by Paul Carter
The next three visits to James—or The Painmonger as I came to call him—were intense. But the guy was good, and every time I left his office I felt better.
I said goodbye to Matty on the second day; he was flying back to Sydney and work. I was really going to miss having him around. On the same day I called Matt Bromley’s recommended bike workshop, Precision Motorcycles in Berrimah. Matt had already phoned to let them know I was inbound, and he’d given them a rundown on Betty’s particular needs. Tim Walker couldn’t have been more helpful.
We got the truck over to them straightaway and I watched the workshop guys unload Betty. That was the first time since the accident I’d had a chance to look at her properly; the crash had done a fair bit of damage. The workshop manager, Darren, was straight onto it. Next the truck went in for a service.
At this point I didn’t know if a week was going to be enough time for my 40-year-old body to climb back on Betty, or indeed if Betty was going to make it. One thing was certain: my funding had all been used up. Clare didn’t know it yet but I was hacking into our savings now.
I found Gav poolside, sucking on a beer. He had flown his wife Jhovana and daughter Leonie up to Darwin to spend a few days with him before we left—that is, if we left. Leonie is an uber-cute, ridiculously polite eight-year-old; she loved playing with Lola. Clare and I loved that she loved playing with Lola, because it meant for a few hours each day we could sit in peace without taking endless turns at putting a stop to Hurricane Lola’s vandalism. Jhovana is in many ways the perfect match for Gav: she’s got the same wicked sense of humour, the same can-do attitude; like him, she can deal with anyone and any situation. I think it’s got a lot to do with being an oilfield wife. But unlike Gav she doesn’t possess the fast-food eating skills of a golden retriever, nor is she capable of sniffing out cold beer where there’s no cold beer to be found; Gav could put a cold beer in your hand if he was locked in a bank vault. But they’re lucky, because when you see them together it is obvious that this tall, tanned leggy brunette and the hairy, burger-necking, beer-sniffing oilman were made for one another.
‘May as well make the most of the time here,’ Gav said, raising his bottle at me. Gav is the original workaholic, he puts in massive hours, rig-hopping all over the place. This was the first time I’d seen him relax properly; generally he has a phone pressed against his ear. We’d usually plan to do something on a weekend, but then the phone would ring, and within a few hours Gav would have his head shoved up a tool joint in some oilfield pipe yard.
Together we explored the town as far as my groin would let me. I’d heard all the disparaging NT—‘Not Today’—comments, but Darwin is actually a lot of fun and feels like it would be a relaxed, balmy kind of place to live. Every day could be a Sunday; every night could be Saturday night. It’s packed with good-looking young people, packed like a Melbourne tram in rush hour during Fashion Week. There are manicured avenues lined with chic apartment buildings, and developments all over the place.
Every morning, I’d hobble to my physiotherapy appointment down streets sparking to life, past cafés frothing milk, and tourists looking for crocs. Every day the hobble back got closer to a walk, and every day my pain backed off a little more and my mood improved. By the end of the week I was feeling confident, and it was almost a pain-free stroll back to the hotel. I was dishing out my smiles to strangers and my change to the bums.
That night we went out on the town; the girls bailed after dinner, sensing the evening was headed for a boys-drinking-their-body-weight session. Gav and I bar-hopped about, looking for a place that suited us.
First was a slick, overdone, neon open-plan place that reeked of air-conditioned people under twenty. After that came a series of bars that just blurred together, ending in your standard every-Western-country-on-the-fockin-planet-has-one Instant Ye Olde Irish Fockin Pub, your very own slice of the Emerald Isle. Is there a factory somewhere punching out all the old Guinness signs and fake memorabilia? But the place was alive, the music was good, the beer was cold, and to Gavin’s delight you could smoke inside without a bouncer dragging you out and shooting you in the head.
Donald Millar, the man originally slated to get me to Darwin, called us while we were at the pub. Gav waved his phone at me, yelling, ‘It’s Millar time.’ Donald had just arrived in Darwin on his way out to his rig. While we had been on the road, every time we turned on the telly the news was all about the West Atlas rig. Donald was in fine form as usual, though he’d been through a lot in the past month. He sat down and gave us the whole story. With a 6 a.m. chopper booking he didn’t jump into the beer pool with us; instead we made plans to catch up in Perth after it was all done and dusted.
