Anyone else notice how most miracles occur during life’s biggest mishaps? Have you ever put yourself in a situation having control was impossible – where the only way forward was to just trust? I did exactly this when I took my barely-ridden Harley Davidson on a 1,160 kms (720 miles) motorcycle road trip from Canberra to Adelaide.

I am one of those people who really struggle to trust life sometimes, despite being quite spiritual. Somehow, total uncertainty became freeing: I rode without a plan, endured blistering heat, broke down, met ‘Jesus’—who saved me—and outran a storm.

The times that I find I am most in tune, with myself, the universe, God – is when I am going through challenges. As fun as it is, a motorcycle road trip is challenging.

On my first day, I loaded up my bag with as much as I could take (as I was moving to Adelaide).

It was hot, so unbelievably hot. I felt the sun beating down on my black backpack, my thick gloves, and burning down the back of my neck. My pillion bags kept sliding off the back, moving the weight of the bike so it was heavy on one side. I had to keep pushing and pulling at it. Every time I stopped, I would readjust the straps again but within thirty minutes it would dangle once more, hanging from the side.

I felt so much anxiety that my pillion bag was going to snap and scatter across the road, but there wasn’t much I could do. I think I spent longer looking in my rear-view mirror than I did the road ahead, frantically checking it. But there wasn’t a stop with straps on my journey, just petrol stations filled with ice-cream and packets of chips.

It was one of those instances where I had no real options but to continue on in a state of anxiety and hope.

The Pub

I made it a respectable distance for the day and finally found myself at Narrandera, a very small country town. I pulled up at an old pub and spoke to the man behind the bar and asked for a cheap room upstairs.

My uncle is the king of the motorcycle road trip, travelling Australia on his Harley Davidson for years, and his recommendation for a cheap place to stay was the rooms above these country town pubs.

The man behind the bar was lovely, although just helping out for the day. He didn’t actually know much about how to run check-in or anything and had to make a few calls. But eventually he helped me up to my room with my extensive luggage and situated me in a very old, very dank, room.

The nice bar man instructed me on how to use the old portable air-condition unit, as by this point it was stinking hot! I turned it on and inspected the room.

The covers were likely as old as me, and it had defiantly been left unrented for a long time because there was a layer of dust when I pulled back the bedding. There were leaking streaks down the side of the walls. The man had mentioned something about a recent storm that caused damage. Then, I noticed a small sink in the corner of the room, I turned it on to fill my water bottle and the water ran red.

Hmm, not drinking that. I thought. I’ll try the bathroom.

I went for a shower in the communal female bathrooms, washing away the hours of stress and sweat off my body and putting on a summer dress. The tap water, mangabley better – but I figured I’d just ask for some at the bar after to fill my bottle.

I went back to my room to find that the air conditioner was entirely useless, whirring, squeaking, and blowing nothing but hot air. If I was looking at experiencing challenges, this was it. I couldn’t work out what I hated more, being hot or having infuriating noises squeaking and squawking at me like a pack of dying machinery.

Down I trekked the creaky old stairs, to what must have been such a beautiful grand hotel many years prior, off to visit the nice man behind the bar.

I asked for some ice, some water to fill my bottle, and told him about the issues with the room. I was sweltering hot, and so uncomfortable. The ice, I said was to keep filling my water bottle with. The nice man suggested I move rooms, this one didn’t have an air conditioner, but it did have a fan. I eagerly agreed as the noise of the broken air conditioner was indescribably frustrating.

After shifting rooms, I realised how late it was getting and that I really needed to have some dinner before the kitchen closed.

I had been hoping to eat at some bar in this country town pub scenario I had created in my mind. I was there, chatting with strangers, making friends, sharing stories – but in reality, this pub had the bar area which was filled with farmers and Fluro, and a dining room separated from any hope of conversation with strangers.

The Loneliness of a Solo Motorcycle Road Trip Across Australia

I sat disappointed in the dining room. My uncle had painted such a wonderful picture about the people he had met in pubs around Australia. Here I was on day one with either a packet of chips and a room full of men with the median age of sixty, or a half empty restaurant with isolated tables.

I ordered a chicken dish with white wine sauce, looked around the room in the hopes someone else might want company, but found only one group of people far too engrossed in each other to need more.

