This is Helmut's story of the journey: from the left, Peter, Ralph, Helmut and Rod Return to Outbike-ride Development

Outback Epic Bicycle Adventure Challenge Race Showcase Wrap

I would be in no condition to ride the following day, the doctor assured me, after prescribing pills and tablets for my back spasms and cramps, which had totally incapacitated me on Friday morning, on arriving at Lasseters, Alice Springs, from Ayers Rock. I think the cause was a chill on the back the previous night at Ayers Rock Resort. Hotel staff had kindly driven me to Dr Khong, after making appointments. I was inclined to believe him, but had faith in the power of the medicine man, his prescriptions and in my own tenacity. I would not miss this adventure without a fight. At 12pm I was in the hotel room, resting, hardly able to move without getting the most painful cramps; by 6pm I had dressed and ventured downstairs to assemble my new MTB from its air-freight carton. Lazarus take note!

Satisfied with the result, I had a burger, and my confidence growing, ventured into the gambling halls of Lasseters and held my own with the slots for several hours. Next morning I was still somewhat stiff and sore, but improving and willing to give it a go, and so made ready to be picked-up at 7am for the tour. No one came. Hotel staff rang the tour office in Adelaide and finally made arrangements for 12. Now for some sight-seeing, I thought, and rode fearlessly but carefully over the Todd and into Alice, stopping at "The Broken Spoke" for adjustments to the bike. My return to Fosters Pharmacy was greeted by disbelief and finally good wishes. I stopped at the supermarket for two thermal singlets, and saw something of the town, including the Flying Doctor office, on the return ride to Lasseters. That was significant for me, because I had begun reading "Flynn of the Inland" while at Ayers Rock.

Day 1 Simpson’s Gap

At 12 I was picked up, including my oversize, overweight bag and bike, raring to go. It transpired the main body of the tour had left for Simpson’s Gap that morning. The decision to abandon the tour was made because of the sustained rain in the previous few days. I was to join the tour on its new route after a 25km ride from Simpson’s Gap that evening. Ralph, whom I had met earlier, indicated that I should start and he would catch me up in a few minutes. Like hell, I thought, and pushed the pedals. After a sustained effort, I reached the campsite without having been passed and began setting up the tent and meeting the other riders. That evening, the group decided to start the scheduled ride, albeit a day late, because the weather gods seemed to be favorable. We would be driven to Alice airport and start the epic from there. Several intrepid perfectionists decided to airport, and meet us there, rather than be bussed. I was happy to start from the airport.

Day 2 Santa Theresa

The ride was on in earnest, the first leg taking us down the track via Santa Theresa mission, about 70 km. The road was gravel and uneven initially, but I thought things were going well, and pushed hard. My back had recovered miraculously, but I continued to take my medicine for some days, becoming the butt of jokes about speed, doping and valium. I had not recovered all my confidence. Suddenly a rider appeared to my right, shouted hello and passed me as if I were standing still. I thought, bugger, it’s a woman. Now how can she be going so fast, I wondered, while Charlie, as it turned out to be, made me eat dust. My memories of the ride that day include some time riding with the attractive young English Lucy, as well as with other members, variable road surfaces, an inspection of the mission and myself reaching our campsite in reasonable condition. I noted that several riders, the "guns" of the group, with years of riding histories as long as my arm, had obviously reached the campsite hours before myself and the rest of the group, their tents and chores completed, functioning shower and feet up, looking bemused at the latecomers passing parade. I was by nature pretty competitive myself, but could not match their achievements, having started riding regularly only this year. I also thought that the social side of the experience was important, that meeting the other members of the group was paramount. I hatched a plan: I would leave early the next day and try to stay ahead of the bunch, and shared my thoughts with Ralph, whose stipulation was that I should wait for light. At some point, Peter explained the importance of appropriate tyre pressures and eased the pressure in my two considerably for the rough conditions.

