In February 2025, I rode a small motorcycle from Sydney to Adelaide. In this report, I tell you about my experiences and encounters.
Friday
A summery Friday morning in the Blue Mountains. After a few weeks in Sydney and a lot of time between laptop and beach, I’m now sitting in front of my tent in a national park. I think about staying a few more days, but an hour later I feel a longing for the road. I pack up and set off, heading west. Out into the vastness of the Australian hinterland. It’s not yet called Outback, I learn. Riverina is the name of this region: a hot climate, but thanks to artificial irrigation, one of the most agriculturally productive regions on the continent. Plus, the towns here are only 50-100km apart, not several hundred kilometers.
At this moment I don’t yet know how far it will take me, but of course I’m thinking of Adelaide, a good 1200 km further west, where I lived for a long time and where I have one of my homes on this planet through many acquaintances. But first let’s see how far my little vehicle can carry me: friends in Sydney have given me their “Postie” and so I’m riding this little red Honda with the original bright yellow side bags. It’s the vehicle that postmen and women still use to deliver mail to Australian neighborhoods today.
At lunchtime, I make a stop in Bathurst. It’s time to fill up and buy an extra petrol can at the hardware store: my tank would carry me 150km, but with the distances out here I’d rather not risk it. When I come out of the store again, my tires have melted slightly into the road surface.
I continue across the hills of the Great Dividing Range, the mountain range that runs along the entire east coast of Australia, separating the continent as a watershed and supplying virtually the entire east coast with drinking water. My Postie has some difficulties on some of the climbs, but the roads are wide enough and so I keep to the side of the road. I quickly get used to the feeling of being overtaken by road trains (trucks with up to three trailers) and being briefly pulled along in their airstream and enjoy it.
In Lindhurst, I hold my head under a tap and bathe my T-shirt, knowing it will be dry again after a few kilometers. I pass relics of times gone by (an old railroad line) and a place called Woodstock. There is a lonely book box in a parking spot: “Bush Library. Enjoy!”
Later, I see a predicted storm front in the distance and stop for the night in Grenfell. As in many towns in the country, there is a caravan park run by the local council or volunteers. Camping is usually fine, too. For free. I am happy to pay the 2 dollars for the first shower in days.
My fears that my tent might fly away tonight in a monstrous thunderstorm don’t prove to be true. As I eat my rice and veggies, the sky keeps flaring in the distance. But the most intense part of the 100 km long thunderstorm front is far to the south of me, so I only wake up once in the middle of the night during a shower. A quick count of the distance between lightning and thunder. I go back to sleep.
Saturday
The next morning at dawn: birdsong, later a whirring lawnmower. Could also be Saturday morning somewhere in Germany. Almost, as I’m about to find out. But first, a postman stops next to me while I’m still sipping my coffee, greets me from his somewhat modern version of a postie and curiously asks what I’m doing here. We have a brief chat, then he has to move on.
I pack up my sleeping mat, tent, food and everything else and drive to the next petrol station. As I fold up the seat: holy shit! A palm-sized spider. A brief shock. I was just sitting on it! It crawls away quickly and I have little success trying to lure it out again with a long stick. A man at the gas pump next to me, obviously a country man / farmer, asks what’s going on. I explain it to him, also that I’m not from here and have little knowledge of the animal world. He grins slightly. We poke around together, then he gets a can of killer spray from the shop. The animal shows itself. I knock it off the bike. “Oh, it’s just a house spider!” he says, but steps on it anyway. I know that the small spiders are often more dangerous than the big ones, whose appearance is enough to be redoubtable. Nevertheless, I think: yeah, right, Australia!
So poking around in the hidden corners of the little Honda becomes part of my morning routine. Apart from packing, this usually includes: charging the solar power bank, preparing porridge, pouring lots of water into myself, filling up bottles, checking food supplies.
I stop for lunch in West Wyalong and treat myself to a sandwich. Shortly afterwards, I don’t like the petrol station for some reason, but I turn off because it seems to be the last one in town. As I fill up, I notice that my front tire is deflating. Oops. The edge of the kerb was probably too hard. Well, never mind. After asking the cashier he puts more emphasis on the fact that the mechanics are all closed on Saturday than on the fact that there are actually two garages in this town. I follow up and he describes the routes. A quick pump of air into the front tire, then I drive to the latter option. The office door is locked, but the garage door is open. I thought so.
“Roll into the hall,” says Tony. He’s actually a car mechanic, but together we work on the small tire. He even has a suitable new inner tube, which we install. In between, he offers me a beer. I decline politely. Instead, he hands me a cold can of lemonade.
As we pack up, I think I recognize a slight grin on his face when he says: “So, will the AfD win the election?” I’m a little taken aback and confront him with the facts. He says: “Well, the next election then…”
I have to collect my thoughts for a moment and come up with a few arguments. He turns away and moves on to something else. Sadly, I don’t even ask myself why the hell someone here in the bush is talking to me about the fascists in Germany. The connection is probably clear: the well-known car manufacturer from the other side of the Pacific also has an audience here with his inhuman roaring.
I find it hard not to follow the pattern in my head: drawer open, Tony in, drawer closed. He has just shown me his willingness to help, spending an hour and a half with me and my vehicle so that I can drive on. Just like that, on a Saturday lunchtime. I can’t resist thinking: what if I didn’t have white skin? What if I wasn’t quite obviously from Europe, like the colonialists of this country?
I follow him into the store area. His two sons are sitting at the work computers playing games and we talk briefly about football. Then I hand him 50 dollars and he nods. Back on the street, I try to open the drawer in my head and pour out the contents again. I succeed to a limited extent.
