Mentally we had always told ourselves that Mount Isa would mark the end of the hard stuff. With a further nine days of riding ahead however, this proved to be a long way from the truth. A stern wind blew in from a perfectly Easterly direction, and the Selwyn Hills continued to roll up and down with annoying gradient. Our departure from 'The Isa' breaks with our usual early morning rhythm and so we find ourselves grappling with the draining midday temperatures. Our wide brim protective hats, sunglasses, thickly caked on sunblock cream, and capacious jerry cans for water carrying are lifesavers in these conditions. Certainly without such precautions it would be a foolhardy, nay stupid person who would contemplate a journey such as ours. Readers may be staring hard at the page and wondering whether we are best positioned to be commenting on the sanity of other Outback travellers. There are however many more wreckless travellers around than us.

                ‘Na sorry mate, we stop serving at seven’, ‘na mate, youse had better get up to the Shell Roadhouse – that’s the only place to eat at this time’. At eight o’clock the town of Cloncurry rattles like an empty biscuit tin. Everyone is safely tucked up at home and the dusky streets are even more deserted than normal. Although the distance was a lot more reasonable today, I’m completely ‘bushed’, and desperate for bed. I know that if I can get there early then I might have some chance of making the distance tomorrow.

                The next day dawns and I feel little better than when I went to bed. A hard hard day ensues, as once again we are delayed in our departure due to all of us struggling to haul ourselves up out of bed. A belligerent wind continues to buffet us as we edge closer towards the East Coast. Our once freewheeling progress of a generous twenty five to thirty kilometres per hour has dipped dramatically and we now find ourselves having to work hard for our forward progress. In the early hours of the ride several thoughts bounce around my empty head as I ride. I try to move my concentration on to matters other than my aching backside, my tired legs and the sore palms of my hands. In the course of four hundred and seventy odd days on the road I have, like a dog confronted with a series of electric shocks, worked out a few golden rules for covering long distances.

First is that when the riding gets tough and progress becomes slow, that patience is a virtue. It is essential to accept that progress is going to be slower. Each person has a range of ideal cycling intensities. If, due to a tough range of hills or a strong wind in ones face ones forward speed drops it can be tempting to push harder to try and maintain ones normal speed in the face of the retarding conditions. It is at this point that ones legs will begin to feel very tired, very quickly. If one has a long distance ahead, impatience in the face of hills and headwinds is not recommended.

Second is the art of distraction. Cycling in bustling, hectic countries such as India, Nepal, and Indonesia, one's time on the road is alive with sideshows, friendly faces, and a million sights to carry the brain away from the ever-present aching posterior and hands. Contrast this with the deserts of Pakistan, Iran and Outback Australia, where for hour after hour, the only visual stimulus that the brain will be offered will be trees, grass, sand and maybe the odd truck. During these vast landscapes, in times of fatigue, the mind can become worryingly obsessed by numbers at the side of the road counting distance, or a recent tune that is sticking in ones mind, or worse still maybe an uncomfortable riding position. An enticing and captivating train of thought at such moments is exactly what the doctor ordered. Making a plan, wondering about friends at home, or maybe taking an imaginary wander through lush green countryside on a favourite footpath at home can occupy an empty brain struggling for excitement for maybe five of ten kilometres. Enough time to see us through to the next rest stop beneath the shade of a white barked paper tree.

A good subject of conversation, the more controversial the better can also work in a similar way we have found. But today, riding in single file, with the wind whistling past our ears noisily, means that conversation will not be on the menu. My legs are really hurting today, and after a painful ride of almost a hundred miles, both Andrew and I look at each other with an empty smile. Whilst Tim and Scrivs are both surviving, Andrew and I shan't be going anywhere tomorrow. All available energy reserves seem to be at zero, and after just two days since Mount Isa this is not a good situation.

