Hawkes Return 2017 600 BRM

My face is burnt. My knees are trashed. I don't trust my bike anymore. I didn't panic when it all went wrong, but when I was finally rolling again at 8:30 on the Sunday I spent the first 20 minutes with leaking eyes and shakey - didn't think it was getting to me that much.

My cleats are so trashed, I can't clip in properly.

How the hell did it get to this?

A few days earlier...
I loaded up my bike and set off to the train station. I was catching the Overland to Bordertown. Alone.
Somehow a ride for many turned into a ride for one. I met a UK rider who just happened to be on the train on holidays, and generally settled down to wait.

It was odd seeing the trainlines of my childhood, almost always deserted, from a passenger perspective. Compared to air travel, it was very low key and friendly.

The hills of Belair rolled past, the land opening up to farmland. What was I doing! I've never ridden 600km! Let alone along one of the most remote stretches of road I've ridden on, before or since - 100km+ stretches of no water, no people; just desert. Sure, I'd bought a spot tracker; but cycling on highways that had no shoulder from what I could tell on streetview; that made me very nervous.


Bordertown arrived far too quickly; I collected my bike from within the cabin (bikes are people too) and immediately became disoriented. I did a few laps of the town and found a motel; checked in, and set off to find the nearest Op Shop - I felt like I wanted to blend; and I was carrying so little with me I had no other clothes.

I managed to find some really impressive shorts and white bowling shoes. I'd managed to hit the peak of the Bordertown fashion scene and went to the pub; to glean what local knowledge I could.

Peak fashion

The next morning, I woke early. There's an official statue of Bob Hawke somewhere in the town; but it was 5:45am and 5C, I had no long gloves.
I scratched out the 6am start time on the brevet card; rode to an On The Run (a local service station chain here), ate and set off.

The biting chill on my hands was near instant; as was the shivering. I couldn't get warm, and it was painful to hold onto the bike. I paused for a moment, fished out some thick but cheap woolen socks, and tore holes for my thumbs - instantly warmer and 3% more stylish 

The wind was exceptionally strong, and thankfully, a tailwind. My average was sitting on 27km/h. I didn't need to stop for water, with a hydration pack and two biddons: At the 80km mark, I stopped for the barest of moments for a nature break, but that was it.
The ngarkat desert isn't particularly memorable, just saltbush and sand; and no cars or houses.
I waved at a lonely truckdriver, saw a startled roo and perhaps a fox in the middle of the day - humans being so uncommon they weren't familiar with the concept.

Eventually, Pinnaroo drew close; and I turned into busier motorway; only to be immediately confronted by a driver on the wrong side of the road, overtaking needlessly; barreling right at me. I pulled off and made what the fuck arm movements; then rolled into the bakery.

Somehow, they had gathered all of the least decisive people around, who proceeded to ask lengthy questions like: "What's in this chunky steak pie? Chunky steak you say, well I never! And the chicken and veg pie next to it? Oh, I see..."

I was anxiously watching as the minutes ticked away. Finally, it was my turn, and then... The person serving turned on their heel and began making the round of coffees that had been ordered.
Silently screaming at them with my eyes had little to no effect.
Eventually, they remembered me, and rang up the purchase, signed the card. By the time I left, 20 minutes had gone; 13 of them on my feet waiting; the rest spent forcing food in.
I left in a panic, sitting in the big ring and pushing; hoping the tail wind would not stop.

It was another 100-130km stretch until Loxton. The terrain turned into rolling country; and I set into a routine of winding up on the descent from each roller; and grinding to the top of the next. My speed kept fluctuating wildly from 20km/h to 35km/h; not at all the steady pace I wanted.
I flew past the last outpost for water; and kept going; world reduced to rollers, averages and wind.

My mood was fairly good still, and finally, Loxton drew close. I stopped at the pub, ate minimally, had my card signed and set off again promptly. Renmark was next. It was a relief to see the river off to the side of me, and actually a relief to have some traffic for company.
I hit Renmark around 5pm, ate a hamburger after failing to understand the geography of the city and missing the pub; and headed towards Lyrup.

As I changed direction for the first time all day, it began to dawn on me that I now had a headwind. The 200km@30kmh averages needed to be forgotten. I also was weaving through areas I didnt know - I had to get to Berri by turning away from Berri and crossing a river. Confusing and befuddling, bit finally figured out.

The ferryman greeted me, and when I left him; sunset happened. All of the cheer of the day began to leech from my bones. Layers went on.

Ferry, which I had missed by 30 seconds

I pointed my bike back towards Berri; and came across the magnificently lit entrance bridge. Nothing was really open; so I pushed onwards; the Berri club was full of someone's engagement party - not a welcoming crowd for lycra.

I hit Bamera, and stopped in a 24h greasy truckstop. Ate copiously, and chatted to some local truck drivers.
They expressed concern: would I be going along the Sturt Highway to Adelaide?
No; I assured them; where the course went I would be lucky to see another car for hours.

I didn't realise it then; but the universe grinned at my hubris and decided soon was the time to strike.