Confronted with the acute issues of my being, I consider whether I should really continue or not: the rain radar shows a deep red area just ahead of me. The sensible option is obvious. I drive on. 20 minutes later, I turn back at the first drops of rain, as there is still no shelter nearby. When I reach the first house, I drive through the open gate into the yard, no guard dog to be seen, and take shelter.
After knocking several times, an elderly gentleman comes out. Michael, very friendly, has lived here with his wife for 38 years. They have sheep and drink the minimally filtered rainwater that they collect off the roofs of their house and barns. Just like people do here. There are also solar panels. Isn’t it lonely out here, I ask. Oh no, it’s only 10 minutes into town. We tweak the cable of my speedometer, which hasn’t worked properly since the beginning of my trip and stopped working completely since the tire was removed. Then I realize that it’s still just dripping and, with Michael’s blessing, I drive on.
I do, however, make use of the shelter in North Yalgogrin 20km further along the Mid Western Highway and stay there for a good hour with thunderstorms banging in three directions. Gigantic nature. I feel a sense of gratitude.
I unpack the gas stove, chop vegetables and prepare my dinner for later. Afterwards, I wash the few dishes in the rain pouring off the roof. The seemingly abandoned car junkyard on the other side of the road creates a sense of hillbilly atmosphere. As the rain eases, I drive towards brightness. A short time later, I take a look back: glistening bright yellow fields, with the black cloud front above.
The petrol station in Rankins Springs is already closed on this Saturday afternoon. Calling the presented emergency phone number of the owner seems too dramatic for me, so a short time later I happily use my extra petrol can for the first time. I stop in Goolgowi in the early evening. The petrol station is so charming, with a gravel floor, that I don’t want to go any further. I decide against a parking space on the outskirts of the town (too much solitude for my taste at this moment and for the night) and instead sleep in a well-kept caravan park in the middle of the town.
Sunday
Sunday is comparatively quiet. Many kilometers across flat, dry land. Actually, everything is just one big plain. No sign of scary wildlife today: at some point an emu races me. Later, I pass cattle drovers with their hundreds of cattle alongside and on the road. At every stop, I notice the countless flies, dozens of which buzz aggressively around my head every time I remove my helmet.
In the town of Mildura (population of around 30,000), I stock up on fruit, vegetables and oat milk. I’m in the state of Victoria as I cross the Murray River, one of Australia’s largest and most important rivers, which flows several thousand kilometers from Queensland to South Australia. Many citrus fruits and grapes are grown here in the region.
I set my sights on a place marked on the map as a free overnight stop right by the river. Even though it’s only a few kilometers in this case, I realize once again that my European-influenced view of the map often deceives me and in Australian reality, distances are often many times greater.
A sign warns against swimming in the river. When the water temperature is high, algae can form which can have unpleasant effects for humans. However, a family with children next to me dispels my skepticism: they have been swimming here for days and a look at the quality measurements online confirms that we are still below the critical value with a good 26 degrees water temperature. So I take a quick dip in the water, set up my tent and cook my dinner in the one pot I have with me. Minimalist, but no less good. Especially recommended: having a piece of Parmesan with you as a little extra. It sweats off in these temperatures, but lasts an amazingly long time.
Between the breathtaking sunrise and sunset, I am overwhelmed by the enormous starry sky and remember how special it always used to be as a child to discover satellites in the night sky. Today, I notice how many of them are now buzzing above us.
Monday
On Monday morning, I drive back to the city. It’s time to run some errands. I listen to the voice of reason, which says: at least buy an emergency tire inflation kit. At lunchtime, I swim in a lake before reaching the border to South Australia just 300km away from Adelaide. Large signs repeatedly announce quarantine measures, as fruit flies are to be kept out of South Australia. All fresh fruit and vegetables have to be disposed of in quarantine garbage cans. I eat my last piece of fruit and throw away a cucumber that has already aged badly in the heat. At the checkpoint a few kilometers away, I am asked to open my bags. A quick but thorough look inside and after a brief conversation with the officer I continue my way.
My sleeping spot in the evening by the Murray River looks almost identical to yesterday. The neighbors are just as friendly. While I set up my tent, freshly bathed, a neighbor comes over and hands me a bottle of cool water. In addition to a feeling of gratitude, I feel a little uneasy. My arrival in Adelaide is approaching. I want to get there, but at the same time I don’t want to (yet). I let my thoughts be and crawl into my tent early.
Tuesday
At 6 am, it seems as if the highway has suddenly opened up: the noise of trucks can’t be ignored. After coffee and packing, I transfer water from my large canisters into drinking bottles. Ideal, because it’s still almost chilly from the night.
A man approaches me, Michael, in his 60s. He asks where I’m from and where I’m going. I ask him the same. For a long time, he says, he had been thinking about giving up his rented house and just driving off. He had his eye on a camper and then he heard from a neighbor whose father wanted to sell his vehicle. It was exactly the same model he had in mind. So Michael invested his savings, gave up his home and is now living on four wheels.
Then I tackle the last 200 km, taking my time. I pass small towns that obviously got their names from European settlers in the 19th century: Steinfeld, Sedan, Black Hill, Mount Pleasant. At lunchtime, I work my way up the hills outside Adelaide. The little Honda groans with all the luggage. The landscape is barren – it hasn’t rained for weeks. I pass the pipeline that supplies Adelaide and many other places with water from the Murray River and then roll back down the hills on the other side. With temperatures approaching 40 degrees, it’s clear to me: straight to the sea first!
