Day 7 – The Day That Was Supposed to Be Boring
We woke up this morning to the sound of rain. But the radar insisted on clear skies, so we knew it was only a passing sprinkle. Still, nothing like a few drops on the roof to test your optimism before coffee.
Speaking of optimism: I looked out the window to check on my bike, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment thought it had spontaneously cloned itself overnight. Nope. Turned out Damian — our new mate from last night — had parked his weirdly packed contraption right next to mine. Spare wheel strapped on, bags everywhere, and Damian himself perched on a rock behind our cabin like some outlaw philosopher.
“G’day mate,” he said. “Heading west? Mind if I tag along?”
Mind? Of course not! Riding alone is great, but riding together is… well, it’s like joining a secret society where the membership fee is petrol money and a healthy disregard for common sense.
First Leg: Instant Brotherhood
After breakfast and coffee at the roadhouse, we hit the road with no particular destination for the first stop. Just “an hour in, wherever feels right.” And it was right. Riding in a group isn’t about proximity — it’s about connection. We “talked” with hand signals, subtle speed changes, even the way we shifted in the saddle. Outsiders might think it looks like three loners on bikes. Insiders know it’s basically telepathy on two wheels.
Sure enough, Damian pulled us off the Eyre Highway onto a nameless dirt track, and two minutes later we were staring at the ocean and Bunda Cliffs from an angle that beat yesterday’s lookout by a mile. Local knowledge for the win.
Border Patrol (Australian Edition)
Next official stop: Border Village. Filled up at the Shell, then braced ourselves for Western Australia’s toughest border crossing since, well… forever. A cheerful bloke named Fernando checked our bags for fruit, veg, or anything resembling life. No passports, no visas, but stricter than Argentina–Brazil. I almost expected a cavity search for a stray tomato.
With the paperwork-free crossing behind us, I took the lead — destination: the Old Telegraph Station at Eucla. Google Maps said a few km down an unsealed road. Google Maps forgot to mention the “increasingly sandy” bit.
Into the Sandtrap
Now, I don’t mind gravel. Sand, though, is another beast. A few hundred metres before reaching our destination, Damian tapped out. “Not for my bike,” he declared, and sprawled under the nearest scrap of shade like he’d found religion. Fair enough.
I pressed on. And then… the bike stopped. Engine running, wheel spinning, but no forward motion. We were only 600m from the Telegraph Station. Too close to give up, too far to stay sane.
So, Noune hopped off, and I went Flintstones-style — feet on the ground, pushing, sweating, praying. Finally found firm enough dirt to keep going. At that point, a U-turn would’ve been sensible. Naturally, I didn’t.
Instead, we ditched the bike and walked the last 600m through deep sand, in full motorcycle gear, under the midday sun. Romantic, right? By the time we arrived, seeing the half-buried ruins felt less like sightseeing and more like conquering Everest. The satisfaction of making it there was actually greater than the station itself.
The Home Stretch
Getting out wasn’t much prettier. Noune wisely filmed me staggering the bike back through the sand (blackmail material, no doubt), only climbing back on when we reached solid ground. Then it was smooth riding again — a quick steak sandwich at Mundrabilla Roadhouse, and on to our final stop of the day: Madura Roadhouse.
Closing the Day
A little rest, a little work (Noune never quits), then dinner and farewell drinks with Damian. He’s got a couple of 700–800km days ahead to make Bunbury in time for work. Tough gig, but he’s made of the right stuff.
So here’s to Damian — the brother we didn’t know we had until the Nullarbor introduced us. And here’s to the day that was supposed to be boring. Spoiler: it wasn’t.
