CAPE CRUSADES
Cape York to Cairns by motorcycle.
ONE UNASSUMING sentence detonates the full-body panic. ‘The first thing you have to do is acknowledge your mortality,’ the prep notes state in bold, presumably because it’s kind of important. I scrawl my signature across the waiver anyway; more seismographic than usual because my hand quivers like a puppy in autumn rain. I read on: ‘There are things out to get you; highly polished bullbars, wild pigs, bull-dust, crocs, little old men in caps. Not to mention your own limitations!’ The last one reverberates: it’s been years since I’ve been near a motorcycle. The next eight days – 1800 kilometres from Cape York to Cairns, the long way around, through swallowing sands and beast-harbouring creeks – should be a doddle then.
TORRES (NOT-SO) STRAIT TO IT
Just to reach the starting line, Seisia, I ride two planes, a bus, a speedboat, a mini-bus and finally a ferry across the Torres Strait to the mainland. I chinwag away the pre-ferry wait with Thursday Islander, Morgan, while the island’s harbour puts on a hyper-colour aqua display solely for our entertainment. Morgan dives 25 metres deep in these waters for crayfish, dragging 100 metres behind a boat on a ‘lifeline’, for 10 days at a stretch. He’s survived two separate irukandji stings. “So you’ve ridden motocross, then?” he asks. “Nah, I’ve never really ridden off-road at all,” I say. “Bull-****,” he coughs, almost spraying beer. His look says he’s diagnosed a fundamental psychological flaw in me that years of educators and employers missed.
MEET THE CAPE CRUSADER
Cape York Motorcycle Adventures’ head honcho, Roy Kunda, was born in Iraq, but he could be Robert De Niro’s lovechild, such is the resemblance. He’s been motorcycle guiding for a quarter century, so he can do important things like singlehandedly ‘undrown’ a bike in the wilderness and smoke a rollie through his helmet while riding. He introduces us to his fruity-yellow-fleet of “forgiving” Suzuki DR-Z400Es, affectionately (acronymically) christened ‘Dog Rooters’. I brush past number 13 and lunge at the last unclaimed bike, number 11, my (hopefully) faithful steed. Feral horses rummage through bins, curlews beckon with supernatural whistling howls, and mozzies drone under the stars of the Loyalty Beach campground; but it’s tomorrow’s ride that keeps my eyes open wider than a meth-smoking boobok owl’s. At sun-up, my viscera churn like a NutriBullet, but settle after campfire bacon and eggs. Miraculously, I only stall the bike twice departing camp. My seven uber-experienced co-riders benevolently ignore my faux pas. The broad corrugated dirt road is a reasonably amicable re-acquaintance with motorcycling, but I’m tense; I strangle the handlebars so hard that my fingers stop working. I fall behind the pack immediately, but we regroup at The Croc Tent to browse stupefyingly expensive, Chinese-made Cape-aphernalia. The hard-packed clay road coils in and out of forest shadows in the final few Ks to ‘the tip’. Before parking up, I explore derelict eco-tourism afterthought Pajinka; the ’70s ghost resort surrenders a little more to nature each day. My nylon protective gear retains every single drop of the Queensland humidity during the rocky 15-minute hike to the mainland’s most northerly point. 4WDers swarm around ‘the sign’ for pictures; their quest complete. Ours starts now, because we’re turning the traditional Cairns to Cape York pilgrimage on its head. 1800 Ks to go, through what, only God and Roy know.
ENTER SAND, MAN
Snap, snap, snap. The handlebars chuck a diabolical tantrum through the pudding-like sand. I over-correct and, then, thump. Off. Again! Only isolation stops me from taking my bat and ball and sooking home. “I should charge you for that,” says Roy. “The bruise, I mean. It’s a souvenir isn’t it?” I survey the prone bike for mutilation. I smell petrol, but that’s it. I wrestle it upright with an old-man-noise soundtrack. “In the dunes, sit back and really put the power on,” says Roy. It sounds hazardously counterintuitive, but I try it. Better,