The author pausing for lunch on the Tanimi.

Repairing broken oil cooler in the bush.

Wet sections on the Canning Stock Route.

Water in the Great Sandy Desert.

Atop a termite mound...

This is were I decided I was losing too much oil and turned around.

Taking shade were ever you can find it. The Boab trees of NW Australia.

Dawn on the Canning Stock Route.

My bike and a termite mound.

Termite mounds, the gatekeepers of the Canning Stock Route.

Biting Dust Down Under

By Christopher Barnecut #118294

There's always that chance for things to take a turn for the worse. So many things can go wrong the minute you step outside your comfort zone. If you tally up all the things that can go "pear shaped" as soon as you walk beyond your doorstep, it's amazing one can muster the courage to get out of bed, not to mention driving a vehicle or heaven forbid, rolling the throttle on a motorcycle.

Ironically, that's probably what lures some of us out of bed each morning; the novelty of a new day and the unpredictable nature of what may lie ahead. Imagine the cruel monotony of a world made predictable, a world without risk or reward, bound to endless regularity. The motorcycle, like the world, is unpredictable. It's risky at times but rewarding beyond measure.

If I knew for sure that I'd easily succeed in riding my GS around the world, I would probably have chosen a different endeavor. It was the big "what if" that attracted me to touring internationally on a motorcycle. What if you broke down, crashed, got lost or failed? What if you found a way to mitigate, adapt to or overcome these risks?

What if in the process you experienced both the adventure and the education of a lifetime?

Of course none of these romantic generalizations crossed my mind as I lay on my back in the sand and spinifex (spikey shrub) of the Australian Outback, 290 kilometers out from the nearest tarmac road. I sat up and began to check myself for injuries, then realized my bike was laid over, engine roaring away with the back wheel spinning in air. Sand had jammed the throttle open as the bike had slammed into the sand bank. I launched myself for the bike and switched off the ignition, no longer concerned about myself but for the bike, as it was my ticket out of the desert.

This was not my usual low speed dirt get off. I had likely come off at full speed and accrued more than just cosmetic damage on the bike. As it was resting on a bit of a decline, I had to dig a slot out behind each wheel, so as I lifted the fully loaded bike the wheels would slide in and assist me in getting her upright. I stepped back and had a look back down the track and spotted half of a termite mound. As I had came flying down the track with my pannier dragging among the scrub, I had clipped the 14 inch diameter mound, and thus experienced the .08 second rodeo. It's like hitting a tree stump. The termite mound material is akin to concrete and has historically been used as such for building purposes up until the early 1900s in Western Australia.

I knew these mounds were a threat to me as a biker and I was careful not to ride too close, but I never saw this one. The termite mound, engaged in evil conspiracy with the spinifex, was perfectly disguised in the brush. I began searching the bike for signs of damage. The MTD panniers and rack took a bit of a bending, but were still completely functional. In addition to some broken plastic, the front fender and instrument panel were askew due to a bent front frame piece. I was just thinking I'd gotten away easy when my hand traced across a wet patch along the top of the shocks. With mounting concern I traced the ribbon of leaking oil to the region behind the oil cooler.

If the situation allows, it's always nice to take a few minutes to freak out. You know, just go ahead and panic for a bit! Things didn't look good and I was in a potentially bad situation. I was deep into the Great Sandy Desert, perhaps one of the last great wildernesses on earth.

If you put the drama of the moment aside, things were pretty good.  I had plenty of food, water, and equipment, and there is always the SPOT beacon. However you don't press that beacon unless you're bitten by a Taipan while simultaneously being pulled into a billabong by a 10meter croc. Things hadn't reached that degree of bugger yet.

Before I started pulling things apart, I took a minute to come up with plans. Although I was over 290 kilometers from Halls Creek, there was an aboriginal community 124 km back down the track. The track was a bit flooded in parts, but only a 1/3 of that route was real desert CSR (Canning Stock Route) track. It wasn't something I'd like to walk, but given the recent rains, old CSR wells and occasional native soaks, I was confidant I could make it out on foot if I traveled at night when it was cool. More reasonably, there was also a convoy of two 4 wheel drive trucks I'd passed that morning which were likely heading this way. In a pinch I could stash the bike and hitch out, then return with parts. But I was getting ahead of myself, realizing the first step was to turn the engine over.

She fired up with a bit of hesitation, reminding me that I was an abusive, undeserving rider. She sounded good, although as I rolled on the throttle, a stream of oil squirted along the instrument side of the beak. I was hoping beyond hope that it was just a damaged hose. I pulled a long drink out of my CamelBak hose, threw on my hat to ward off the sun and flies, then started removing plastics on the front of the bike.

Strangely enough, my oil cooler was punctured not from the front where I'd expect the damage to be, but from behind. The front panel carrier holding the instruments had fractured on impact and a piece of the plastic moved forward penetrating the oil cooler. I sawed off the invading plastics and then loosened one side of the oil cooler so I could swing it out and work on it. This type of repair was not fun. Fun is working in the shade of a garage with a cold beverage on hand, good tunes and a total absence of flies.

