1050 km in 10days

14th Dec
to
23rd Dec.

At the roadside the buildings dwindle as we leave Darwin behind. A huge green road sign warns us in bold white letters that it is 1434 kilometres to Alice Springs, and a mere 1047 kilometres to Tennant Creek. Katherine, the next proper town is a snip at 340 k's. We ride past and try to ignore what we are about to confront. The road signs are a source of some amusement to us in these early moments on the Stuart Highway. 'Wrong Way - GO BACK' screams the sign on the wrong carriageway of the two lane road. 'Some things don't come back after a fire!' two huge boomerangs accompany the words that warn people to help prevent bush fires. And then of course we pass the sign for the de-restriction of the speed limit. Around an hours ride outside of the city for us, we reach the sign that most Territorians refer to as the sign that means 'PUT YOUR FOOT DOWN AND GO AS FAST AS YOU LIKE!'. There are no speed limits out in the bush in Northern Territories. But then there are no Police out here to check on the speeding motorists. And when accidents do occur most of them only involve a single vehicle - screeching off the road at high speed - either due to wandering wildlife, or the driver falling asleep! A low pitched whine and growl approaches us from behind. The ground rumbles, and then we feel the rush of wind and the rattling of carriages whistle past us. We each wobble and brace ourselves against the suction of the huge vehicle as it roars past us. The pungent smell of cattle tells us that the mighty road-train that charges off into the distance is bound for one of the Territory's many rural cattle stations. With an enormous tractor on the front that requires a ladder for the driver to climb up into it, and three or four huge trailers tagging along behind, these beasts are probably the biggest single danger to us in our Outback journey. We agree that it will be the responsibility of the last man in our peleton to warn the others of the approach of 'R-T's', and the others will then pass the message forwards. 'Road Train, whoo-woo', and arm signals to resemble the pulling of a train whistle mark the approach of the next one. We hug the roadside as closely as we can, and get well out of the way. Stories of unfortunate cyclists are legion in this part of the World. We don't want to join them.

We stop briefly at the Croc Farm. In just a few days in Australia we have eaten Roo steaks, and now Croc Burgers. Watching one of the fearsome 'salties' thrashing around and hurling itself up against the fence trying to break through to have a go at Andrew, we don't feel so guilty. These creatures are polished killing machines that terrorise the Northern Territories Coastline. Here at the farm, they manage and breed them for commercial purposes, whilst giving them free reign in the large series of lakes. Stories adorn the walls, telling of 'Auntie' a 5 metre giant who lived through two bullets to the head, and continued unharmed. Only a team of men with nets and axes were able to capture the beast.

We suffer two mechanical scares as we head back out on the road. A broken chain for Andrew and a loose rear cassette for me, make us wonder whether our bikes are really going to be up to another punishing 5000 kilometres. My handlebars are squeaking, the bolts for tightening are rusted to bits, my chain makes a terrible noise as I try to change gears, and as for the things which I can't see, well I just don't want to think about it.

We pause a couple of times for cold drinks out of the burning sun. We meet Robin the pump attendant at Noonamah, and our first true Territorian. He gives us rather more detail than we need on the state of his marital relations. His wife has been awarded most of his possessions, and is now living in Katherine. He moved here to be near to her. Katherine is about two hundred miles away. We're only just getting used to the scale of things here.

As the sun finally eases and starts to dip behind the trees we pull into Adelaide River, our first stop after 110k's. We all feel pretty beaten up, dehydrated, sore, burned and with headaches. This is going to be hard. The welcome from Ray the Police Officer at Adelaide River, more than makes up for our fatigue. We're being accommodated in the Visiting Officers Quarters, and after a tasty meal of Barramundi and Chips at the restaurant two doors down, we collapse into bed; exhausted.