I placed my earphones in, tilted my phone on its side against the salt shakers, and began to watch the TV show I had been streaming recently on Netflix.

I was so disappointed in myself. Sitting at a public place watching TV on my phone. But I felt I had tried. I had attempted to make conversation, to have dinner around other people, but that just wasn’t the way this pub worked. So, I resigned myself to enjoying the show. however, I still felt guilty when the waitress came up to deliver the food and I couldn’t hear her.

That chicken dish, was to this day, the best chicken dish I have ever had. The white wine sauce was so incredible, I actually can’t compute how a country pub punched out such incredible flavour!

I couldn’t get over it, and I would honestly plan a trip back to that pub if I were ever going through again just to have it once more. Although, no doubt it would be one of those instances where it was just a magical moment unlikely to be repeated to the same incredible extent again.

I filled myself with litres of water, so hot and dehydrated from the day, and ordered myself dessert for good measure.

After dinner, I thought I would try the bar area again. I felt lonely, it had only been one day – but it was quite an isolating experience thus far. Turns out, nice bar man’s nickname was Jesus. He looked like it, the long beard, the long hair, even his stature matched the build of his many of his depictions. Obviously, he had the temperament to carry the name too seeing as I have been referring to him thus far as ‘nice bar man’.

We chatted a bit, the bar options were limited so I ordered a CC and dry. I had never had CC before, but I liked the dry. I would have drunk anything cold and refreshing at this point though.

Shortly after, I headed up to bed, sore and tired from my day holding up my 600 kg bike fully loaded with toppling gear that continued to try to escape the clutches of its strapping and meet its maker on the highway.  

A Creepy Night

I did not sleep well.

I awoke in the night to go to the toilet. Naturally, after all that water I had consumed at dinner. Instead of a half-asleep amble to the toilets through, I found myself met with a large spider’s web strewn across my ankles and a Redback spider calling the toilet its home.

There are only two spiders’ worth being scared of in Australia, well three really, but I spend very little time in New South Wales or Queensland so Funnel Web spiders don’t phase me much. But the only ones I will kill if they are in my space, are White-tails (on account of being bitten by one as a teenager and them having very poisonous effects), and Redbacks‘ because they too, are nasty. I didn’t need to kill this one though, it could have the toilet – I was out.

I went to the men’s and hoped no one walked in during the night.

I returned to my bed. Sleeping under my square cotton cloth bandana which I had wrapped around my neck further through the day to stop the sunburn.

If you’re a new rider – and you plan on going on a motorcycle road trip…

…the best piece of advice I can give you other than ‘ride like your invisible’ is to always carry a cotton square piece of fabric.

It can be used as a scarf in winter, or cover it in water and let it dry as your ride in summer, you can wet it and put it on your head, use it as a tie, or use it as your bedsheet in instances like this.

It was too hot for covers; it was too hot for even the sheet. I would wake throughout the night, dipping the cotton cloth into the rapidly melting bucket of ice I got from Jesus, and would lay it over me. The heat wicked from my body for a short time until it dried and I stirred again.

And then… I was attacked by an earwig.

Apparently, the country was testing my metal against the things I was willing to kill, because as far as bugs go – I don’t kill much more than mosquitos, flies and cockroaches, but earwigs – they seriously freak me out.

I think it is something about a story someone probably innocently told me growing up about them going inside your ear and worming their way into your brain and even though I know they can’t get in your brain… I feel more comfortable in the myth that we eat spiders during our sleep, than I do that an earwig would go anywhere near my ears!

Smash!

Why is it not dying?

Bang!

I used the end of my water bottle trying to squish the little guy, feeling bad he wasn’t dead first shot. I hated being cruel.

Squelch!

I twist it back and forth, across its body like some mean bully who rings his foot over a bug in the movies.  

I feel horrid. I rewet my cloth. I try to sleep again.

Strapping Down the Motorcycle Gear

In the morning, I ate my dry Nutri-grain (breakfast of travellers), and loaded up my bike ready to continue on my motorcycle road trip.

My body was sore from the day’s ride prior, I hadn’t expected the physical effort it took to keep the bike on the road. I think because it was so unbalanced; I had needed to use every fibre of my body to keep it running straight.