It was at this point of desperate repair that the two 4 wheel drive trucks arrived. Unfortunately they didn't stock pile BMW parts in their tool kit, but I was glad to have the company. They let me top off my water containers from their tanks and offered to stick around to help. There's not a lot they could do for me and I was confidant I could extract myself regardless of how the repairs went. The convoy rolled away, quickly lost from view among the sea of sand ridges.

I slathered a load of cold weld goop all over the busted end of the oil cooler and proceeded to hook it back up again. Once a frame is bent, nothing wants to line up. I'd be trying to line up three separate parts and squeeze in a screw, but my oily hands would slip off the hex key and it would all fall into the sand. I'd have to clean the grit off and start over. Eventually it all came back together, but the sun was sinking fast and the riding day was over. I got the bike off the track and set up camp among the spinifex.

That was an emotionally difficult evening. I knew that I'd likely blown what would have been a golden opportunity to run the CSR. The weather window was perfect. Recent rains had packed down the sand, creating uniquely good sand riding conditions.  The R1150GS was never ideal for the CSR, but under current conditions it was possible. I had the fuel, food, maps, coordinates, and was rolling along brilliantly ahead of schedule. Consider the planning, time and collateral that I had invested in this. I drove nearly 3,000 miles from Perth just to get on this track. That's five days of tarmac riding and a hefty fuel bill ranging upwards of $1.70 a liter. So a great start to an epic expedition was going south in a hurry over a termite mound.

It wasn't over yet I mused, as I lounged back on my bike, feet propped up on the handlebars, gazing up at the stars. I had some Copeland, "Fanfare for the Common Man" playing in my MP3player and I thought that maybe that cold weld will work and I can push on in the morning. I awoke with a heavy heart and an aching body, knowing things weren't too good, but still determined to give it a shot. Breakfast was a cold snickers bar since I no longer had a pot to cook in. My mess kit had been strapped on the front of my pannier, taking the blunt of the termite vs. pannier demolition exposition. It was all cold meals from there on out.

The bike fired up, and I was off on the sandy track. If there is one thing to say about the 1150BMW GS, it's that the engine is rock solid. Over 60,000 miles of abuse and she's never missed a beat.

Now that I'd been through the school of hard termite mounds, I slowed my pace, which made for tough going. You can ride over sand or through it. It depends on your speed. Riding fast and staying on top of the soft stuff was a whole lot less work. But for fear of hidden termite mounds and a massive amount of brush overhanging the trail, I slowed down, fighting the sand in the process. All my external food pockets on the front side of the panniers were ripped off by the sticks hanging on to the trail. Sure, it's a track wide enough for a truck, but it's only possible to ride in the ruts, which forces you on either side of the trail dragging your panniers and handlebars through the brush.

I pushed until just shy of Well 49, where I dismounted, pried the plastics away and had a good look at the oil cooler. Oil was everywhere, even dripping down onto the brake calipers.

It was a sad call to make, but it was time to pull the plug. The odds were really stacking up against me and I could feel a bad situation, of cumulus nimbus proportion, mounting on my horizon. Literally speaking, there were some big storm clouds brewing between myself and my escape route. If the already wet sections of track near Billiluna took a flashflood, I could potentially be stuck. Even though it was heart breaking to turn back, I was consumed with the task of extracting myself before I ran out of oil or crashed again on another termite mound. I would also be racing against the storm before it submerged the lower sections of track near Lake Gregory.

It was good riding.  The small dunes were a blast to bump over and I knew the route from the ride out, so I could enjoy a little more of the surroundings as opposed to limiting my concentration to the contours of the track. All the salt lakes were full and unusually green grassy meadows opened up before me. The spinifex was sprouting new green shoots, turning the desert into a rolling green prairie. As I drew nearer to Billiluna I began to relax and take my time. The bike was spewing oil, but I was confidant I'd make it to Halls Creek before she dried up and seized. Every mile closer to civilization gave me more confidence and I stopped a few times to pull out the tripod and have some fun with the camera.

I may have bungled the whole CSR endeavor, but I felt I was still doing something right. Riding the deserts of a land far from home is me loving life regardless of technicalities.

An hour out of Halls Creek I stopped to catch the sunset. I pulled off the track and drove down a dried lake bed for a kilometer and turned off the engine. The heavy rumble of the boxer engine was instantly exchanged for the soft tones of crickets and various exotic birds. It was another epic sunset, a fleeting and immaterial souvenir glorifying the stark beauty of the Australian Outback. Virtually all rides are good rides, especially in Western Australia.

Christopher Barnecut is an Army officer from Colorado. Upon completing his active duty contract he transferred into the Individual Ready Reserve, allowing him the opportunity to conduct a world motorcycle tour. Having realized his dream he will be returning to active service. Christopher has posted further ride reports, photos and video on the Thelongestfriday.com.