The early morning temperatures are the coolest of the day, and we pull away from the Police Station before the heat gets too strong. A group of Aborigines wave to us as we leave town. Friendly faces make a marked contrast to our experiences in Darwin. We have just time to explain to them that we're on our way to Sydney. Greeted by whistles of disbelief, and smiles of good wishes, we push off into the bush. Today Tim is very keen to take the suggested scenic route which adds a further 20 kilometres to our ride. I can't say I'm keen, but we head off down the Old Stuart Highway, away from the traffic, and into an even more remote wilderness. My scepticism is converted however, when we see a couple of pairs of Kangaroos in the undergrowth peeking out sheepishly. Even better though is the lone 'Skippie' who bounces along beside us for a couple of kilometres. Reaching speeds of over 30k's we push a little harder to keep up. Just a few yards ahead of us he bounds across the road in a single leap, and then hightails it into the greenery. Cockatoos screech around from tree to tree, and eagles soar frequently over our heads. We're still very much in a tropical environment and the trees here continue thick and full of life. Their generous branches, here, distant from any disturbance of man, are a plentiful home for a magnificent species of bird life. Although I still can't count myself as a bird spotter, my interest in these brightly coloured and graceful flying creatures has been truly kindled during our time on the road. My ability to name them however still remains woefully inadequate. All manner of parrot type birds flutter from the trees, usually of the dull green and red variety - not dissimilar to those which we had seen squawking noisily as we rode across the Terai in Nepal. Our imagination is arrested by an electrifying splash of colour from the undergrowth as a new entrant in my bird spotting book emerges. 'The Lego Bird', as I name this new one, is by far the most spectacularly coloured creature we have seen. Primary flashes of red, green and blue flutter alongside us before coming to rest in the trees. We're spellbound and watch for a while, and pull to a halt at the roadside.

We ride past side turnings to distant Cattle Stations, and then we also notice a sign that marks the distances down to a town by the name of Port Keats. The previous night we had talked with the Police about affairs in this distant aboriginal outpost. Some 250 kilometres off a turning off a turning off the main Stuart Highway; this town is something of a legend out here for being a hotbed of Aboriginal chaos. The Police had to chase off down there yesterday to sort out a fracas, and we are to hear more stories as we head on down the track. 'The Track' is the name given to the Stuart Highway from the days after its initial conception. The initial route was pioneered by John McDouall Stuart in the 1860's. A large bounty had been offered to the first person to make the overland journey from Adelaide to Darwin in order to open up Australia's vast interior. Until the 70's the road was unsealed and little more than a red dirt track. Finally the track was upgraded to a smooth surface - but still a single carriageway. The towns and road houses that lie along the route to this day are a stark reminder of just how hard a country this is, and also how little things have changed in real terms since the early days of overland travel.

Our next stops are in Pine Creek and then Katherine. Our distances between signs of habitation and most importantly drinks and food, are becoming more distant. Our final push into Katherine sees us covering over a hundred kilometres with no more than a picnic site to distract us from the business of cycling. Once again, we find ourselves hot and burned, thirsty and tired. But we are pleased to be rejoining a town, and to find pleasant place to stay. We have at least made a small dent in our total distance in Australia.

In Katherine we find a great buffet pizza restaurant, where we devour plate after plate of glorious hot pizza. We also can't help but overhear the next table's conversation. 'Nutter' and his family are sitting down for food, and are enjoying a night out together. 'If you don't shut up - I'll whack you so hard you won't be able to eat your pizza' he bawls at his kid. 'You'll be outside with the black fellas!' - we can't quite believe what we're hearing here in a small town in the Northern Territories. The Aborigines are universally referred to as 'The Black Fellas', even by themselves in some cases. Its not until that evening that I have my first conversation with one. 'Mike-Dave', comes and sits down with me as I sit waiting for the telephone. He smiles and chats happily to me, trying to explain about his job, with the National Park Ranger, and how he walked back thirty miles through the bush this afternoon, bumping into a couple of 'Goannas' on the way. Trouble is, that Mike-Dave is a little the worse for wear, having consumed a few cans of VB - and so I can't quite make out his confused words. Nevertheless I feel happy to have had at least a brief chat with a native Australian.

