By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (46 page)

We met Peter again at lunch time; he’d brought the horse truck to Keeble’s Hut and had prepared a meal for us. After lunch we rode alongside the highway for a mile or so before beginning our climb into the mountains. I was loving every minute. Earlier I’d taken Basil for a bit of a gallop and it was just like being on my dad’s film set again, racing a horse I didn’t know through deep woods - only this time I wasn’t wearing armour.

It was a shame to leave them, but later that afternoon we had to say goodbye and carry on in the Nissans. Unsaddling the horses, we thanked Barry and Peter and jumped back in the utes, driving into snow with black rocks bulging on either side. Visibility was way down - the sun had gone and the sky was closing in.

We spent the night in an eco lodge called Bimblegumbie, close to the Thredbo Ski Resort, a Bohemian kind of place with a roaring fire and great views across the valley. Tomorrow would be 20 July, our one hundredth day on the road. In less than two days I would see my family again.

The plan had been to cross the mountains on skidoos. That night we met Huw, a local guide, who told us we could try but it wasn’t likely we’d make it. He was staying in the lodge, so we sat down together with a map and he pointed out the problems. High winds had been forecast, which would make the one possible route impassable. We’d been hoping to rent a couple of skidoos but Huw told us that given the area was a national park, there were only certain places you could ride one and you had to be licensed. We might have made it as pillions with the ski-patrol perhaps, but he doubted we’d have been able to go under our own steam.

As it turned out, we were not able to go at all. When we woke on Sunday morning we quickly realised there was no chance: a gale was blowing at a hundred and thirty kilometres an hour and the road on the other side of Perisher Valley was closed. It was a shame; we’d come this far and skidoos were the last different form of transport we’d planned for the expedition. It was a reminder of how vast Australia truly is. The temperatures in Darwin had been up in the thirties, but down here the road was blocked by snow.

I couldn’t help reflecting that the journey was nearly over - the chequered flag in sight. There was no point in wasting the chance to see some snow however, so we decided to take the skitube through the tunnel into the National Park. It is three kilometres from Bullock’s Flat right through the Ramshead Range to Perisher. Skidoos can only be ridden in certain areas; you have to have a licence and primarily they’re used by the ski patrol. The tunnel had been built as a kind of dry run for Sydney harbour, and they used it to test the design and equipment before starting on one that went under water.

At the other end were the ski-runs where it was blowing so hard the lying snow was creating a bit of a blizzard. This was a high plateau with the runs dipping between the summits and low cloud blanketing any kind of view. Hugh introduced us to a couple of guys from the ski patrol and they took us part of the way along Charlotte’s Pass.

It was bloody freezing, two up on a Polaris two-stroke. We took a road marked by poles in the snow, riding between thick fir trees and black rocks. The snow was banked up around us, some of it deep and flat and slippery as sheet ice. We went as far as we could before the blocked road thwarted us. Turning back again we stopped at what must be the most bizarre and remote petrol station in the world: just a couple of pumps - one diesel and one unleaded - in the heart of the mountains, with snow and rocks all around. They were used by the ski patrol when they needed to access areas too remote to be reached on one tank of fuel alone.

There are more than a hundred and seventy guys patrolling this area and most of them are volunteers. They buy their own uniform, their own food and organise their own accommodation. They’re effectively paying to be up there and they make sure that if anyone gets injured, they’re carried off the mountain as quickly as possible. The training is incredibly rigorous and they have to know the landscape like the back of their hand. Every slope is named, every gulch and valley, every orientation point; though none of the names appear on any map. Every member of the ski patrol has to be able to get to any point in Perisher Valley in the quickest possible time.

On Sunday night I could hardly sleep, and on Monday morning I was awake at five-thirty, like a child at Christmas. Our last day on the road. We were heading for Wollongong by ute, or rather a place just down the road called Shellharbour, where Lucy had organised some chalets for us all to stay and celebrate. As well as Olly, Doone and Kinvara we would be joined by Sarah, Russ’s girlfriend, as well as his daughter Emily and his parents Jill and Tony. We’d have a party tonight, that’s for sure.