I’ve never known a man to put in the kind of hours he did over the next few months trying to kill that well, and he was truly shattered when he lost his rig to an ignition and fireball that completely destroyed her. He took it hard, feeling deeply the impact of losing the rig, as well as the impact it would have on the ocean, the life in it and around it. All of this weighed heavily on his mind, you could see it in his eyes. His ability to bounce back is remarkable, and I’m proud to be his friend.
The next day we got the call that Betty was almost ready and the truck was serviced, so Dan and I grabbed a cab out to pick up the truck and then went straight over to check out Betty. We ended up spending the whole day out there; we replaced the tyres, tubes, brakes, bars, levers, tank, front guard, rear brake line, chain, sprockets and CVT belt; we welded the pegs back on, changed the filters, lines and injectors, and refuelled her. Finally she was ready. There was nothing else to do but get back on.
This was the moment of truth. Almost two weeks had passed since the accident. I slowly dragged my leg over the bike, the torn muscles firing bolts of sharp pain into my spine. I put all my weight onto the seat and started her up. She coughed, rattled for a while and began ticking over, catonk, catonk, catonk, sounding like she was chewing a steel mint.
I pulled out into the Berrimah back streets, my confidence flaking off my bald head like dandruff, the hot road no longer a path to enlightenment but a giant black belt sander whistling by underneath me, ready to grind my arse into failure if I made another mistake. A few k’s later I came back and gave Dan the nod to follow me back in the truck over to the hotel. My rotator cup was really giving me problems—the old vibration rattling down my arms made my shoulder sting on every turn—but this was it. Tomorrow we were due to leave. I had made my decision. Clare and I had already talked over the options. She was behind me, but not too happy about it. I would have to overcome my fear: if I backed out now, it would be months before I could pick it all up again and finish.
We pulled into the hotel car park. Dan parked the truck and tentatively walked over with his camera. I gave him the nod. It was painful but I knew I could keep going; tomorrow was on.
Our final morning in Darwin started with some last-minute shopping. Gav and I went into town to get water, food and gas refills for the portable stove. We wandered into a fishing tackle and camping supply store and came out with two compound crossbows, as you do.
I went back to the hotel to pay the bill and explain to my wife why our bank balance was missing some digits—the perfect time to also explain my purchase of the totally-useless-in-the-suburbs-of-Perth crossbow. As you can imagine, she wasn’t impressed with either explanation, but Clare is cool; she was still behind my decision to continue and backed me up all the way. Without her I would have been lost.
The hotel’s business development manager came over and introduced herself while I was turning page after page of the hotel bill. ‘Mr Carter, how do you do, I’m Nikki Wright. I hope your stay was comfortable.’ She looked good; formal, but not too serious. I wasn’t sure what was coming—had Lola been hurling plasma TVs into the pool and setting off all the fire alarms?
What came next was completely unexpected. ‘The hotel would like to e
xtend a discount on the bill. How does half price sound?’
‘Sounds wonderful, Nikki,’ I said, smiling broadly.
She smiled, and nodded to the reception staff. ‘Good luck with the rest of your journey.’ She shook my hand, swivelled on her high heels and went back to doing good deeds. Again, the universe had come to my aid—in the nick of time, too.
With our wives and kids lined up out the front waving, we had to say goodbye again. This time was more painful than before. Lola’s little face looked slightly confused. ‘DADDY,’ she yelled out as we pulled away. I couldn’t look back; her plaintive cry hurt more than my sore body.
While I was in Darwin, I had done another ABC Radio interview. I had also done several phone interviews roadside along the way. We had been lucky with the media on this trip, and now the interest was really picking up. Random people were starting to recognise the bike. ‘Is that the veggie burner?’ some would ask. Others had me posing in photos. A lot of people seemed really enthusiastic about what we were doing. ‘Wow, is that the bike? Good on ya.’ Rather than kebabs in the face, I was getting the thumbs-up from overtaking cars. And the truckies went from something to be feared and avoided to princes of the highway. They got on the radio to talk about the bike; I sat there listening to the chatter. ‘Looks like a cunt of a way to get around,’ said one. ‘Our washing machine’s got more grunt,’ said another. But now they gave me a heads-up and a wide berth, always with a honk and a nod. On ya, fellas.