Once again we head out on a long road with not too much there out of Katherine. We are trying to move forward our body clocks as we ride - each morning trying to get up earlier. Tim's natural rythm doesn't like early starts - but he tries to get off to sleep early to allow him to get up in the morning. Out in the late morning heat we're approaching Mattaranka, but the temperatures are now rising steeply in the middle of the day. When the sun really gets going and we find ourselves without shade it doesn't take too long before ones head starts to spin. We try to force down as much water as we can - averaging about three quarters of a litre each 20k's. By doing this and pulling up beneath the shade of some trees every 30k's or so we manage to keep riding long enough to reach the shelter of our next town each day. Beneath the shade of the trees we discover the most annoying blood sucking flies who land inpercievably and begin draining ones legs. Only after a couple of seconds do we feel the tell tale prick - and the itching begins. As we splat them they explode and spill a nasty blood stain across our legs. I can't stand it for very long at each stop and end up hopping around and then saying 'that's it - I'm going'. At least we don't stop for long - we're soon out on the road once again. Mataranka Homestead is set alongside a clear water thermal spring which has been turned into a tropical Oasis for travellers. Andrew and I soothe our aching limbs in the water, and discuss the route ahead. With 10 days solid cycling to get to Tennant Creek, then 2 short days rest before we set off once again for the biggest challenge - the Barkly Highway, two back to back stretches of 185km, followed by 60 and then 190km. I wonder quite how we are going to rise to this enormous challenge - even given our anticipated strategy of night riding to avoid the heat of the day. We discuss our options that night and we agree that we shall do all we can to conserve our energies for the Barkly stretch - and possibly look into breaking down the longer stretches into halves.

The road continues to stretch on into the distance for day after day. In arrow straight lines it rises and falls. We watch cars approaching from up to 3 kilometres away slowly growing from tiny dots into full size speeding cars and then whizzing past and off behind us. The skies usually begin the day overcast, and then the sun seems to burn off the cover in the middle of the day by about the time which we arrive. Setting off at around 7.30 we manage to rattle along in our tight aero formation at anywhere up to 35 k's per hour. Typically we have been averaging 25 k's per hour, and so, including any stops that we have, arriving in time for lunch at our destination.

At Larrimah we stagger into the pub, dripping with sweat and filthy from the road. Allan the landlord looks at us in disbelief, shaking his head 'You guys must be Human Power - right?'. We slump into the chairs in the tiny pub and look at the historic Outback hostelry. Dating back to the Second World War when Larrimah rose to prominence as a key staging post at the Southern End of the Railway from Darwin, the Larrimah Wayside Inn seems to have changed little. A lazy fan spins around above us, and a couple of flies buzz around the place being swatted from one person to the next. Most of the memorabilia that surrounds the pub is rusting or has peeling paint. The ppub is grubby round the edges, and the hotel rooms have no TV, and only tiny air conditioning units. Diane the landlady recounts tales of holidaymakers complaining that the Inn isn't up to scratch. She shrugs her shoulders '....well why would we have Cappucino out here?'. The pub offers what it has, and doesn't pander to the every demand of fickle tourists passing thru. The brash, abrupt manner of the place that promises nothing but ice cold beer, is an accurate reflection of the no messing lifestyle of Territorians. Very much out of the same mould is the pub the following night - the Daly Waters Inn. Its hard to imagine that the owners Lyndsay and Bruce - positioned 3 kilometres off the main road, can turn a profit. And yet that night the bar is bustling. The whole population of Daly Waters, numbering 18, is here supping of deep chilled Victoria Bitter, as well as a throng of travellers who have pulled off the highway here to sample the simple charm of the outback. Just as things are warming up and the alcohol is livening up tired travellers, there's a dull thud, and the lights go out. It turns out that one of those enormous Fruitbats has flown into the wires somewhere back up the line and shorted out the supply to the village. Graham, the guy who should sort things out has passed out, drunk, as he is now officially on holiday, and so the duty falls to Ned, the barman to get the power back on. We sit in the dark, and begin to itch as the mozzers home in on us. Several journeys up and down to the generators don't sort out the problem and so we all wander off to a hot and sticky night's sleep - without airconditioning. Power returns in the morning, to help us enjoy our half day's rest. Shortly before we leave the Police pull in, having made a 100 kilometre trip from the next station to question one of the barstaff - Trish. Allegedly last night at the only other pub in spitting distance - 7 k's down the road, a few of the locals went off and took their car for a drive around in the bush, spinning around outside the other pub throwing dirt and stones in every direction. Somehow one of the pub's windows was smashed in the excitement, sometime after the guys had been asked to leave. I guess that's how the locals keep themselves amused out here. Colin the electrician explains that this is 'Mango Season'; the hot and humid weather sends everyone a bit fruity!