Bamera is effectively shut at this time. It also has a very nice inland lake; of which I could see no trace of; but could feel the cooled breeze reaching for me over it's shallow surface.
I began to pedal; and got about 10km away from the township.

My chain let go.

Dark, cold, alone. It was okay, I had quick links, I could fix this.

My quick links were back in Adelaide.

I didn't know how to use my chain breaker to improvise.

I looked at the map and decided to press forward to the highway, sitting on my bike and coasting, one foot clipped in; the other used to scooter myself along: 7.5kmh is faster than 5kmh; and it was 40km. I could get myself out of this, it was just going to be tough: 5-6h of walking.

I could try to hitchhike as well, the highway held the best chance of that.

Kick, kick, coast. Kick, kick, coast. I reached the turn and looked to the left. Looked to the right. Nothing.

My goal of Waikerie by 11pm was dead and gone. Kick, kick, coast. I saw headlights. I tried to wave them down. They ignored the insane person on the road side. Kick, kick, coast.
A few more cars, the same treatment. One even pulled over! I walked to the passenger window; they didn't even open it, and peeled off, tires squealing.
It got colder. The 5C of the morning before prayed on my mind. Don't stop. Avoid exposure.

My legs hurt from the unusual activity and holding myself rigid. I took my shoes off and walked for a bit, then started over.

Finally, like a battleship of the highway, I heard a B Double coming.
I grabbed both of my lights and did vigorous motions indicating distress. With relief, he flashed his headlights at me and pulled over.

Quickly, I explained the situation. Darryl was a lifesaver then. He was headed to Morgan, and eventually, Sydney. We set the bike up behind his cab. There was a heater. He told me of his drives across the Nullabor, seeing indypac riders; having a cyclist friend in Sydney, and meeting a unicyclist touring Australia.

Christina and I had managed to talk, and she got onto the Waikerie motel. They were hosting a function; but had volunteered to come and rescue me as soon as they closed - after 1am.
I said my goodbyes to Darryl, and insisted he take what little money I had by way of thanks; he kept refusing.
We parted, and I had a further 10km to go. Rather than stand still, I set off towards the next ferry.
5km of kick kick coast. The pain was mind numbing and a deep seated ache. It was better than nothing.
I hit a magical point where the land sloped gently down towards the river. I was able to sit normally on the bike and roll, kicking less often. Finally, it was downhill enough I didn't need to kick.

The lights of the ferry appeared; and a car was waiting the other side; on the ferry. They both drew close, and it turned out to be one of the bar staff sent to rescue me.
With relief, I got the bike into the back of his ute; got my card signed (1:30am?), and lumped to the motel room.

I had been googling; there was a bike shop in Waikerie; newly opened. I couldn't reach them that evening and fell asleep; waking at 6am in a muggy haze.
It was 2km away from the main township; odd, but I wasn't questioning. A car pulled up next to me and a woman asked: are you the cyclist in a bit of trouble? Get in!
It was one of the owners of C+C Cycles; she and her husband got me straight to the stand and started to fix everything up. New links and spares. They didn't want to take money for the time and service, I insisted; and bought a pricey multitool as well.

Amazingly, I was up and rolling again by 9am. I was close to the control closing time; but as I agonisingly inched towards morgan; chewing ibuprofen galore; it hit me:


I could still make this within the time limits. I'd talked to the ride organiser about the hitchhiking and missing 40km; to see if I could simply ride extra to make up for it. He agreed, considering the circumstances.

The realisation I wasn't done yet; the fact so many had stopped and helped me; how close to serious problems I'd come from exposure all overwhelmed me.

I cried my way to Morgan.

The long stretches after Morgan

The rest was miserable. Headwind, struggling to maintain speed; and dead kangaroos galore. Mick had ridden out from Adelaide to Endunda to keep me company; accidentally committing himself to a 300km ride. The delays in setting off had caught him out.

Mick gesticulated at the road. Oh, you can barely see it! He had gotten off the bike, grabbed a nearby rock, and scratched words of encouragement in the very surface we shot over.

There is a lot wrong in my life. But that gesture at that moment, while I was outwardly nonchalant, that helped make things a little less so.

I crawled into a town, swallowed more ibuprofen, ate greasy food and climbed a 100m? Hill very painfully. A stalled B Double was having more trouble with the incline than I was.

Mick, diesel mechanic extraordinaire, ambled up and admired the cracked open hood; a wry smile crossing his lips.

Bit stuck are you? Or similar. I suddenly found a slightly higher rate of spin. Looks like you're in trouble! Hah! My legs couldn't turn fast enough.

Mick casually decided the chat was done and caught me mere seconds later.

Mick, keeping me company

Then... It all got better. From Edunda towards Adelaide, there's 40km of overall downhill. My speed went up to 35kmh; the problems clipping in were less of an issue.

These were new cleats

We got lost near Kapunda slightly, adding extra kms.
I kept doing the math and knocking them off my total.
By Nurioopta, Tash and David found me.

We finally made it back to Gawler, and then Elizabeth. Mick peeled off, it was nightfall again; we hit the final control. I dropped off my card to the organiser; and said I'd message when the remaining 15km extra got done.