In Julia Creek we try desperately to regain our form, and we spend a day watching road trains rumble through the town, and goods trains lumber deliberately through the huge sidings and cattle loading station just behind our motel. The day comes and goes in something of a blur, and before we have time to touch down and get a proper feel for the town, the sun is setting in a flamboyant blaze of yellows, reds and purples. The traditional wooden verandahs and blades of the metal windmills catch the last rays. As I try to capture the sunset on camera the flies once again find me from their secret hiding places and as I look down to my shins I see dozens of black visitors busily feasting on my tasty English blood. I run off in a fit of scratching, slapping and leg shaking. Still itching, I stumble in through the front door of the Julia Creek Club to find Friday night in full swing. Gambling, drinking and a hearty buffet meal have brought the locals out in force and many people from the local cattle stations. As we enjoy the banter with a few rough outback characters we'd all dearly love to settle in for a few VB's and to share some stories. The sad thing is that the coast doesn't get any closer on these rest days.

On our map we had noticed that around the town of Richmond, a few intermediate settlements begin to creep in between our nightstops. We had hope that this might mean that we would be able to find food for lunch on the road and maybe a cold drink. As we ride through a couple of tiny cattle stations without signs of life, we begin to realise that whilst we are indeed heading for the coast, it may still be a while until the remote Outback begins to release its grip.

As I roll out my things in the tent tonight, my joints ache, I have a slight headache and I'm alternating between hot and cold. A trouble night's sleep follows and for only the second time since London I find myself ill.

We set out for Hughenden the next day well before sunrise, keen to take advantage of the cooler weather and also to avoid the painful headwind that gets up at around nine or ten in the morning. As we ride I find that my elbows are both intensely painful, and my wrists are becoming very difficult to bend. Out here, we have no choice but to continue. I feel that I can't continue at one point, and I ask the others if we can stop. We tramp through some knee-high grass across to a drainage tunnel beneath the railway. In the makeshift shade I lean back against the cool concrete bank. I have reached my Outback threshold. No longer can I consider this as fun. To ride for a week, two or even three through nothingness is fun. At this point, feeling sick and with swollen joints, I have found the limit of my endurance. I just want to be in bed, to get better.

Growing increasingly worried about my condition and quite what might be wrong with me I wander in through the open door of the bar in the Grand Hotel Hughenden. I'm greeted by a slurring, swearing, but very friendly woman by the name of 'Rocky'. Maybe she's a boxer. Who knows? She packs me off to the doctor. 'That Ross River Fever can be friggin nasty stuff' she explains, 'I once knew a guy who just passed right out with it'. I try to explain to Ian that I'm not desperately ill right now, but I am rather concerned about the development of what I have. He doesn't seem overly concerned, and prescribes me with anti-inflammatories for my joints, before telling me about Hughenden. 'I feel comfortable in the Outback' he explains. I still don't fully understand what draws people out of the cities to these remote bush outposts. I guess that's just the point. You either want to live here or you don't.

I cross Rocky on the landing. She's staggering towards the toilet in her nightdress. It's about 3pm. Amazingly she doesn't even see me from four or five paces. I think she's concentrating on the toilet. Relieved not to get involved in a slowmoving drunken conversation I lock the door on our bedroom, turn the lights out and fall into a fitful sleep.

Andrew, Rich and Tim look after me; feeding, watering, and getting medicine for me. I spend the afternoon and that night in intensive recovery mode. We don't really need another night here! Rocky is great company and her conversation electrifying - but the East Coast is calling.