A short ride brings us down to Dunmarra. Just 45km from Daly Waters we ride at the late end of the day and enjoy a spectacular sunset as we ride into the Roadhouse. A modern and efficient place it gives us great food, and a great nights sleep - but somehow not up to the standard of our last two nights. The two historic pubs on the Stuart Highway will not be forgotten.

An early start from Dunmarra allows us once again to avoid spending too much time in the heat of the day. Approaching Elliot however we do cast a glance at Rich Scrivs watch. It touches on 40 degrees in the sun - and whilst we know this is not the temperature that the weather forecast will record - we know that we can't spend too long out here. We keep sucking down the water and make for Elliot as quickly as we can. Flocks of grey parrots with underbellies of pink fly around us on our way into town. Flying in formation they mirror our peleton style - but of course we're completely knackered - they glide effortlessly into the trees.

Elliot is a principally Aboriginal town, with some 600 native Australians, and just a handful of Europeans. Boarded up windows greet us as we ride into town, and circles of townsfolk sit out on the grass chatting loudly to one another. We wave to a few, who in turn wave happily back. Inside the Elliot Hotel we find a few cheery drinkers, in a pub that can only be described as 'functional'. We check in, and after having cleaned off the sweaty grim of a day's ride we lay back and wait for the heat of the day to pass. That evening Andrew and I wander out around the town, and watch the proceedings. Today is dole money day, and the local community have each been given their Christmas bumper allowance of two weeks money. A coloured guy wanders into the shop as we put our drinks on the counter. His cheek is cut, and above his eye is heavily bruised and bleeding also. He staggers up to the assistant and mumbles something. From across the road we sit down and watch the proceedings. The whole town seems to be behaving something like a lunatic assylum. The majority of the town seem to be drunk, cans of VB litter the grassed reservation, and people shout at one another and push each other around. We have found the sharp end of the dilemma that faces modern day Australia. Whilst the big cities of Australia are bustling and booming, here in the Outback the Native Australian's seem to be struggling to come to terms with Western development. The concept of life in the regimentation of the European style are not easily adopted by the Aborigines, and what we see before us is nothing short of a mess. We feel sad to see members of one of the oldest cultures in the world in this condition, angrily shouting at each other and staggering round fighting drunkenly. But of course, there are no easy answers. Later that night we sit quietly in the corner of the bar, as all hell breaks loose around us. A fight between two women develops tow involve more, and the owner and his assistant dive for the pool cues and balls - anxious to avoid a rerun of last night - where a huge fight resulted in the closure of the pub at seven o'clock. We head for bed early - shocked by the scenes we have witnessed - with a little more appreciation of the complicated picture that makes up contemporary Australia.

With Elliot behind us the landscape has opened out once more. We are riding into an area of green grassy plains with occasionally revealed area of red sand and orange rocky outcrops. Despite the high temperatures these areas are prime cattle herding areas - with enormous ranches spanning hundreds of thousands of hecatres. The only sign to us though is the odd animal, and signs pointing off down dirt tracks to 'Maryville Station' or 'Banka - Banka station' - of course there is no railway out here - these are cattle stations. The only landmarks we can pick out as we ride are the regularly spaced Radio Repeater Stations every 30k's or so. We even get to the point of counting the numbers - 8308, 8309, 8310!

With one day to reach our Christmas Holiday we draw close to the Roadhouse at Renner Springs. As we crest the final hill we are treated to a mighty view of the road rolling out before us across the distant plain. The road slices through the wilderness, and somewhere down ahead of us we know lies our stop for the night. 10 kilometres or more of road stretches down to Renner Springs - and then from there we shall just have one more days ride to reach Tennant Creek. Trouble is - that last day is our longest yet - a trifling 162 kilometres.

(This get us to Renner Springs - last bit to follow soon)