We burbled out of Darwin’s lush green setting, back down to Katherine and then on to the Victoria Highway, towards our first night’s stop in Victoria River. I was now over two weeks behind schedule, two bike rebuilds over budget and too far gone with an increasing obsession with the horizon. Night came but we pushed on. Through my pain I became incredibly focused and ready. I dodged the occasional blown truck tyre and everything else that came out to get me that night: cattle, donkeys, roos, all having a surprise midnight street party. However, I did trade places with the truck and let Gav take the lead: he had the bull bar.
When we finally pulled into Victoria River late that night I was beyond any stuffed I’d ever been. I fell off the bike and into a deep donga sleep, waking up with a start at three in the morning, rising slowly and painfully in need of a toilet. Gav and Dan were still up, running about in the dark with flashlights and freaking out at all the cane toads. There were thousands of them; wherever Dan shone light the ground was hopping. Gav appeared to have some sort of inherent fear of the toad. ‘Fuck.’ He jumped. ‘Oh, shit.’ He ran for the porch. ‘They’re everywhere.’ I found that fascinating; here’s a guy who will wade into a fistfight in a crowded bar without blinking an eye, but he was running for his life from a toad. But then again, I react the same way to cockroaches and spiders, so I can’t talk.
Perhaps it’s got something to do with what you were exposed to as a kid. After all, back in Scotland where Gav grew up, the amphibians don’t get this big, the wildlife rarely eats you and the road kill is usually a squirrel or a hedgehog, not a bloated, 300-pound blowfly-maggot-infested cow with a 50-pound giant eagle sitting on it giving you its best ‘fuck off, it’s mine’ look.
After having a good laugh at Gav, I stumbled back to bed for three hours. When I woke again at sunrise, I thought I was still dreaming. Overnight the harsh, sun-blasted dusty brown earth had been replaced by lush monsoonal shades of green. The difference was startling, just beautiful. Mother Nature had clearly also pulled in last night for a donga and a sandwich. Cue flocks of NapiSan-white cockatoos flying past. Cue friendly wave from the truck driver next door. Cue the smell of real coffee and an egg-and-bacon roll.
‘This place is a welcome sight,’ said Gav. He was standing out the front of his donga, bollock-naked with a fag dangling from his bottom lip. The chatty truck driver next door explained why the place was so fertile. ‘It’s the Wet, mate.’
I had heard people in Darwin talking about ‘the Wet’. Apparently, for six months a year up here it rains Noah’s Ark kind of rain. ‘The new bridge should make a difference,’ the truckie said; seemingly, before the bridge was built this place would be cut off from the rest of the world for months due to flooding. Years back, the volume of water hurtling down the Daly River every seven minutes during the monsoon was measured as equal to the entire contents of Sydney Harbour.
The people up here are very hardy and adaptable. I would have thought the Wet must put a terrible strain on everyone, but apparently not. In fact, the general reaction to the Wet was: ‘Good, no more tourists for a while—we can have the place to ourselves for a bit.’
We pulled over in Timber Creek, where we had to phone Bullo River Station, our accommodation for the night, and let them know we were on the way. Sounded simple enough, only Gav’s work phone rang while we were there, and he was on it for ages. I threw water over him, pleaded with him, abused him, but nothing gets Gav off the phone before he’s ready. Finally we set off on the last 100 k’s of blacktop we’d see for a while.
Bullo River is one of those places you get to experience only once in a lifetime, a full-on working cattle station planted in some of the most awe-inspiring country on earth. We found the gate just off the highway, and Dan jumped from the truck, camera in hand, to get the obligatory entrance shot, when we heard a horn. A big BMW GS pulled in behind us, and the rider strolled up and introduced himself as Simon. I recognised him straightaway: we’d been passing each other on the road for weeks; or rather, he went past me at light speed, got to where he was going and stayed for a few days. By the time he was ready to leave, I would finally hit town. We’d seen each other at a series of service stations too; the boys would be filling up the truck and he would blat past, waving. Now he had been about to zap past me again, until he saw us pull over so he’d stopped to say hello at last.