Ache and pains receding I head out to the bakery in the morning for a breakfast of fresh Sausage Rolls. In improved spirits we head out knowing that we have an easier day today. Just ninety kilometres and with an absence of our recent enemy the headwind, we make excellent time to reach Torrens Creek for lunchtime. 'Have a beer with Les!', 'Try Denise's excellent Pies!', 'Just 2 km to go!', the signs draw us in - and before we have time to feel the aches and pains, we're settling in on the other side of the bar to Les, enjoying his South African jokebook and refueling on huge bottles of cold drinks. On our final approach to Torrens Creek, Tim's front wheel had given out a nasty clank. Amazingly he has our first snapped front spoke in the whole trip. To be more accurate he has a snapped nipple, corroded by the action of the sea water back in the Timor Sea. On closer inspection it seems that all his spokes are in similar condition, and it also transpires that we do not have the correct size of spoke for Tim's front wheel. You may remember that it was Tim who had a close encounter with a Nepalese bus after just 1 day on the road (viz. The Possibility of being run over by a Bus). He has a slightly different front wheel to the rest of us. He rides for the next two days with a front wheel with one spoke removed. And to add weight to the growing evidence that front wheels don't really go wrong - he reports no further problems riding with one spoke missing.

Les the barman has us in stitches that evening with his amazing wide ranging taste for eating wild Australian animals. 'Aw Yeer, Never had one o them Emu's before - but I wouldn't mind', 'Roo meat - yeah - its sooo tender - I ran one over not so long ago and brought it back for a barbie', and so the story continues. We can't help but remember the British comedy sketch about Bruce the Ozzie. 'I love wildlife - that's why I like to eat it!' being the regularly repeated punchline. Les's resident drunk, as he calls him, is Barry. Barry first came to Torrens Creek back when he was thirteen. He tells stories of when Torrens Creek was great. Those were the days when it had a hundred and twenty people rather than the current population of twenty people and a mango treefull of Fruitbats. He reminisces about being granted a special Outback driving license by the local Chief constable for Torrens Creek, at the age of just thirteen. And also about dancing with all the women in the dance hall whilst the men were drinking hard in the pub next door

We wave back to Les as we head out into the early morning. His warm hospitality and funny stories set to live with us for some time. Today we're bound for Charters Towers. Again the headwind doesn't rear its ugly head, and we're treated to a fantastic ride. Finally we ride through our long awaited change of scenery. We climb up and over the 'Great Dividing Range'. At a lowly five hundred and fifty metres its not exactly the Himalaya, but the views over a rolling green forest, and steep rocky outcrops are a magnificent and dramatic change from the flatlands that have been our unchanging companion for the last fortnight. Finally we can begin to believe that our Eastwards journey is coming to an end. We feel the sea approaching, and with it the bright light and fantasy of the East Coast.

We pause for a day in Charters Towers. After another hundred miler, we feel that we've earned it. Besides, the town is a wonderful collection of historic buildings from back in the day when Charters Towers was known as 'The World'. The rich vein of Gold that runs beneath the town has once again been opened up and is again bringing prosperity to the town. The Cattleman's Rest House Motel gives us a great deal on a room, we dial in a delivery Pizza, and Andrew fetches us a slab of cold beers from the Bottle Shop. Now this is living. As we watch the end of another Australian whitewash of the sorry West Indian cricketers, it begins to sink in that we're coming ominously close to our journey's end.

With fresh legs and a positive outlook with the end of Outback looming, we speed towards Townsville. Amazingly, its not until we get within twenty kilometres of the coast, that the wild land shows any signs of softening. The map once again had numerous small settlements marked on our way to the coast. And yet most of them amounted to nothing. This gives a perfect summary of how the tiny population of Australia has put barely the tiniest scratch around the edges of this vast wilderness. Infinitely narrow corridors of tarmac cross the land. Villages, roadhouses and cattlestations defy the odds to survive hundreds of kilometres from their nearest neighbours. But millions of acres remain untouched and untamable beyond the reach of the settlers. If you're looking for a wild adventure with a hint of danger, then Outback Australia is a good place to head.

The road widens into a dual carriageway. Cars bleed on to our road from a myriad of side turnings. We feel threatened by the increasing traffic, and our eyes are dangerously distracted by the streets lined with fastfood, supermarkets, hotels and every trapping of modern developed living. Our adventure in wild Australia has reached its conclusion. Our Eastwards journey is at an end. We now head for Queensland and New South Wales' long chain of towns, cities, and resorts that lines the East Coast. Just two thousand kilometres south of us lies the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House, and the end of our road.