Packing Light, Dancing Heavy

Packing for a motorcycle trip across Australia is always a game of compromises. Do you bring the extra jumper, or another pair of socks? Do you pack the spare tool, or hope nothing breaks? Do you squeeze in the book you’ll never actually read?

In my case, the question is: how many pairs of tango shoes fit into 23 kg of luggage space?

That’s my allowance: 3 kg in the tank bag, 10 kg in the tail bag, and 5 kg in each pannier. Which sounds decent until you realise about 6 kg is already eaten up by tools, chain lube, tyre repair kit, pump, and other “in case of apocalypse” essentials.

So: minimalist. Everything has to earn its place. Except tango shoes and dresses. Those are non-negotiable, because when we reach Perth, there will be milongas — and you can’t exactly show up to those in motorcycle boots and dusty jeans.

Worries, What Worries?

Of course, packing is the easy part. The Nullarbor is where things get interesting. I’m slightly anxious about two things:

1. Roadhouse roulette.
Three of the roadhouses I’ve booked along the way only gave me verbal confirmations. No emails. No receipts. No credit cards taken. Just “Yeah mate, we’ve got you down.”

So what happens if they lose my name and get booked out? Do I camp under a road train? Do I fight dingoes for scraps? Or maybe I need to invent anti-snake and anti-dingo sprays to sell to other stranded riders. Could be a business opportunity if nothing else.

2. Fuel gymnastics.
There’s one stretch — Caiguna to Norseman — where premium unleaded vanishes. My bike drinks nothing less than 95. The roadhouse only has 91. Which is basically… lawnmower fuel.

To survive, I’ll top up in Balladonia with just enough 91, then add the precise millilitres of octane booster required to protect my shiny almost-new engine. I even built an Excel spreadsheet with formulas borrowed from racing car engineers to calculate it.

Still, it feels a bit like feeding a racehorse on instant noodles and hoping it doesn’t notice.

Excitement Overrules Anxiety

All that aside, I’m buzzing with anticipation. Perth is waiting. The ride is waiting. The tango is waiting. And the bike? Well, she doesn’t know yet that she’s about to carry us 7,603 km across some of the most beautiful (and empty) roads on the planet.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to re-pack my panniers for the fifth time. There has to be a way to fit in one more pair of tango shoes…