The journey was almost over. The night before, over dinner, Russ and I had spent an hour or so recalling some of the people we’d met. Like Natalia, the Croatian girl who had to hide in her basement for three months, Cenk, who’d been such a laugh in Turkey, and Fahti, the poor kid who couldn’t wait to get out of the
dolmus
. We talked about Mahmood, who’d guided us through Iran, Fariba the taxi driver, the guys on the container ship, the potters in the slums of Mumbai. We’d never forget the old priest at Varanasi or the family on the barge in China.

To cap it all we’d finished up in Australia, where I reckon we’d met as many archetypal Aussies as was possible. It’s a beautiful country - a huge continent filled with incredible mountains and deserts, snow-capped mountains, rivers and beaches, not to mention the fifty-thousand-year-old aboriginal culture. There is pretty much everything you could wish to see on this continent, but as with any Western civilisation, it has its share of bureaucracy. The customs guys at Darwin had given us the usual hard time with our paperwork, and now - on the very last day - we had a run-in with the New South Wales Police.

On the way across country a cop passed my truck in a Holden. For some reason he flashed his lights. The next thing I knew he’d made a U-turn and pulled Russ over.

‘He’s not happy with Johnny,’ Russ told me when I went back. ‘That and the fact I was doing a hundred and thirty in a one hundred kilometre zone. And apparently my wheels were across the white line.’

‘He flashed me as he went by just now.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’m looking at a two hundred and forty-three dollar fine and three points that’ll go on my licence in England. Jesus, you come eighteen thousand miles only to get pulled by the Old Bill in Australia.’

It was a minor setback but the cop, in his baseball hat and shades, was definitely not happy about the fact we were driving with the tailgate down on Russ’s truck. It had been that way since we’d loaded the sculpture, and it was true it did block the view of the number plate. The copper said it was illegal but we’d passed loads of police cars since Griffith and none of them had pulled us over till now.

Russ fixed the tailgate with bungees so the number plate was visible and with Johnny suitably sorted, we took off again.

It was cold and wet and we’d come down from the green of the mountains into flatter, scrubbier country. One by one the miles slipped by and, a couple of hours later, we were in Shellharbour.

Now I was really excited, my heart hammering in my chest. Searching for the chalets close to the beach, I was physically twitching with the anticipation. I made a turn and another turn and then another, but could I find the place? No chance. I was getting quite frustrated when I nosed the truck round a final corner and saw Doone and Kinvara jumping up and down on the pavement.

My heart almost leapt out of my chest. There was my wife looking so beautiful with her long blonde hair and her wonderful smile. I couldn’t believe just how much I’d missed her. I hit the horn, Russ hit the horn and we pulled up and piled out with Doone and Kinvara screeching with excitement. They were in my arms finally: the Boorman pod together again, the self-contained unit that we are. It hit me then perhaps for the first time, or maybe I just allowed myself to really admit it for the first time, but these last few months had been the hardest parting yet. We were together now, though, and all I wanted to do was hold them.

Russ was cuddling Emily, hugging his mum and dad and kissing Sarah, all at the same time. I was still clinging to Olly and the kids and for a few moments the emotions were almost too much. It was at this point that our friend David Kent, who had flown out to help with arrangements on the last leg, pointed out that we’d left the two Nissans in the middle of the road with the engines running.

Lucy stepped forward, and we both gave her a hug. ‘You have to pass that on,’ Russ told her.

‘To everyone back in London,’ I added. ‘Without you guys we’d never have left Ireland.’

 

A couple of hours later I wandered outside into gardens that sloped to the beach. Next door had a massive Newfoundland dog with them. He bounded up, the whole of his back end wagging along with his tail.

‘Hello, mate,’ I said. I stroked his head and he licked my hand as if I were a long-lost friend who had just come back to him. ‘You know what,’ I told him, ‘on the twelfth of April I left my dad’s house in a place called Annamoe and since then I’ve been on my way here. Me, Russ and Mungo: we crossed the world on boats and buses and motorbikes, we’ve ridden on trains and elephants and horses. I drove a tuk-tuk and a speedboat.’ The dog was listening intently. ‘We almost sank off Nikoi Island. We saw dragons on Rinca and dived off Komodo. We survived a ferry that had far too many people on board then crossed the sea on a boat made from Kalimantan ironwood.’