Day 3 Breakout

The next morning I was off at first light, feeling good and making good time. My bike was light and equal to the task. I remember the deeply gorged ruts in the mud and not much else, until I was passed by the lunch truck. Ruth complimented me on my progress. We set up lunch and soon company arrived. It was Charlie and Paul, I could have guessed, they were excellent riders. I bid my farewells, after checking the route and distance, about 25 km to camp and was off, pedals turning and mud flying, no consideration for safety or bike. I felt good and made better time and reached the campsite first, although, of course, it was not a race. I was well satisfied with the pace that I had maintained for several hours. That afternoon it was I who waited at the roadside for the stragglers and I put up the shower. To top it off, Rollo awarded me the Green Cap for my daring and initiative, that night, after dinner.

Day 4 Tailend Charlie

On this day I had decided to begin by riding with Ralph and the satelite telephone. We were the last riders to leave. That morning I remember the long mountain range we needed to circumvent. Ralph was good company and his knowledge of the outback and area extensive. Lunch was close to a huge red sand dune, which, Lucy assured me, was worthy of climbing for the view. I only saw more sand dunes. After lunch I was the last to leave, but soon caught Ralph. Lucy and Rob. I think the couple from Canberra, Christine and Rod, was also there, or close by. They were dawdling as I approached, at a fast pace and put my foot down and passed them. That afternoon, I remember a long ride, which took us to the border with the Simpson Desert. Gibbers were littering both sides of the track, the western side shielded by a huge red sand dune, the eastern side emptied by the desert, as flat as a pancake.

The camp was situated at the foot of the dune, across the gibbers, half a km from the track. I chose a spot beneath a gum tree, set up my things and hung stuff out over the branches. Returning later, I found largish black ants had invaded my pack, bike and almost everything else. They were after my staminade, the little black creeps. I thought to entice them away with a dump of the yellow powder behind the tree, some distance away and also moved my things. It seems that the plan worked. One of the drivers, Bill, had to leave the tour and was replaced by BT that evening. She was introduced to each of us in turn. What I remember in particular was her large, warm smile. After dinner I was required, as was the custom, to pass on the Green Cap to a worthy successor. I decided, after some consideration, to make a joint award to Ruth, Bill and Peter, the support team and the unsung heroes of the ride, without whom it would not have been possible, accompanied by three cheers.

Day 5 Andado

I again started with Ralph, but we did not get very far because of punctures. Others also were affected. It was those little three cornered jacks, the bane of outback cyclists. It seeded that I had picked up the spikes while cycling from the road to the camp. We finally made some distance until the puncture demon struck again, this time beside a large pool of water, normally not available to riders in such predicaments. Ralph helped fix the tube. With hindsight, I wonder if it had been the same thorn, that had not been cleared from the tyre. We were heading towards an intersection, about 8km away, which was the way to the Accacia Forest. I was not really so interested and said that I might ride on. Because of our punctures, we were late and saw the trucks leave in the distance, and my decision was made for me. The intersection was signposted and against the post lent a dozen or so bicycles. One was partially dismantled, lying on the ground, obviously because of punctures. Ralph was needed at the tail of the field and got to work fixing tyres, while I pushed on towards the Old Andado Station, where we were to meet for lunch. Along the way I recall being bored by the countless detours around local flooding. Ever thinking of progress, I vowed to take the next flood across the road head-on. It was a mistake. I was soon up to the pedals in mud and accordingly fell sideways into the ooze. My instant reaction was to look behind me for witnesses, but the desert holds onto its secrets. So much for the direct approach, I remember thinking.

I reached the deserted station and sought protection from the sun under the willows. I remember the telephone ringing and being without water, and countless ants scurrying about, perhaps indicating a weather change. A Telstra technician, who had made a routine call to inspect the satellite dish and radio mast, allowed me to fill the bladder of my hydration pack. It was then that I noted the leak. No wonder that I had run out. I lay down in the courtyard and fell asleep on the outdoor bar, an appropriate place for a nap. Peter woke me some hours later. He gave me a couple of rolls for lunch, packed by BT. One truck had become bogged in the mud. Some of the other riders were also at the station. The next half hour we were replenishing water supplies. It was late in the afternoon and clouds were gathering. Camp was reasonably close and we had dinner after a glorious sunset. That night a short thunderstorm struck, heavy rain and lightning. I had chosen to sleep in a swag that night, but was forced to set up a tent at the last moment. It was cosy in the tent, with the hard rain knocking on the roof, but the storm did not last.

