky enough to leave one of the "safe" areas, each of which were filled with potholes and occasional jutting rocks where the road crew hadn't even been bothered to remove them.
After covering only twenty kilometres in a little under an hour I knew something was seriously wrong. A road famous for sports riding surely couldn't be as badly surfaced as this? Another bad sign was that only other vehicles I'd seen recently were four wheel drives. Still, I was getting pretty worried about the fuel situation and I was seriously doubting I'd be able to make it back to Marysville on what I had left. With waning hope I thought maybe the dirt would end soon. Yeah, right.
The views from the road were fantastic, as I noticed in those rare moments I could afford to take my eyes off the pothole-ridden surface ahead. I was winding around a set of mountains in a completely unsettled area - all the eye could see was mountain after valley after mountain. Sliding off the road didn't have much appeal since I'd probably fall hundreds of metres down the side of a mountain and no-one would ever know what had happened to me.
About this time I noticed a mile-marker - "W 80". Warburton 80km. Then a few minutes later "W 85". Yep. Definitely going the wrong way. Still, I didn't have the fuel to go back now so I'd just have to hope that Woods Point - the town I was headed towards - had bitumen access from another direction. Its road signs had been pretty big so I was feeling confident it was a reasonably big place and must have decent access to the highways.
After close to two hours of hammering over corrugations, plunging into potholes and slewing around uncomfortably on the gravel I arrived in Matlock, the premier town of the Shire of Matlock. Or at least that's what the sign said. There was a rather humble wooden house by the side of the track. And that's actually all there was to Matlock! Oh dear. This wasn't looking good. A sign said "Woods Point 8km". Not too much further to go...
By this time the track had deteriorated badly. Innocent-looking sections turned out to be deep wheel-ruts filled with gravel which left the bike weaving wildly, out of my control. My right hand was cramped from trying to hold a gentle throttle over all the bumps. Any more throttle and the VTR's powerful engine would spin the rear wheel right up. Large rocks loose on the surface had the front end hopping left and right, and nearly invisible drifts of fine dirt had me pushing the front before I knew it.
After a while I rolled into Woods Point. Any hopes I'd had of civilisation were crushed. When the VTR's growling exhaust brought wide-eyed children from the shacks it was clear I was way off the beaten path. It was an incredible relief to stop and pull my helmet off - my fingers were cramped and sore, my upper body was aching from gripping the bars and my legs were trembling from supporting my weight over all those bumps. The store owner wandered out, eyed me and my dust-encrusted bike over and laconically remarked, "We don't get many of your type here". Big surprise.
After filling the bike from a prehistoric pump he told me the bad news. No, there wasn't any nice bitumen road out of town. In fact the only other road out was via Jamieson and Mansfield which would cover just about as much dirt - and it'd take hours longer to get back to Melbourne. Glumly I accepted that I'd have to ride straight back the way I came. I'd have liked to hang around and rest a little but the sun was starting to get disturbingly low and I had over 60km of miserable dirt tracks to cover. Without light they'd only get more dangerous.
On the way back I started to go faster. Two hours of dirt riding had begun to pay off! Either I was learning how to handle it better or I was just so tired I was beginning to take stupid risks. I think it was a bit of both because I was certainly covering a lot more ground and feeling a lot more confident but every now and then I'd find myself almost losing control of the bike and barely keeping it from sliding off the road. The fear of plunging over the edge into the valleys below was lurking unwanted in the back of my mind.
I came across a dead, bloated wombat at one point. His legs were sticking out at weird angles and flies were buzzing around him. This reminder of mortality did nothing to improve my mood.
My shoulders were aching from hours of wrestling with the bars. It was just as well I didn't need the front brakes much because my right hand was cramped into the shape of the throttle. I was counting off the ks, watching the sun as it dropped behind the hills and I started to lose visibility, no longer able to spot potholes and corrugations before I hit them. By this stage I was almost beyond caring, ploughing through the potholes and trying to keep the throttle up so I'd beat the light.
At one point a wallaby was startled out of the scrub beside the track. It hopped straight out onto the road and then to my relief collected itself and disappeared back into the bushes before I hit it. Dusk is a bad time to ride in outback Australia. At dusk the wallabies and roos come out to graze. They're notoriously stupid and are easily frightened into hopping in front of you. A roo can do a lot of damage to a bike, not to mention its rider.
It was about then that I went into a corner too hot, hit a drift of gravel in the middle of the road, started to push the front, straightened up and rode the bike right off the side of the road. I found myself slewing around wildly in a deep gravel drift, feet down and flailing for balance. I ended up miraculously upright and OK. I'd been lucky - the corner had been into the hill rather than off the edge - this time at least. I wasn't willing to bet that my luck would hold. As I paused for a minute to take a few deep breaths a 4WD passed me. It was the only vehicle I'd seen the entire trip out. It didn't take a lot of brains to realise how much chance I had of getting help if I got into trouble.
I took it slightly easier from there, but still kept a reasonable pace trying to beat nightfall and fatigue. Finally, about three and a half hours after I'd originally taken the wrong turn I made it back to bitumen. I bet they heard my whoop of joy from Marysville! From there it was simple - down the Reefton Spur road where I should have gone the first time. Except they'd just laid loose gravel and bitumen all over it! As soon as I tried to pick up the pace the rear end started sliding around. But stuff it! I could handle this now! After four hours of gravel hell I was willing to take on anything. Reefton Spur is the best road I have ever ridden on. Period. And in the crazy mood I was in my enjoyment was only heightened by the random patches of gravel everywhere.
Still, the gravel section was only about 5km long. The remaining thirty or so km of brilliant road with easily over a hundred fantastic curves was pure riding bliss. After the bumpy, sliding torture of the previous few hours this was perfect! The bike just stuck to the tarmac like glue and I found myself riding more confidently than I have in months.
After it was over I stopped in Warburton for a pizza. When I got off the bike my whole body was shaking with fatigue. My right hand could barely flex, my left shoulder was cramping horribly and my legs were aching badly. I was walking like a bowlegged duck. The pizza shop owner looked very unhappy to serve me - I must have looked like death. Both the bike and I were completely covered in dust. I felt like I'd been to hell and back - but dammit I'd survived!
After that it was another 80km or so back home along pretty tame roads. By this time it was completely dark but that was no problem on the highways. My main problem now was concentrating properly with the pain and fatigue distracting me. And boredom - there were no more near-death experiences to keep me alert!
I found myself surprisingly happy on the way home - I just kept admiring the VTR's basso grumble and thinking how well it had handled everything. And after the bonding experiences of the day I felt like I could trust it further and ride it better than ever before.