Jeff Munro
Round-Oz Ariel
Maroubra speedway star Jeff Munro was contemplating a 10,000 mile non-stop ride around the ‘Killer Drome’ in Sydney when it was suggested a complete circumnavigation of Australia might prove a better bet to win the Maudes Trophy – awarded annually by the British Auto Cycle Union for the most outstanding feat of endurance by a motorcycle. No doubt encouraged by his father Fergus – Chairman of Ariel Distributors Limited – the 21-year-old was soon sighted ‘running-in’ a new Ariel Sports Model ‘E’ around his home in the harbourside suburb of Rose Bay. ‚
The Shell Company agreed to lay down petrol and oil supplies at strategic points along the proposed route and, on July 17 1928, Jeff departed the Shell Oil HQ in Bourke Street, Sydney. Only hours later, accompanied by Eric Haines riding an Indian Scout with sidecar, the adventurers rolled on to the Wisemans Ferry looking forward to escaping the mid-winter chill. However Eric made it no further than Singleton. At the time it was reported that he was repatriated to Sydney after an accident, though Jeff admitted many years later that Eric simply ‘couldn’t cut the mustard’.
“The truth is he squibbed it” Jeff told his grandson Thomas. “So we made up the story about an accident to get him off the hook”. Thomas also asked
Jeff about his Ariel’s unusual handlebars to which Jeff replied. “With two petrol tanks on the back and another two for water the Ariel was difficult to keep upright. So I made about half a dozen handlebars out of aero steel until I had the exact shape I wanted. We called them ‘Come to Jesus’ Bars”.
Only one day after parting company with Eric, Jeff was lying under his machine at Deepwater on the freezing New England tableland with his own second thoughts about the task ahead. Later, repairing a flat tyre while enduring a winter downpour, no doubt he entertained an even larger number of second thoughts. Two eventful days later, after encountering washed-out roads, more rain and suffering further tyre problems, a more subdued Jeff rode into Brisbane where he was entertained most lavishly by representatives of the Shell Oil Company.
Go well. Go Shell.
“The Shell people were very convivial but I don’t believe they expected me to get very far and hadn’t made preparations” Jeff told Thomas. “Later I arrived in one or two places and there was no fuel so I got in touch with my father who, unbeknown to me at the time, went to see the manager of Shell. My father, who could be a pretty aggressive bloke, said ‘look you damn well honour your promise or you’ll wish you never heard the name Munro in your life’”. Tumultuous rain across the Darling Downs almost brought Jeff’s journey to a premature end in the glutinous black soil. So utterly exhausted was he that when he fell, which was often, he merely turned off the petrol and lay in the mud until his strength returned. On more than one occasion it took him almost an hour to free himself from under the machine. A sodden physical wreck, having lost the top of his finger and badly injuring his hip, Jeff ascended the Old Toll Bar Road, eventually reaching Toowoomba.
It’s amazing what perceived recuperative powers a night being feted as a champion provide, and thanks to the generous hospitality of Cyril Anderson the local Ariel distributor, Jeff was soon on his way again, giving first gear a real hiding in conditions even worse than the climb up the Dividing Range. Approaching Chinchilla he crashed badly and, in his weakened condition, was unable to extricate himself from under the scorching exhaust which fearfully burned his leg before he passed out. Discovered by a chance motorist, Jeff was taken to the ambulance station in Chinchilla, where his severe burns and a ‘wrecked’ ankle were patched as much as was possible.
Back on his battered machine 48 hours later, Jeff’s injuries forced his return to Chinchilla, where it was ordained he remain in bed for a further two days before being cleared to continue. Even then it was with his left foot encased in a hospital slipper, a circumstance that was to persist for a further three weeks; despite the rough going and frequent falls. Almost delirious with fatigue Munro arrived in Roma after midnight where he commandeered the housekeeper’s bedroom in the local pub. Shocked, the indignant matron spent the night elsewhere, giving him a proper verbal the next morning.