Day 6 I hit the Wall

I started after several riders, soon caught up to Christine and rode with her awhile. The going was heavy after the storm. She told me that Lucy had taken the wrong turn before the Andado Station and was worried. She would tell the trucks. I noticed her relaxing with Tai-chi the day before and had asked her previously the meaning of "Gitane". She said it was French for gypsy woman. I could live with that, an interesting name for a bicycle. I gradually drew away, trying to find my own pace through hard going. I was having water trouble again and the sand hills loomed. Two emus were racing me and winning. I was slowing and tiring fast. Riders appeared behind me, passing me at will. Everyone was passing me, it seemed. This was a bad time for me, because of the sand and water problems. I limped into lunch, under an umbrella of gum trees near the Fink River. I stayed a long time, recovering. Rob had arrived and we agreed to ride together to Mt Dare. BT kindly lent me her water bottle. I had also picked up one discarded bottle, so now I had two: beggars can’t be choosers.

Rob has a very disciplined approach to riding, which did not suit me entirely, but two were better than one and he was very supportive. His plan was to stop at every 10km for drink and rest. Not being weaned from my hydro system yet, I found it difficult being unable to drink when I needed it. Nevertheless, his optimistic mood was contagious and we made reasonable time. We saw great washouts on this last section, riding through wooded areas. Several times we stopped, choosing newly born green grass to lie on. Time was running-out and the sun was low. Suddenly we were free of the forest and onto an endless plain. In vain we searched the horizon for any signs of mountains or settlements, or other clues to Mt Dare. A sign heralded 5km to go, they seemed endless. Bum, wrists, back and neck were sore and painfully distracting. Rob led the way. I kept asking how far to go, for my computer was missing. We seemed to be heading for a line of trees, still some distance away, but there were no mountains in sight; the land was flat as a pancake. Suddenly we spotted a windmill, that silent sentinel of the outback. From there it was not far, we rode into the camping ground at dusk, amid applause from the others.

After setting-up my tent, swags were out because of the great silent mosquito pestilence. Then, after a shave and warm shower, I made my way to the main building, of which one room was a pub. Joy was great at my first beer – a XXXX, then others , the price of $4 a can was irrelevant. Behind the counter served young Nick, whose German accent I recognised immediately. He was on a working holiday. We exchanged brief histories over the bar, interrupted only by more beer. Outside was a long table, around which the others had congregated. Suddenly there was some commotion: Ralph had announced his arrival with his Claxton. Then, at last, the affable noise of the pub people was broken by applause for Christine and Rod, who had spurned a lift in the truck and ridden the last kms in the dark, a marvelous effort, because I know how much trouble I had.

For dinner that night our support people had organised a BBQ. Steak, sausages, fried potatoes, among others satisfied the pangs of hunger. I needed to buy insect repellant and so armed, sat at the table until late. My body needed plenty of fluid that night. I also bought a bottle of soft drink. I now had three bottles, sufficient, I thought, for a good day’s ride. During the day I had noticed a knocking sound from my bike. I sought advice from Ralph, but next morning, after a good clean and oil of the chain, the noise was gone.

