Its early afternoon of Boxing Day as we make our way back up from Tennant Creek to Three Ways Roadhouse; to the point where the Barkly Highway strikes out at right angles from 'The Track'. As the heat of the afternoon wears on, the four of us gather our strength and energy, ready for the huge challenge that we are about to face. The Barkly Tablelands are a flat, wild and featureless expanse of bush that cover an area somewhat larger than England. Our journey from Tenant Creek will span some six hundred and forty kilometres before reaching another town. Interrupted only by one village, one petrol station, a cattle station and a splendidly isolated Police Station, the road blazes a trail through Australia's raw heartland. To add a little spice to our ride, we have arrived in the Wet Season. An unusual combination of weathers that conspires to alternate between tropical rainstorms and searing outback heat can alternately give rise to flash floods and dizzying heatstroke. We know very well that we shall have to keep our wits about us if we are to successfully reach our goal.

We stand up the sign telling motorists that this road is closed by flooding as we ride past. A motorist stomps on his brakes, comes to a squealing halt and reverses back up towards us. In the last rays of the setting sun we brace ourselves for a barrage of abuse. "Oath mate, you've just saved my skin - ay!", after we explain to him the status of the Georgina River, currently wallowing beneath some 4 feet of fast moving water, he screeches away into the dusk chattering into his mobile phone. This is the last car that we see tonight.

The sun slips in a burning ball beneath the horizon, and I have an uncanny premonition about just what lies ahead. We have chosen to ride the next hundred and ninety kilometres overnight to avoid the powerful rays and heat of the sun. Our road will run straight all night and into tomorrow morning. So we have a strange clarity of awareness that whilst the sun is disappearing around the other side of the globe over our right hand shoulder, we shall be watching it reappear in around ten and a half hours time just to the left of our road. The feeling that I have is one akin to when Andrew and I crossed the channel overnight some fifteen months ago. Whilst we all feel strong fit and keen now, I know that after five or six hours in the saddle we shall all be utterly exhausted, desperate for sleep and energy, and wondering how we shall haul ourselves through the night.

Yellow orange light fades to blue and then inevitably into the black of night. We chat to each other in those first moments of night and encourage ourselves with the agreement that we haven't ridden in such cool and pleasant temperatures for months. After our first fifty kilometres however our bubble is burst. As we pull to a halt in the middle of the road and slump on to the road, we have just a couple of tranquil moments before they arrive. A high pitched buzzing in the ears is quickly followed by a prickling sensation on the back, and itching on our bare legs. Clouds of mosquitos seem to spread the word around within seconds, and before long we're being eaten alive. We reach desperately for the repellant and smear it around liberally, but still they land on us. We hasten back on to our unforgiving saddles and make our way off into the night scratching and slapping at the imaginary visitors who have long since departed. Thus the pattern for our night is set. We know that from here on in we are at the mercy of these tiny beasts. Another seven hours of riding will only be broken by the briefest of pauses before the flies can find us. We feel helpless and alone out here in the wild. As A famous person once said, 'we can ride, but we can't hide!'.

A slight headwind blows into us as we ride but certainly nothing compared to the fierce breeze that had whistled in from the East earlier in the day. We continue to ride in our usual formation, but we give ourselves a little more room than usual to compensate for the dark. Early on in the ride however, Rich on the front slows a little and gives himself a couple of moments freewheeling, and the three of us behind nearly pile directly into him. 'What was that?' in my tired grouchy voice I shout forwards. I don't really expect an answer. Amazingly for the rest of the night we avoid further near collisions.

On the front we each take our turn to concentrate on the road and give direction by following the white lines. Our head torches will only serve to attract the flies and so we ride without light, and rely on our eyes to strain in the grubby darkness. Clouds cover the sky for most of the night and in any case it's a new moon tonight and so there is only the faintest sliver of white to brighten the gloom. We ride on into the black. My eyes swim, and my head wallows as I try to make out the white lines. In my tired, hungry and confused state I begin to feel sea sick trying to track the white lines and keep us all from riding off into the ditch. My mind wanders on to quite where we are and what is out here with us. Dark shapes loom up, around and then disappear behind us. Its easy to forget that this is one of the truly wild places in the world. Momentarily I panic about freshwater crocodiles roaming at the roadside at night; their preferred hunting time. I recall a notice board telling us that they will go for anything that moves in the dark. The slight reflection of creeks at the roadside tell us that this danger although slight is real, but unavoidable. Fatigue happily moves this thought along and I'm soon visualising my ideal version of Barkly Homestead, our sleeping place for the morning, to try and distract me from these troubling thoughts.

Our road continues straight as a die, and we try as hard as we can to stave off the hunger with chocolate bars and copious quantities of water. Mechanical disaster strikes just the once in the night, as Rich experiences a snapped chain. He shouts us back to him as we pull away after a stop. Within seconds a cloud of vicious biting mosquitoes has enveloped Rich and I as we fumble and drop the tools, clanking through his spokes. In our eyes, our mouths, ears and all over our backs, legs and arms the tiny warriors pierce our skin one by one, sucking blood out for all they're worth. Our arms flail and Andrew and Tim try to swat some of them away for us. We shout at each other in our painful hurry to fix the chain. And then suddenly the new link snaps into place, we're gathering up the tools and rushing off again towards Barkly Homestead, blindly picking up speed, glad to be away from our tormentors.

As we draw closer to where the motel should be, we begin to wonder what we shall do if we arrive before sunrise. In our hurry to avoid the flies we have made excellent time; even if we are all dozing off at the handlebars. Of course there will be nobody to let us in if we get there now. We shall be forced to wait outside and be eaten once again, by the flies. We slow our pace as we get nearer and we try to strike up a bleary eyed conversation. Our first stage is drawing to a close. In the distance, noticing a faint flicker Andrew cries out in excitement "There she blows!". A couple of lights pierce the darkness from a distance of what must be almost ten kilometres. A faint dawn light has begun to creep up the edges of the sky as we make the last few kilometres. We pull into the BP petrol station to find the daughter of the owner out walking the dog. We mumble some confused words to her, and ask for some milk, spoons and bowls for our cereal. Covered in sweat, and bite lumps we collapse into our rooms. Just time for a shower, we sling our stinking cycling clothes in the corner, and struggle ravenously through a bowl of Weet-Bix. Before the last mouthful is in, our eyes are closing, and we're dreaming of the longest day, that now lies safely behind us.