I left the pub and headed to Mitre 10 up the road, the Bunnings of the country (a hardware store for those who don’t know what Bunnings is – it is an Australian institution by the way though, like Costco is to America). Anyway, I needed straps. I couldn’t spend another day holding my gear down. I popped up the road, and bought a mixture of ratchet straps and ocky ropes.

Fun fact, as a child I thought they were ‘hocky ropes’, it sounded like that, and it made sense right, they had an end shaped a bit like a Hocky stick.

I sat outside the hardware store adding layer upon layer to my bike. The gear was still wobbling when another kind person, an older man with some muscle behind him offered to help me. I just genuinely didn’t have the strength to stretch the ocky ropes enough, but with his help he pulled and pressed until my gear was unmovable. I was worried I would never be able to pull enough slack to get it off, but so far, my track record for finding kind strangers was good so I would worry about that later.

Off for petrol.

Chug, chug, chug, bang… quiet…

My bike stopped midway down the road.

I rolled for a bit, pressing the ignition on the bike again before it lurched back into gear.

Weird.

Lurch…Whoosh…

It died again.

Fortunately, I was on a hill and rolled right into the petrol station. I wasn’t out of petrol. I knew I wasn’t. And that wasn’t the right sound for petrol anyway. It just, died. No splutters or jerks, just… it stopped.

I filled it with petrol, started it again, it worked, and I pulled it into the bay by the station.

What the actual hell do I do?

I looked longingly at the Tradie who pulled up next to me.

“Know anything about bikes?” I asked.

“Sorry, I’m a car person.” He responded.

It wasn’t the petrol, didn’t sound like the alternator, certainly wasn’t the wheels or belt or anything like that – but that was where my bike knowledge ended, with what it wasn’t. Not with any clue as to what to do about it. I would start with my uncle.

“Day two Uncle Steven, broken down already.” I began.

Starting with the noises, going on to the lurching, I explained the issues to him and his advice was to call the RAA (road side assist). I wasn’t sure how that worked in the country, but I did have cover, although I’m not sure if they would have to tow it. Surely that would be expensive; my mind spiralled.

There wasn’t really have the money for this. I had enjoyed the character-building experience of the room above the pub, but I wasn’t staying there for the real fun of it.

I hung up.

I stared at the bike – it seemed to stare back.

It wasn’t like I actually made a cognitively verbal prayer, but I felt in that moment that I just really wanted help. Please, I didn’t really want to call the RAA and deal with it that way because it felt, wrong somehow. A motorcycle road trip was meant to be an adventure, and sure, things can go wrong in an adventure – but not this kind of wrong.

It was like a positive hope that went out the universe, I wasn’t directing God, I wasn’t asking for anything. I just felt this weird sense of alignment that I needed help, but that towing my bike out of town didn’t feel right.

“What are you still doing here?” said Jesus.

“HA!” I responded, not missing the irony of Jesus coming to help me in this time of need.

“You’re Jesus from the bar last night, right?”

“Yes, I thought you would have been long gone by now.” He replied.

“Well, I did spend a considerable amount of time strapping my gear down, but now my bikes turning itself on and off like an old TV. What are you doing here?” I returned.

“I’ve just finished my shift.”

My mind bent a little because I had him categorised in the hospitality business section of my brain, and now I had to move him into a new box of Jack-of-all-trades. I was now remembering, he was only just helping out at the pub. This all took some adjustment inside my mind.

After some discussion with him, and feeling quite soothed, Jesus explained how there was an RAA place around the corner he could lead me to if the bike would go enough to get a few blocks.

Connect to God, get Jesus

I was eternally grateful. He had been working since the early morning after being at the bar late, and would be due for a sleep no doubt, and here he was living up to his name.

I rode three laps around the petrol pumps before committing to the endeavour. So far, the bike was going again. The motorcycle road trip might just continue…

Jesus led the way in his wonderfully typical station wagon, going very slow down the roads. We turned our first corner, no trouble, then down a long stretch of road. The bike stopped again, but thankfully it was going downhill.

Storm debris covered the ground, creating a slippery surface without my bike’s gears to grip. My breaks were fine but I felt increasingly out of control sliding along this littered road just rolling with no engine, no power. I waved Jesus down and pulled over.