Day 7 Desert Oasis

The day started on the right foot with eggs and bacon for breakfast. That day I waited for Ralph to complete paperwork and stayed with him for most of the time, until late afternoon, when we happened upon Christine and Rod. I remember some muddy parts just outside Mt Dare, through which the trucks drove with gusto, long low ranges along the western sky, to which we did not know the names To pass the time, I started inventing names and histories of any features we met, for Ralph did not know everything and was perhaps annoyed at my constant questions. Consistent with this theme was Three O’clock Creek, a curious name, for which we tried to make-up a plausible history. Peter came to met us in the truck and as he passed, shouted "It’s only another ~~ (garbled)~~ kilometers". We all thought that he was trying to make it sound small when it was really big, and that this was very funny. Afternoon tea was in the company of Christine and Rod. Peter, in one of the trucks, went back in the direction of that timeless creek, to gather firewood for the campfire that night. Meanwhile, the landscape had changed to what one could expect on the moon, hills, valleys, plains with nothing else. A junction pointed us into three kilometers to Dalhousie Springs. What awaited us there in that short distance was a complete contrast, an oasis, clean camping grounds, date palms and other trees and shrubs, and wildlife, not at all wanting for water. A swim in the warm lake at 38 C made sick bodies well again. Dinner was good and plentiful, as always. That night I slept well, in a tent, for the mozzie plague had ambushed us again. O, how I would loved to have stayed in this paradise for two nights.

Day 8 Paddy Melons

That morning as I awoke, the camping ground was strangely deserted. It seemed to me, that many riders had already left and I just saw Rod riding off, as I struggled with my tent covers. Breakfast was a mere formality and I was soon struggling along the track we had come late last night. I didn’t feel very strong, for some reason. The turnoff was to Dalhousie Ruins, 9km. Soon I saw the ruins of some buildings and signs of a substantial settlement. Just as I stopped to check my rear tyre, which seemed to be softer than usual, John sailed past. I soon joined him in reading about the history of Dalhousie on two plaques. There used to be a racecourse, as well, but no sign of it now. I continued, John was reading. There, I saw Rod in the distance. Soon I joined him and we had some interesting conversations, I’m sure. He also assured my that my lack of strength in the morning was really because of a deceptive intial climb, out of the oasis. I felt relieved. At morning tea, Rod and I were relaxing, John had joined us, when in the distance I saw the big guns approaching. I was surprised to see them, thinking they were miles ahead, but that was enough for me. I mumbled my goodbyes and set off at a furious pace. The truck was still visible on the crest, some kilometers hence. I chased it until it disappeared, then I put my foot down and made the wheels sing.

The landscape was very open and flat, with the occasional creek and trees, and gentle slopes. The road reasonable, but hard, and rocky in parts. So far, we had encountered little wind and there was no wind now. I flew. The suspension on the gypsy woman worked overtime. Then I started to lookout for the lunch truck, because it was that time. Anxiously, I looked for it and saw it just in time. It was parked on the left hand side under some trees, at the start of the sand section, which would slow us for 8km. I carried the bike to the truck, in order to appease the puncture demons. Lunch was a bite and replenishment of water, and I was off. Suddenly I could feel the bumps through my rear tyre and although soft was good in sand, I eventually stopped. Could I find anything? In my desperation, I threw all my things onto the road and eventually found one tyre lever, but the rear tyre would not shift, try as I might. I was desperate, expecting to see the peleton rounding the corner any minute. In my hour of need, some good Samaritans in the form of 2 four-wheel drive vehicles happened along and stopped to help. They even had a small compressor to inflate my tyres. There was some discussion about outback cycling and then we waved our goodbyes. They were gone and I was going, at last.

The day was warm and I often needed to stop for drinks, carrying them in my backpack. I felt good and had no pain. Whenever I stopped, I glanced back, just to check for any sign of the others. The land was flat and few trees. Some buildings appeared, silos perhaps, but derelict, and a gate to be opened and closed. I could see the dust from vehicles approaching me. The people always waved. What must they be thinking, I wondered. Some were drinking beer. Oh for a cool can of beer. The country changed, suddenly there were trees on both sides and I had arrived at a junction. Now, which way to go. The general direction towards Oodnadatta was south, but which way was south, where’s Rod, dammit? I needed his counsel.