He was a nice guy. We stood there in the heat sweating and swapping road tales for a good hour, until it was Gav’s turn to start hurrying me up. Simon and I made a plan to meet in Broome for beers and bullshit, and then we set off on the unsealed road to Bullo.
There is no easygoing, laid-back Territory intro- duction to offroad riding. For a conventional rider the usual deal would be to have plenty of armour and hit the track at speed. If you hit corrugations or deep sand, well, you flogged it, and the bike would plane over the top. I didn’t have the sudden burst of power to dial up or unlimited amounts of torque, thanks to Betty’s smaller rear sprocket. The CVT belt would start to spin and smoke under too much of an incline.
The 75 k’s to Bullo was a mix of everything. It started as corrugations, formed by years of trucks passing over the dirt. These buggers were punctuated by sudden, deep tennis-court-sized holes full of soft bull dust. Hitting them was terrifying because I instantly lost all my torque and speed. Thump! The front wheel would sink; it took all my strength to avoid a flight over the handlebars while the bike snaked wildly left to right. Back to the c-c-c-c-c-c-c-corrugations until I picked up enough speed to get over the top. My shoulder and leg were throbbing. My kidneys and liver were starting to jiggle their way out of my mouth. Another patch of bull dust, and BANG, I went down.
The first fall didn’t hurt at all, the second only made me drug-dependent, but the third had me on my knees. It wasn’t much to look at; I was only doing about ten kilometres per hour when the front wheel just dug in once again and stopped. I just didn’t have the upper body strength to rake back the handlebars; I went over on my side, my cracked ribs recracked, my whole face creased in pain as though I’d got a noseful of wasabi.
Betty’s impeller hovered in bull dust, the whole right side of the handlebar was buried in the ground, her throttle wide open. The engine screamed as she choked down dirt-filled air and spewed out thick white smoke.
Gav rushed over. ‘What can I do?’ he yelled over the squealing engine. Betty’s back wheel was spinning, throwing out oil and dirt. I was too winded to answer, so he bolted
to the back of the truck and came back with a pair of pliers to cut the throttle line. I knew the bike couldn’t take much more, so I sat up, grabbed the buried handlebar and pushed the heavy machine up. The back wheel bit into the dust. I twisted the throttle back and she stopped. I fell back, my ribs and shoulder burning, spasms of white-hot pain in my lungs.
Gav helped me up and lifted my leg over the bike for me. We had to push on; we were so close. I was sore, but by now I was getting better at blanking it out.
Bullo appeared at dusk through magnificent ghost gums decorated like Christmas trees with thousands of cockatoos preparing to roost. Wallabies and grey kangaroos scattered in their hundreds at our arrival, bounding in every direction. It was an explosion of life, nature and beauty like I’ve never seen before. I fell off the bike in the front yard of the station house. Ruth, one of the staff, came over to greet us with an esky of cold beer; it tasted like the best beer I’d ever had.
We met Marlee, the owner of this magnificent piece of heaven. Her husband Franz was away at the time. Marlee runs the place; she’s one of the most capable people I’ve ever met—there’s nothing she can’t do. She sat down to dinner with us that night and went through the list of activities we could try on the property. We didn’t know where to start. The sun slowly faded on Bullo that first night, sending wave after wave of deep orange and red across the sky. I wished Clare was there to see this place.
In the morning a full breakfast was waiting, and we met two more staff members, Trevor and Evan. Rollie-smoking, beer-drinking men in their sixties, they were the nicest fellas to explore this place with. Both men had spent a lifetime in the bush, and had incredible stories and fascinating snippets of information, as well as a fantastic sense of humour.
We jumped in Evan’s Landcruiser and drove into the bush then into a valley, past wandering buffalo and bubbling billabongs. We pulled up next to a steep red rock face jutting a few hundred feet out of the earth, and climbed up into the cliff via a track only Evan could have found.
