Riding through South America and India, military checkpoints were somewhat standard, but I can’t say I ever expected to come across one here in Aus. However, when we got to the border with NSW and Queensland, that’s exactly what we got. There were a few cops and a whole bunch of army blokes blocking the road checking everyone who came through.
Luckily, we had all the paperwork and receipts/proof that we’d been out of Victoria for more than 14 days, so the border wasn’t an issue. But with everything changing day to day you just never know and we were feeling bloody good when they waved us through. That is, until only 30km past the border checkpoint, my DR gave a big KACHUNK.
Followed by a hell of a rattling from the gearbox. It didn't sound good. It’d been a long day though, so we decided to just pull off the road into some paddocks and sort it out in the morning.
The next day, we managed to limp 100km into Cunnamulla with the hope of sorting the bike there. Both the bikes were due for an oil change, and we’d put some heavy kilometres on them since Broken Hill, so it did seem logical that the roughness in the gearbox could be fixed with some clean oil. We chucked in a few fresh litres, switched out the filter and crossed our fingers. Unfortunately, when I took Tina for a quick lap around the block to make sure she was better, I got the exact opposite. She was rough as guts.
We got on the phone to the nearest motorbike mechanics in another town a few hundred kilometres away and the diagnosis wasn’t good. No one could say for sure without seeing the bike, but it sounded like something in the gearbox was acting funky. And not good funky, more like Scott’s socks at the end of a long day riding funky.
The problem with gearbox issues is that to repair it, you need to take the whole engine out of the bike and crack it open. We were looking at 20+ hours of work and $3,000 before factoring in parts, and that’s if everything went well. There was also the small challenge of our good friend COVID. Because it had smacked global supply chains for a six and out, it was going to take at least a month to actually get any parts when we isolated the problem. Again, that’s if everything went well. We did still need a mechanic to set eyes on it though, cause it could still be a simple fix.
Either way, in the space of about two hours, we went from thinking $50 for 2L of oil was pretty expensive to asking ourselves if we could afford to spend maybe $1,000 each fixing the bike if that was the case, and then on to looking at the possibility that we could need a whole new bike.
That’s when the real hero of the story stepped in, RACV (and their good friend RACQ). We’d signed up to RACV’s top level of roadside assist before heading off, and it was about to earn its keep. First up, we’d get a free tow to the mechanic so we could at least find out what was going on. While all that was happening they’d chuck us in a hotel for up to seven nights. And, if it turned out that the bike was toast, they would pay a recovery tow for the bike back to Victoria or wherever we needed it to go.
Either way, that night we were pretty bloody stoked to be in a hotel room. Although it may end up being the most expensive hotel room I ever stay in if it’s accompanied by the need to purchase a new bike. Nevertheless, it would be our first proper night in a bed since we’d set off. That might not have bothered Baguette as she was used to life on the road, but this princess right here couldn’t wait for a good shower, a facemask and a nice G&T. Call me spoilt, but sometimes you just have to treat yourself, honey.
After a few nights of R&R, we got the unfortunate confirmation from the mechanic that the bike was, indeed, “fockin’ rooted”. I believe that’s the technical term used in the mechanics industry.
At this point, we were realistically facing two choices. Pack up and head home, or buy another bike and continue. The first choice wasn’t really a choice to be honest, as Victoria was on the verge of entering stage 4 lockdown. We weren’t really down for that.
We’d had a feeling that Tina was on her last legs and so we’d managed to line up a mechanic who was going to buy her and hopefully give her a new lease on life. We’d also managed to find another bike for sale in Brisbane that was well set up and ready to go. The only challenge was getting there. Due to COVID, flights were cancelled, trains were on hold and buses weren’t running on their normal schedule. Realistically, the best option was going to be to hitchhike.
I was actually pretty stoked at the idea of hitchhiking again, as it had been a while. As far as I can remember, it was also going to be my first time hitch-hiking a significant distance solo, and my first time squatting solo too.
The plan was simple. I would hitch a ride with a trucker through the night, get to Brisbane early in the morning, buy the bike and ride the 800km or so back to Charleville in time for lunch a day later. Easy peasy.
Not ten minutes after setting up my sign on the side of the road, a couple of Uruguayan backpackers picked me up and reacquainted me with the South American drink, maté. It wasn’t the trucker I was expecting, but we were off to a good start. Another ride then got me just a few hours out of Brisbane, to Dalby.
After some cops showed a bit of curiosity at me standing on the side of the road in Dalby near midnight, I decided it was a good time to pack up and found an interchange bench at footy oval to spend the night at.
Waking up the next morning, it was just one quick ride with a lady heading to Brisbane for church and I was able to lay eyes on my new bike. Fortunately, it was in great nick and I wasn’t facing another long hitchhike back to Charleville empty-handed.
Getting on the road around lunchtime, I now had the treat of breaking in the bike with an 800km of highway riding. By the time I stopped for the night and pulled into the Miles Railway Hotel (also known as a park bench at the train station), I was absolutely pooped.
For some reason, the next morning I thought it would be a good idea to get up at 6am and start riding in 2˚C with only mesh summer riding gloves. My hands were not happy. Regardless, a few hours later I was back in Charleville with a new bike and we were ready to get on with the trip.
It had only been 36 hours since leaving, and I’d managed to hitch-hike through the night to Brisbane, buy a new motorbike and ride 800km back again. Nothing we do ever really seems to go to plan or run smoothly, but for some reason, and please don’t ask me how, this time everything just worked out.
And that’s kind of the point of trips like this. There are small battles every single day. Things break. Plans change. Things generally never just go quite as you expected. And that’s what makes it so fun. You never get exactly what you set out for, often getting so much more and so much less at the same time.
This trip, it took me a little while to get back into the swing of things. I found myself getting a bit more caught up than usual on these little snafus. But when Tina carked it, and soon after that we would need to fork out for a whole new bike, there was really nothing to do but laugh. We were getting exactly what we signed up for and really had no right complaining. I think with any kind of trip, the adventure only really starts when things go wrong, and that’s kind of the point. If you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into, then where’s the excitement?
Next up, we get into the heart of Queensland, ride across sand dunes and fall a lot. Until then, Hakuna Matata!
Pat
So there’s no point fluffing about here. You probably want to know how and why I smashed my ankle into a few bits. It’s honestly not even that exciting. I wish I could tell you that I was doing a sick wheelie just after jumping through a ring of fire and dodging drop bears and hoop snakes but it’s much more boring than that… Or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.