Now on the western plains in clearing weather, Jeff increased his pace on a track that seemed better than anything he’d previously encountered. Hoping to reach Blackall before sunset he used half inch more throttle than usual and touching speeds of 40mph, felt some of his old speedway flair return. Until the front wheel ploughed into a patch of soft sand, causing a single moment of excruciating pain. Followed by oblivion.
Regaining consciousness Jeff was unable to move until he was picked up by a local grazier and taken to Blackall Hospital where, despite his demanding an immediate discharge, it was proposed he remain. The authorities, believing him crazy, confiscated his clothing and kept him in bed for a week. Bruised, swollen, plastered in bandages and
poultices, Jeff had adequate time to reflect on his progress. An acknowledged champion on grass, cinder and concrete Jeff had now endured a full career of crashes in less than a month. Surely the time had come to prudently pull the plug but, ever optimistic, he convinced himself that the trials that lay ahead couldn’t possibly be worse than those he’d left behind.
Towards the Diamantina
Longreach was his next objective and, traversing a track clearly marked by discarded beer bottles, fuel cans and the occasional burnt out wreck, Jeff made speedy progress before another of many minor crashes slowed his pace. A passing lorry driver suggested he throw his Ariel on the flatbed and ride shotgun to Mount Isa, yet Jeff remained singleminded. He’d set out to ride around Australia, not be carried. At least while his limbs still functioned.
As the interminable hours passed, Jeff’s thirst and hunger grew and he was devastated when he found that all that remained of the Winton pub was a few charred uprights, a bone-dry water tank and a tombstone. A more desolate scene could not be imagined. The country was in a dreadful state.
Prime sheep grazing regions had been reduced to a barren and lifeless wasteland across which he struggled, increasingly dehydrated and disillusioned. On arrival at the remote Dick’s Creek Pub he claims to have ‘darn near drank all they had’.
The desolate moonscape ahead eventually became the iron-laden Selwyn Ranges, where the sand and dust morphed into the flinty, boulderstrewn goat tracks linking Cloncurry, Duchess and Mount Isa. Crossing the vast Barkly Tableland Jeff was at first encouraged by the expanse of the smooth clay plain that lay before him, but before reaching Camooweal he suffered his first taste of bulldust which camouflaged seemingly bottomless holes. Falls were now more frequent than ever. With the Ariel often buried to its fuel tank in bulldust, kickstarting became almost impossible.
Jeff’s only distraction from the grind was meeting a Welsh family of sheep farmers with two children, the youngest of which, four-year-old Morris, had never seen rain. His only other encounters were with a Polish Count preparing a landing strip for the Queensland and Northern Territory Air Services, and a pump station worker who claimed not to have seen a white man for four years. Little wonder that Munro was anxious to continue day and night to reach some form of civilisation.
Barking Mad
A broken clutch cable delayed him further and his water supplies were soon depleted. Almost delirious with thirst he resorted to the only water available; from a stinking waterhole brimming with rotting wildlife. The resulting dysentery produced vivid nightmares, which often persisted in daylight hours. Now obsessed beyond reason, Jeff decided to ride day and night, reckoning this would reduce the need for water and eliminate the nightmares. By the time he reached Daly Waters, dysentery had ‚
all but disabled him and he was laid up with fever for several days. In no condition to continue, Jeff nonetheless did and, several crashes later, too knackered to kick over the Ariel, set off on foot, then crawling, until he collapsed a few hundred yards short of the Maranboy Inland Mission, where he spent a week in sick bay.
It was a short ride from Maranboy to Katherine where he was urged to take the train to Darwin as the Overland Telegraph Track had not been traversed for over a decade. Munro would have none of it, but soon after setting off he found the thick mallee scrub disorienting and quickly lost sight of the low slung telegraph wires, becoming totally bushwhacked. By dusk he was relieved to sight civilisation and pulled up the first aboriginal he came across; ‘Hey Jackie, this Pine Creek?’ ‘No Boss. This Katherine.’
His second attempt to follow the ill-defined Telegraph Track proved more successful, however the ratio of crashes to distance covered increased. Not far from Darwin, sick and aching, he hit a soft patch, fell, and remembered no more. Regaining consciousness, pinned down by his machine, it remained for an old Chinaman to render assistance, boiling the billy, giving Jeff rice and raisins, and accompanying him into Darwin.
