Crossing the Tanami: Top Springs to Lajamanu
A sensible person would’ve accepted their limitations at this point and made alternative plans. There’s no shame in that.
But it was a beautiful morning at Top Springs and I am not sensible person. OK, Lajamanu road would be much harder than the Buchanan Highway, but it was also shorter — 200km of tar, followed by 120km of highly technical terrain. I’d hit deep, deep sand, river crossings, loose stones, boulders, extreme corrugations, intense heat and, of course, unknown flood damage consisting of mud, rutting and possible flood water.
I packed the bike and sat at the intersection, facing the Buchanan highway. Turning left would take me to Katherine where I could see Warlpiri friends and arrange for people in Lajamanu to meet me. Turning left would take me to Kalkarindji (Wave Hill), then onto Lajamanu Road.
I turned Left.
I’d spent the morning tightening bolts that had rattled loose on the Buchanan the day before, and getting bulldust off my chain. I thought the bike was in pretty good shape and I’d just been tired the night before when I decided attempting Lajamanu Road was too dangerous.
I thought wrong.
We rode to Kalkarindji, 200km West of Top Springs, at the start of Lajamanu Road and stopped for fuel. “That road no good” we were told by a Gurindji Countryman at the fuel station. “Better to wait a few days”. It was good advice but I am an idiot — pig headed and proud. So I went anyway.
Lajamanu Road was hell on earth. I should be dead. I don’t know why I’m not dead. The corrugations were so severe that the welded steel brackets holding my driving lights on snapped and both lights went flying — held onto the bike only by their electric cables. I caught one as it flew past my ear. The other bounced under the bike until I could draw it back up by the lead. At this stage I didn’t dare to stop the bike. In the extreme heat, my phone had shut down. The trail tech digital speedo on the bike stopped working, the usb power supply went dead. And I knew, if I turned off the engine, the electronic start on the bike wouldn’t function and I’d be trapped.
The corrugations were crisscrossed with deep ruts, often lasting half a km or more, forcing the bike into places where the road was torn away. Then I hit deep sand. Bulldust as deep as halfway up my front wheel — and I CAN’T ride in sand. “Keep your weight back and don’t lose momentum” — my mate Pete told me in my head and somehow I didn’t crash.
Riding Lajamanu road at 70kph was like having a heart-attack for 3 hours straight. I ran through all the things I’d do when we inevitably crashed — hit the SOS button, get the dog off the bike, ration the water. I prayed to every God I knew the name of, pleaded with ghosts, with the desert, with the motorcycle…
20km from Lajamanu my phone tore off the mount and flew out into the spinifex. Without thinking, I stopped the bike and the engine died. I walked back to get the phone, cursing under my breath, and sure enough… the bike wouldn’t start. The electronic ignition didn’t work. 20 kms doesn’t sound far, but you can’t walk 3kms out here without dying. I might as well have been stuck on Jupiter.
I turned the key again and, miraculously, the bike started! A huge puff of bulldust came out the back and it lurched up the road. Now it was a race. I had to make it to Lajamanu before the bike fell apart on the corrugations. I could hear the petrol tank rattling, shaking right and left. Something under the bike let go and flew out into the dust behind me. The Rok strap holding my tyre pressure gauge to the frame snapped and the gauge was gone. But I kept going, with a death grip on the handlebars, just watching as far ahead as I could, trying to find lines through the sand… and then the first solar tower of Lajamanu appeared on the horizon.
I wobbled into town. Forks badly twisted, spot lights pushed under my windscreen, leads and bolts hanging off the bike — Moon coated in red dust and panting. I parked the bike and tried to dismount but just fell into the dirt. A sweet local lady saw me through her window and ran out with cold water. She ushered Moon and I inside and covered us with wet towels to get our temperatures down. I could barely walk or speak. Moon lay on his side panting like a dog-skin rug.
Half an hour later we felt recovered. We thanked Narelle for her rescue efforts and went to find my dear friends Louisa, who runs the arts centre here in Lajamanu, and my skin-brother Wanta Jampijinpa Patrick.
I know there are motorcyclists who would’ve found this ride less difficult than I did. But I will point out that I have only been riding motorcycles for 18 months, I’m a middle-aged lady with serious arthritis, and I rode with a dog on the back. My odometer tells me I’ve ridden 22,000km on this DR650 since buying it 9 months ago — and I’ve just crossed the Tanami without dying.
And although I tell everyone that I ride alone, it’s not really true. Everyone who has advised me in the lead up to this ride, and during it, was with me on Lajamanu Road yesterday. I could feel you all there. Vince with his sage guidance, Pete- you were there too, Ben, Shane and the ACT Adventure Riders, all you beautiful and brave WARA women. This is why motorcycle communities are so important.
And I’ve learned a few things too. 1. Ride corrugations at 70–80kph, even if it’s scary, because you’ll be in less danger, 2. If you get in trouble, momentum is your friend, 3. Don’t go bush without a 14-tooth sprocket, 4. Everything will break on your motorcycle if you ride far enough on corrugations… everything, and 5. If you believe you can do something, you will always be right. Fear is the only true enemy.
