Mike Hyde - Twisting Throttle Australia

DAYS RIDE: 416 kilometres.

JOURNEY TO DATE: 416 kilometres.

A ND SO THE journey began. I went outside the terminal at Sydney Airport and turned right towards the taxi stand. In doing so, I travelled the first 10 of 17 million metres, or 17,000 kilometres; that is the distance around the edge of Australia.

I nudged up to the head of the queue at the taxi rank. An Indian guy got out of his car and put my bag into the boot. Where to mate? he asked in an Aussie twang, and I was stumped by the juxtaposition of skin colour and slang. I gave him the address of the freight depot where the bike was ready to be picked up. The depot is in the wider airport complex and a few kilometres away. Of all the fares the taxi guy could have got, he had drawn the shortest taxi ride possible from the airport. With a family to clothe and feed, he could only answer me one way. P*** off, mate. Im not doin that.

Didnt think you blokes could refuse a fare. This was me slipping in some Aussie jargon hoping for some empathetic cooperation.

Sorry, mate, try walkin it. He unloaded my bag onto the pavement and drove off with the next in the line. I found myself wishing his fare was seat 28B and that her head was now lolling on his shoulder.

The exact starting point of my ride was outside Luna Park, under the shadow of Sydney Harbour Bridge. When I came back in five weeks time, all I would have to do would be to ride over the bridge and the two ends of the dotted line would join up. The slight flaw with my starting-line selection was that it was a tourist trap. Joggers, families out for a Saturday-morning stroll along the waterfront, Luna Park visitors and customers of a nearby outdoor caf swarmed around the patch of pavement where I was illegally parked. I set up my tripod, clicked the time-delay shutter and sprinted back, in full riding gear, to the bike on its stand. I had to clamber up, balance on the pegs and wave in time for the photo to be taken. I then clambered down, walked back to the camera and tripod and checked the photos quality. I had to do this repeatedly, because thats when I would notice what had moved into the background of the shot. A couple with a pram, two teenagers roller-blading, a dog defecating against my tyre. The iconic photo had to be perfect, empty of other people, so I tried and tried again. It was like attempting a pigeon-free shot in Trafalgar Square. It kept the caf customers amused, no doubt, and I all but heard a muted cheer go up from them when finally I had a window of 12 seconds to myself. With a satisfying click the photo was taken.

And so I stood there under the Harbour Bridge, sweaty, flushed and wondering which direction to go. By that I dont mean how to find the on-ramp to the freeway; rather which way to ride around Australia. Its a fair enough question. Clockwise or anti-clockwise? Did it matter? One way Id be leaning the bike over to the left a lot more, and vice versa if I headed the other way. To the south lay Victoria, Tasmania, fan heaters, hot chocolate, rain, black ice and logging trucks. To the north lay Queensland, warmth, watermelon, no gloves, sunshine and quiet roads. I pointed my wheel to the north, kicked it into gear and twisted throttle.

For my first days ride I was joined by two mates from Sydney, Steve and Pete. These two rode BMWs and knew the best route out of Sydney. They also knew the best pie shop in New South Wales. It was worth tagging along with them. We mounted up and rode onto the freeway, which surges up the coast as far as Newcastle where it turns into the Pacific Highway thereafter, all the way to Brisbane. The Pacific? Nah, mate, my guides scoffed, Thats for tourists. Well take you the back way. I tail-gated the two Sydneysiders as the freeway sliced its way through the suburbs of North Sydney. It was impossible to determine where the city finished as the miles rolled by and my hypertension at finally being on the road evaporated. I say hypertension because earlier that morning, as I methodically packed up the bike, I was racked by a sense of negativity. Bizarrely, the same feeling would crop up again on the final day of the journey. I can only put it down to nerves. I was convinced that my first puncture would happen 50 kilometres out of Sydney; that Id skid on diesel at my first refuelling stop; that Id get food poisoning from my first chicken burger. But that irrationality switched off like a light as I sped past the Gosford freeway exit, and I can only put its disappearance down to a heart-warming interaction with my first Australian fellow motorist. This is what happened.