Delayed in Darwin
Jeff’s delight in reaching this important waypoint was tempered by his disappointment in learning the publican at the only ‘white’ pub in town had been taken to hospital, then immediately to the morgue after a bout of dengue fever; the same ailment now affecting Jeff. Contrary to expectations Munro survived, and a timely cable from his father Fergus to the NT Governor soon had Jeff convalescing in Government House.
Thus far Jeff’s odyssey had consisted of throwing himself at whatever terra firma offered – rocks, sand, mud, bulldust, termite mounds and tree stumps. Simultaneously acquiring an intimate knowledge of every medical facility in northern Australia. His immediate future promised only more of the same – without the medical facilities. He was able to accurately predict the quantum of falls he’d suffer riding south on the Telegraph Track, but beyond that was largely uncharted territory following the Murranji Stock Route; also known as the ‘Ghost Road of the Drovers’.
Across the Top
Jeff set out for Inverway Station, arriving in good shape to be entertained by the Farquarson brothers Archie, Harry and Hugh, leaseholders of this 6000km property. The next stage was undoubtedly the most dangerous stretch of country Jeff yet faced, though he soon became adept at following the Afghan camel trails and digging for water in the soaks of the deep ravines. Halls Creek marked the halfway point of his journey but there was no cause for celebration, as ahead of him lay the Fitzroy River crossing at Yeeda, only negotiable in the dry season, and then only at low tide. He’d managed the first hundred yards when the Ariel lodged itself firmly between two boulders forcing him to unload. This
necessitated several trips and Jeff found it increasingly difficult to focus on the task, with one eye out for the lurking saltwater crocodiles, the other on the incoming tide.
Reassembling his machine Jeff pressed on into the dreaded ‘pindan’, a region of deep sand, and turpentine bush; the intense energy sapping humidity adding to his woes. Then he ran out of fuel. Also out of water, he set out on foot but was soon stricken by dehydration. He came across a lone aboriginal who, indicating the direction of water, held up two fingers. Believing he had only a couple of miles to go, Jeff set out with a somewhat lighter heart despite having had nothing to eat or drink for more than twenty-four hours. He was forced to rest until sundown but, unable to follow the cattle ‚
pads in the darkness he resorted to firing shots from his revolver during the night in a futile attempt to attract attention. Several hours after sunrise he was found by bore workers, who carried him to their camp. Maddened by thirst Jeff had torn off all his clothes and was absolutely naked except for his boots. He had been on the verge of collapse since seeing the aboriginal who, by holding up two fingers, meant to indicate that the nearest water was twenty miles away.
After a week spent in Broome Hospital, but much hardened by his experiences, Jeff made exceptionally short work of the ‘madman’s track’, along which scores of would be prospectors had perished, then took to the bullock tracks through Marble Bar, Meekatharra and Mount Magnet. In little more than a week, he rode triumphantly into Perth; without the need to visit hospital. And whilst he enjoyed a week of celebrations courtesy of the Ariel distributors, the local mechanics set about refettling his machine.
The long run home
Mid November was hardly the ideal time to be tackling the Nullarbor, but Jeff was on a roll and mum’s Christmas Dinner beckoned. Despite his biggest high-side yet, nothing would stop him now. On November 28 he rolled up to George Bolton’s Ariel Distributorship in Adelaide where everything possible was done to make his week of festivities enjoyable. Nine days later Jeff’s Auto Cycle Union Card was stamped in Melbourne – where he enjoyed another stay as the celebrated guest of Milledge Motors. Undeterred by an inordinate number of punctures between Melbourne and Sydney, Jeff arrived at the GPO on December 15, only two days short of six months since he departed. He was welcomed by a large crowd of enthusiasts including the city’s entire Ariel contingent, his father Fergus and a delighted Shell Oil representative. Though Jeff toured England in 1929 as a guest of Ariel he made no claims on the Maudes Trophy and the following year he returned to his old haunts, riding the new model ‘O’ Ariel Charger to victory in both the 10 and 20 Mile Races on Gerringong Beach south of Sydney.