Still wobbling, but we’re in the desert now!

Moon and I limped into Dubbo after breakfasting by the highway with trucks roaring past, with a wobbly front wheel. At first glance Dubbo seems to be a pretty motorcycle friendly place — that’s what we thought anyway. There are five well-advertised motorcycle garages­­ in town — none of whom were willing to help. Of the five, one was particularly unhelpful. The guy who answered the phone explained to me that they didn’t have time to address such a “complex problem”. The issue with DR650s, he explained, is that they have” a lot of air flowing around them”. “It’s a motorcycle, mate”, I replied, but he continued “best thing to do is replace all your spokes” . . . Now I’m not a motorcycle mechanic but I do know that there’s no more air flowing around my motorcycle than anyone else’s — and that replacing spokes wasn’t going to help.

The fifth Dubbo mechanic with no time (they’re obviously very busy in Dubbo), suggested I call a young guy who’d just set up his own business. Despite his relative inexperience, young Matt did not even once suggest I try to reduce the amount of air around the motorcycle. Instead he just tried to fix the problem. Matt’s dad even swung by to lend a hand (what a good Dad!). If you’re riding through Dubbo and have bike issues, I suggest you save yourself the trouble of calling the major garages (they’re too busy) and go straight to Matt at M & M Mechanics on the edge of town.

With a tightened head stem bearing and better front alignment, the wobble was much improved. And until I hit the freeway I thought it had gone. Alas no. We headed out along the Barrier Highway toward Broken Hill, dodging goats. So many goats. Hundreds of them. Most were smart enough to run from approaching traffic, but one ram wasn’t sure my motorcycle posed a threat. He held his ground until I slowed and beeped the horn, and then slowly left the road, staring at me the whole time…

The goat factor was swiftly complicated by an additional emu factor — that and the wheel which now only wobbled when we hit 100kph, and our late departure from Dubbo, all meant we weren’t progressing fast. There was no way we’d reach Broken Hill by dark, and I didn’t fancy my chances at night with the great goat migration taking place. We stopped at Emmdale roadhouse in the middle of nowhere.

The landlady was hospitable, offering us a campsite for half price as we looked like being the only patrons… conspicuously camping on the side of a highway traversed by grey nomads, roo shooters and trucks. I decided to take my chances with the night goats… but as I began to repack the bike, a couple of caravaners pulled in. We camped together in the totally illusory safety of numbers. And woke to Apostle birds and bees.

Next morning, I tried reorganising the weight distribution of luggage on the bike, in case it was contributing to the wobble (thanks to whoever suggested that on Facebook). I took heavy tools out of the panniers and strapped them to the centre of the bike — shifting myself forward until I was virtually sitting on the fuel tank!. When Moon was safely on the bike with his goggles and ear protection, we moved to the petrol bowser. All those heavy tools on the seat made the bike outrageously top heavy, and as soon as I dismounted to fill the petrol tank, the bike fell over.

Bang.

Moon was thankfully unhurt because of the bouncing-castle-sized bundles of camping gear strapped to the sides of his K9 Moto Cockpit. The lady from the roadhouse, and the lady camper from the previous night, ran over to help me lift the bike back up. Three middle aged swearing ladies lifting an overpacked motorcycle with a dog on the back in the middle of nowhere. There must be a joke that begins that way…

But the theory was right. Sure, my motorcycle can only be parked with the side stand on a downward slope now, or it falls over (which it did again today), and I am riding with my face in the windscreen, but the wobble doesn’t kick in now until 105kph, so…. Progress. I have no idea what is causing this. The bike hasn’t ever wobbled like this before, so I’m starting to wonder if Dunlop 606 tyres front and back is the problem…

(This pic and the first one were taken by my brother in law and sister in law from their car)

A quick break in Broken Hill to have a coffee with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law (who were also travelling through), and Moon and I were on our way to South Australia. As I helped him back onto the bike at Broken Hill, a couple of tourists from Beijing stopped to take his photo. Turns out one of them was a photographer who’d been to the festival in Pingyao where I exhibited!

The road to SA had more goats. Fewer emus.

We stopped at Petersborough, a little town with a motorcycle hanging from the pub balcony, about 150km from Port Augusta. Set our tent up beside a true motorcycle lover and his wife. They lovingly built their Harley Davidson from 1960s and 1980s model Harley parts, and added a custom crocodile skin seat. I learned all about guardian bells, which if hung low enough on a motorcycle, will ward off road gremlins and keep a rider alive. As this particular rider was definitely alive, one must assume they work.

Approaching Port Augusta the Country came alive. The first salt lakes stretching out in pale pink. The spinifex savannahs- greener than I’ve seen in a long time. Then the blackened coolabah trees. I’m not in the desert yet, but it’s making its presence felt. We stopped to replace my lost spare motorcycle gloves in Port Augusta and headed for Pimba, near Woomera, for the night. I’m writing this in a tent in the carpark at the famous Spud’s Roadhouse.

I’ve camped here hundreds of times, but never with a motorcycle. Tomorrow we’ll head out toward Roxby Downs and take a look at the track conditions.

The stretch of the Stuart Highway between Port Augusta and Spuds Roadhouse is one of my favourite places in the SA desert. It’s where the terrain changes, flattening out onto vast panoramas of bluebush and grasslands. It’s hard to describe the bigness of the sky, the endlessness of the flat land, to anyone who’s not seen it. At night the stars come right down to the ground and you feel like you’re standing in one of those star domes you can buy in the gift shops of planetariums.

The bike isn’t reliable at the moment. It’s generating more heat than I’d like and the wobble is disconcerting because I’ve no idea what’s causing it. But we are at the gateway to the desert, under endless stars. The dog is curled in a happy, post-bacon-for-dinner-again ball, and we’ve not hit an insurmountable obstacle… yet. If we get to Alice without breaking down, I hope to find a mechanic there. Because after Alice, we’ll be in the Tanami— Country of my heart and Moon’s homelands.