Why didn’t I have a map? I should have checked the route this morning. After some minutes of thought, I took the unmarked road, which was heading in a southerly direction, and not signposted to Oodnadatta, a calculated gamble, I guess. I left a piece of paper on a bush, to indicate which way I had chosen, (as it turned-out, that was too subtle a clue) in case I ended up missing. I chose well, because soon I came out of the thick bush lined road to more open spaces and saw Hamilton station. I thought of dropping in and asking for a beer, or throwing myself at the mercy of the staff for water, for I was very low and it was very warm. Now began the roller-coaster of the sandhills, up and down, up and down. The distance between hills varied but ranged from about 250-400m. The hills were high enough and the surface good enough to get up a good head of speed under normal conditions, but on the way down and up again, the corrugations played havoc with the speed, very frustrating. They seemed endless. Tired and thirsty, I was out of water.

At about 3pm, I stopped and sought shelter on the roadside shadows of the dense scrub. Now they’ll catch me, for sure. But the truck with BT came instead to save me. My water replenished, I chased the truck, but my enthusiasm soon waned, for those hills seemed endless. I kept thinking, why did they not stop there, that place was suitable, this place is really picturesque, that place had a creek. Finally I arrived at the site. I set up my tent, did my chores, helped with the fire, and played cricket with BT using paddy melons as balls and spade as bat, amidst shrieks of laughter. It was a good ending to a long day. In dribs and drabs the peleton arrived, during the First Test, but they appeared not to appreciate the funny side of things. Later, Peter and BT engaged in a paddy melon throwing contest olympic challenge, with BT being adjudged the winner, being the best throwing arm melon missile chucker in the open section. My gears had been slipping, so I asked Peter, the bicycle guru, for assistance. He took some time to adjust the rear derailleurs and we hoped to have solved the problem. Normally, a new bike needs adjustment after about 500km and it is part of the first free service.

Day 9 A good day for Oodnadatta

I recall having to find the shovel, at about 4am, as usual, an unusual time for me otherwise. Rob and I must have agreed to ride together to Oodnadatta, because I remember getting up early and being ready by sun-up, around 7am. However, Rob was not ready and he indicated, that he would catch up with me. I therefore set off. I soon realised, that my gears were slipping badly and stopped to make some adjustments, only just out of sight of camp, on the next sandhill. I muttered something and said the S word and I just turned this thing and hoped for the best. There was no mid range, but the gears did not slip, so I was reasonably happy and resumed at a dawdling pace, for once enjoying the scenery and not feeling pressed for time, whenever I stopped for pictures. I carried my camera in my front handlebar basket, plus some other things.

My usual cargo consisted of two tubes, repair kit, tyre lever(s), pump, 3 water bottles, a couple of candy bars, some glucose tablets, which I called "speed", for they had that effect, a rag and oil, for changing rear wheel, and servicing the chain, toilet paper, a flimsy wind cheater, lubricant for between the legs, deodorant, chewing gum and a lot of minor things lay on the bottom layer, which I have forgotten. I have no idea what the others carried, that was obviously a taboo subject and not discussing it part of outback riding etiquette. I usually wore a pair of nicks, leggings, socks, shoes and cleats, thermal singlet, shirt, balaclava, sunglasses, gloves and helmet. Around my chest I wore a heart monitor, which sent the signals to the wrist watch-like instrument, that was mounted on the handlebars and showed heart rate, time and other things, which I did not understand. Also mounted there was a wireless bicycle computer, which was supposed to do everything but pedal. Alas, it was not illuminated, so I often had trouble reading it without glasses, when the light was not good.

My bike is a Gitane ATV Team, last year’s model, which I was able to buy at a very good price. The components were all very high quality, mostly XT. I bought it new, two weeks prior to the tour. It has three front gears (ranges) and nine rear ones. Now I was trashing it. It was thus in an easy frame of mind, that I was cycling along the countryside outback desert emptiness. Rob was a long time coming and eventually I spotted him, with Lucy, typical, I thought, chatting up the women. They were miles away, obviously, oblivious to me. The three of us reached Peter on a hill and morning tea together. Just as he was about to cut the fruit cake, BT arrived in the other truck and he ran the 50m to the road to speak to her with the only knife. I was getting a bit edgy by this time, and mounted my bike, moving off. I remember Rob calling out, probably in jest "Look out, Eddie’s coming". That’s all I needed. I was off in a flash and raced down the hill in a shower of stones.