It started. I felt like a bit of an idiot for being so frantic in my hollering. Despite it stop starting before, for some reason the roll down the hill had made me feel like it would never go again and I would be stranded on this deep camber and slippery slope forever.

We continued on, crossed an intersection.

Please don’t stop here.

And there it was, the RAA sign to the left.

I pulled my bike in and Jesus started explaining a bit of the issue to the mechanic. I was grateful, because although I chimed in with the whole story, men do have a way of speaking to each other in a lingo that communicates things faster. I’m not going to say more effectively, because I do find generally, they have a limited attention to detail, but quickly at least.  

Ultimately, although being the registered RAA place, they knew nothing about bikes, or at least Harley’s (although when it’s a big issue, a bike is a bike in my opinion). Anyway, he suggested getting it towed to the next town or trying the mechanic that had just moved in to town.

This town hadn’t had a mechanic in four years or something, yet they had just had a really skilled one move in during the past few months. What incredible, would I dare say, ‘luck’? Jesus took directions from the RAA man that only a local could understand and said he would lead me on my way.

I followed him much further now, out of town and across a hard packed dirt road to a large shed in a lightly industrial but similarly sparse area. I was nervous about the dirt road; Harley Davidson’s are not known for their off-road abilities.

The thought crossed my mind that this would be a brilliant way to abduct someone without much hassle. It’s the kind of charismatic stories you hear about from the great serial killers. I pushed the thought from my mind, this trip had been quite a test of faith as it was. If this was the move that got me dead – well then that seriously was meant to be.

Despite the sunburn, the heat, the bugs, the loneliness, the broken air conditioner and bad water – something about this trip made me feel more in tune with my intuition, my connection with God than I had been in a long time.

I don’t know if it was the hardship, the hours of time in reflection that the motorcycle road trip afforded, or just the fact that to cross the country on a Harley Davidson when you’ve never really ridden that much, with no plan, no hotels booked. The whole thing takes a certain amount of trust and faith. Also, I’m sure that charisma carries lots of bad people, but I truly liked this guy’s energy.

The Mechanics

The pot holes were huge from the storm, entering the driveway was like traversing through a canyon of holes puckered together like golf ball divots. I pulled up without the bike failing once on this short journey, and without dropping it in a single hole – I wasn’t sure which I was prouder of.

I was so worried the mechanic would have other jobs, a time-line to stick to, what if he couldn’t look at it for ages, how long would I be stranded in this town? What if the issue was huge and we had to wait for parts, that could take forever, I couldn’t stay for that long – I’d have to go and come back somehow.

I pushed aside my fears and presented myself to the mechanic. He was tall, he had a strong build and a no-nonsenses vibe.

“It will either be electrical, which means it shouldn’t take long to fix, if it’s mechanical though… well… it will take a lot longer.” The mechanic said.

I was now seriously hoping for electrical!

“I’ll have to check it out, it will take an hour or two for me to find the problem. I have to connect it to the computer and run a bunch of diagnostics and also look over it.”

“That’s okay,” said Jesus, “just give us a call when you’re done and I’ll bring her back.”

This guy really was sent from heaven!

I stripped off my bike gear, leaving myself rather vulnerable in a singlet and bike style shorts with my motorbike boots. It was too hot to be waiting around in leathers and my clothing was all very tied up now.

Jesus and I left the garage and headed for the best place to wait for a call you could go. The pub.

The Pub: a Real Motorcycle Road Trip Destination

I felt a little silly walking in wearing such short shorts and bike boots, but what can you expect from people when they’re on a motorcycle road trip. My bum plonked down on a high bar stool which I immediately stuck to in the heat. I ordered us both a drink, and some hot chips. I would never usually drink even a sip of alcohol and ride my motorbike. With my little body, I can’t afford anything to impair my judgement. But the day was hot and I knew I had a long time to wait, so I got myself a cold beer.

Jesus and I sat at the bar for a long time. I could feel a storm brewing in the distance, not figuratively, like actually! The air became heavy, humid, it’s not often humid inland in Australia. They had just got over the last big storm less than a week prior, and whatever was happening with the weather was happening again because you could feel the pressure. Even inside amongst the air-conditioning, you could feel the static build up, the skies begin to grey. If I sat here too long, my motorcycle road trip would involve a grand story about getting very wet soon!