‘Finally found someone who’ll listen to you, have you, Charley?’

Russ’s voice came from behind me. I looked up with a smile. ‘I was just telling him how we got here,’ I said. ‘In a dinghy and a Citroën, a couple of bicycles across Paris and the
Orient Express
.’

‘Not to mention a Yugo and a Ural, a concrete truck . . .’

‘And a pair of Royal Enfields,’ I added. ‘Dirt bikes through a monsoon in the jungles of Cambodia.’

‘And tomorrow we’ll cross the Sydney Harbour Bridge on a couple of BMWs.’ Russ looked out to sea. ‘It just shows what can be accomplished when two mates scribble an idea on an old boarding pass. Kind of romantic, isn’t it?’ For a moment he was a little thoughtful. ‘I’ve learned such a lot on this trip. The people, the cultures, the land. We’ve crossed half the world with no back-up and no one’s given us a hard time, no one’s threatened us. I don’t remember being really bothered once. I think I’ve realised that no matter where you go, people care about the same thing. All they really want is a little respect, some compassion maybe if it’s needed, some understanding.’

‘Russ,’ I said. ‘Mate, you’re getting all philosophical on me.’

He grinned. ‘Am I? Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘It’s all right, I understand. I feel the same way. One of the things I always find is that no matter what anyone tells you about a place, you need to find out for yourself: your preconceptions never turn out to be right.’

He went back inside. I could hear my daughters talking about tomorrow, heatedly discussing who would ride pillion with whom. Russ was right. Nothing is how you imagine it’s going to be, but as long as you’ve got the right attitude, you’ll be OK. I remembered again what Lewis Gordon Pugh had said about people travelling by their faces. It was true; if you had a smile for someone, more often than not they had one for you. If you were respectful, so were they. We’d got by just by being who we were.

Inside, I grabbed Olly and the kids and the four of us took a wander along the beach, Doone with a split cast on her arm and Kinvara showing me where the doctors had operated on her lip. It was wonderful to have Olly beside me, talking to her about what I’d done and what we were about to do. I was taking my family back to some of the places I’d been. I wanted to show them some of the sights so they could experience a little of my journey themselves. I’d done something similar after Long Way Down and by the time we got back to London everything would be back as it should be. If I’m honest it was as it should be already. After being on the road and on my own for so long, I felt whole again.

A little later that afternoon we went down to the local BMW dealer to pick up the bikes we would ride into Sydney. We were hoping to hook up with a bunch of local bikers, just as we’d done in England, and create a little convoy for the final leg. Russ’s dad Tony would be riding along with David Kent, who promised me he’d ride shotgun for Olly. She had only recently passed her test and would have either Doone or Kinvara on the back, so David said he’d make sure she was given plenty of room. Russ would alternate between taking Sarah and Emily on the back of his bike. En masse we would roll into Sydney.

And that’s exactly what we did. About three hundred bikers joined us along the coast from Wollongong - skirting Sydney so we could come in from the north. I rode up front, first with Kinvara and then Doone on the back. We followed the road to a fantastic sweeping bridge, where the cliff climbed on our left and massive rollers crashed on rocks below. I looked across and there we all were - me and Olly, Doone and Kinvara, all together, all on motorbikes. With Kinvara hanging on tight I popped the front wheel and suddenly it was April again - I was back at my dad’s place in Annamoe for a visit. My old childhood friend Tommy Rochford had got that old Yamaha of mine running and while he and I chatted, Doone and Kinvara took turns riding the bike on the lawn I’d churned up as a kid.

As we came into Sydney we rode under a massive sign that said: ‘LOOK OUT FOR MOTORCYCLES’. It felt like an iconic moment, and suddenly I was very emotional. We’d started on bikes and we’d finished on bikes and as we entered the tunnel to pass beneath the harbour, heading for the Shangri-La Hotel, the thunder of motorcycles echoed off the walls like the beat of a thousand drums.

Moments later we were back in bright sunshine, the ironwork of the bridge above our heads. Glancing across at Russ, I punched the air. ‘Yeah, baby. We made the bridge!’