I was chasing the lunch truck again. All was going well until the wind hit. It lasted all day into Oodnadatta. I fought and fought, stopped to recover, fought again. The 5km long clay pan would enable me to see any peleton, and vice versa, so I tried especially hard until I reached the forest on the other side and peered into the distance from the security of my hide. All quiet. Off I went again, the wind often slowing me down to 12kmph. I thought of the peleton strategy of slip-streaming in such circumstances and pressed harder, being careful to concentrate on pushing down, as well as pulling up. It was very tiring and disappointing. The kilometers were being eaten ever so slowly. Suddenly I saw BT and the lunch truck, they were still making preparations and not expecting riders. I wanted to replenish water and keep going, but BT packed me some tuna and a spoon.

Off I went again. Oodnadatta on Sunday is a dry town, we were told. I had an idea to stop the next vehicle and ask for a couple of cans. Soon three vehicles appeared, I flagged them down and they stopped as if in a convoy. All the passengers and drivers had cans in their hands. I explained the situation and that I wanted to be the only rider with a beer that night. The driver gave me one, mumbling something about "running short". I was grateful and wrapped it carefully. Suddenly there was a turn in the road to the right and a sign in the distance. It said: Oodnadatta 17km. Nearly there, I thought. Stopped for a drink and was off. Those were very long 17 km. I was stopping frequently, now, drinking and resting. Suddenly I heard a vehicle. It was Peter and he waved as he passed me. I kept going, on and on, there was the radio mast on a hill, so the town could not be very far. A truck came towards me, it was Peter, he stopped to chat. As I stopped, I glanced backwards and he said "Don’t worry, they’re a long way behind". He added, the camping ground is behind the pink roadhouse". I thought, good, behind the brothel. I rode on, I could see the town in the distance, it came ever so slowly, I stopped frequently for pictures, being careful to glance behind me. Suddenly I was riding up the main street. All was quiet. Where was the welcoming ceremony? I saw the Inland Mission Hospital, a solitary dog barked. Sadly, there was no one to greet me. Oodnadatta had seen better days.

I made for the pink roadhouse, walked in with my bike, and grabbed a drink, ordered a burger, it came as an "Oodnaburger" served by Steffi, a young German tourist on a working holiday. While I was eating, huge plates of huge chips were being served to other guests. Then BT entered and I ordered one of those huge plates and she shared it with me. After such a feast I rode slowly to the camping site and set up my tent. BT was already unloading the truck, so I had access to my luggage. Then came a shower and shave and another shower, fully clothed, because I wanted the clothes washed. When I had some time to relax, I started a conversation with two German couples, who were on a 7month’s holiday in Australia. They had shipped all their gear, RV, tents BBQs probably including the kitchen sink, in a huge container. They were well organized and rationed, having excellent supplies of good wine and beer. When the drinking started soon after, I found myself with a bottle in my hand, sharing tales of adventures.

Afterwards, I talked to BT about my plans with the beer can, but she confided in me, that she was organizing beer and ice for the night, " but it’s a secret". " I won’t tell a soul", I said, suitably impressed by her enterprise and initiative and networking. Slowly the peleton limped in, not saying a word or giving me a glance. Later Rod and Lucy arrived, just prior to closing of the roadhouse, to which I directed them on the main street, for a cool drink. Later that night there was great pleasure and merriment when BT and I arrived with the surprise, a huge chill box filled with cans and ice. BT also had used her culinary skills to make a delectable desert, with whipped cream. Anything is possible, in an outback kitchen. (Old jungle saying)

Helmut (part 1)

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