Nothing I could do though. So, Jesus and I had a wonderful time talking about everything, and nothing. I felt so bad for him; he had been at work since very early in the morning and it was now well past 1 pm. This was surely more than he bargained for, but he didn’t seem to mind.

I got the call! It was battery related, something to do with the fob effecting the ignition. I wasn’t fully sure, but it only cost me $100 and for that I was extraordinarily grateful. Especially, as I wasn’t sure if I was about to become a new resident with the potential costs and waiting times for bike parts in the middle of nowhere.

Jesus and I got into his car and headed back to the garage. It began to spit along the way.

No, no, no, please no. I did not want to ride in the rain.

Outrunning the Storm

I packed for a motorcycle road trip for the November heat, not a tropical cyclone! The wind was really picking up now and out of all the weathers in the world, (not that I’ve experienced riding in the snow), wind is the scariest.

I felt like I was outrunning a storm, well, I was outrunning a storm. Displayed in big red writing across my weather app, it said:

‘Extreme weather warning’
‘Damaging winds and rain’

The storm was heading the same direction as me at least, so seeing as my Harley Davidson was a 1200cc – I might stand a chance.

I felt like I was in one of those scenes from The Lord of the Rings where they were running; just running and running. Except I wasn’t running. I was battling storm giants of my own; this wind was throwing punches as I rode, sliding me across my lane.

I had always been told in wet weather to never ride in the middle, because that’s where the oil slicks would be, but as it hadn’t begun raining yet, I held on tightly to that centre space between the edge of the road and the incoming traffic. Every time a truck passed in the other direction though I would lean so fiercely into their body I was worried that I would just pop, and flop straight into the other side of the road once they passed.

I had a cracking headache from the wind noise, from holding my neck against the force of the gusts that resisted me. I wanted to stop so badly, just finish for the day. Every fibre of my body pained, ached, throbbed. I just wanted to go home. But the only way out, was through. And watching those little red swirls on the weather app, I knew I couldn’t stop for long. I really was just ahead of the storm.

I was desperate for some pain killers, but they were inside my toiletries bag, inside my bag, under the layers and layers of straps. There was no way I could remove them all in a timely fashion at a petrol station and have any hope of reattaching it all down for another leg of the journey.

I continued on.

Balranald

I entered another small town, nearing dark now. I couldn’t possibly continue the motorcycle road trip today and make it to the next town before the Kangaroos’ came out and tried to play dodgem with my motorcycle.

Only half way home! I had wanted to do the trip over three days – that way it would be leisurely but still at a decent pace. Now tomorrow would be so long!

No pub though? Weird.

I found a motel and checked myself in.

My body was so sore. My tailbone in particular. The mechanic had said there was something off about my suspension, which explained why it was riding so hard. But it was loaded pretty heavily, so I had left it alone.

I spent the evening with the wind howling through my window, with absolutely nothing I could do about it. I did however, sleep.

The Motorcycle Road Trip Home

My first stop Mildura, I was freezing! That storm had passed through, and the heat of the day’s prior were a distant memory! I was so cold I just had to stop. I pulled up outside a Red Rooster and ordered myself some lunch.

There I sat, in all my bike gear to keep myself warm. Sitting on the curb in the car park. The issue I find with most fast-food chains is they over air-condition, and after the hours I had just spent ridged and cold, I wasn’t about to enjoy my food in an even more freezing environment. Unfortunately, the hard concrete wasn’t quite the rest my sore bum needed, but I did feel like I defrosted a bit.

I had to unstrap my bags to access more clothes. That was annoying!

And with that, I continued on, and on, and on.

The wind continued, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the days prior.

I kept going.

Then, something familiar! The highway near my mum’s house, I was almost there. So why did this last half an hour feel like three?

The sound of the wind was ringing in my head, the wind felt like it had been slapping me for so long I had become numb, the rumble of the road was deafening.

I pulled up, 5.55 pm. I never wanted to leave the house again!

The Moral of My Motorcycle Road Trip?

Keep going. Magic happens. People are kind. And sometimes, the best thing you can do to connect to your intuition, your inner strength, you fiery soul, your trust in the universe, is go on a solo motorcycle road trip across the country with a limited budget, and just see what happens!