A solo journey on a small bike, told slowly.
Sombering.
Day thirteen of a thirty-day fast. Day five out of Sydney. A hundred and seventy kilometres of dirt and sealed alpine road, climbing all day from the Nariel Valley to the highest road in Australia. A flipped car at the historic-site sign, and a strap wound through the spokes.
At one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five metres the air is fifteen degrees cooler than it was in Omeo. I park outside the lookout, walk fifty metres to the edge, and find the kind of view that pays for the whole day in one go. Ridges stacked all the way to the horizon, the colour of the sky lowering toward orange, the sun on the side of the bike where I tied the bags differently.
Shorter pieces from the road.
Sombering
Day thirteen of a thirty-day fast. A hundred and seventy kilometres from Stacey’s Bridge through Omeo to Mount Hotham. A flipped car at the historic-site sign, and a strap wound through the spokes. The thin line between a small mistake and ending the trip.
Not working, and the brain catching up
Day four out of Sydney. Two meanings. I’m not working — and the brain isn’t working the corporate way. A camp note from Stacey’s Bridge on Wheeler Creek.
Coromandel motorcycle ride
Three hundred and fifty kilometres around the peninsula. The 309 Road gravel, the SH25 perimeter, the DOC camps, and the corner where Hunter and I went down.
The visual side.
I’m Robin. I ride a Royal Enfield Himalayan 450.
I’m in the slow process of leaving — first New Zealand, then the world. This site is the long version of where I’m going and what I’m learning along the way. The bike is called Hunter, and so far he listens better than most people I know.
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