The first day of riding, on January 21st, I had driven the tourist infested Great Ocean Road, averaging the speed of forty miles per hour. Looking at the map was a bit disheartening. I had made it just one-eighth of the way to Perth. From Melbourne to Mt Gambier it was 280 miles. I still had 1950 miles to go.

I had wanted to make it to Perth for Australia Day on January 26th, equivalent to the American Independence Day, so I could meet up with a couple of my friends who I met in other countries. There was Tristan. I met him three and a half years ago at a hostel in Dublin, Ireland when I began my travels. Tristan was my first real travel buddy that I met and we went all around Ireland together. He also introduced me to Joan, a Northern Irish girl from Belfast, and since then I've met her in three continents and four countries. She's currently living in Spain.

My other friend in Perth is Nav, who I met at the Clan Hostel in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I hung out with her for nearly an entire month while my motorcycle was being fixed at Dakar Motos. Our birthday is on the same day and we celebrated together at that hostel.

I had made it to Mt Gambier on the 21st. I had 1950 miles left. If I traveled at a constant speed of 60 miles per hour it would take 32.5 hours of solid riding, with no stops, to reach Perth. Given I would drive a solid 7 hours per day I would make it in nearly 5 days. If nothing went wrong I would make it to Perth at the end of the day on the 26th - in time for the evening of Australia Day.

(Note: For this post I've converted kilometers to miles for the Metric Illiterate. You're welcome.)

If something went wrong and I didn't make it for Australia Day I still wanted to make it in time for Tristan's going away party on the 31st. He's headed to South America with his girlfriend. I can only imagine the kind of outrageous parties that Tristan would throw and I didn't want to miss it, nor did I want to miss him before he's headed off. The party has a few themes; Carnival, Jungle, and South American Revolutionaries. I was going as Che of course.

In the morning at Mt Gambier I woke to the sound of birds that didn't chirp, but whistled. I lay there in my one man tent listening to the beautiful sound for a half hour before deciding to start the day. Having lived off of my motorcycle for a couple weeks I worked on autopilot disassembling my tent and packing up the campsite.

For the first time since beginning this journey I took a good look at the map and noticed several things. I had passed through a state border without realizing it. I was now in South Australia and also passed through a time zone. (Oddly, the Australians set it just 45 minutes earlier.) On this day I'd be passing through Adelaide. I considered whether or not to stay in the city but decided against it almost at once. I don't know anybody in Adelaide, I haven't heard much about it, and really didn't have a desire to go back to civilization. I was enjoying the seclusion that camping offers. The last thing I noticed was a ferry service crossing the Spencer Gulf, going from Wallaroo to Cowell. This would save me from driving hundreds of miles.

I set my daily goal for Wallaroo. It was a fair distance away; 375 miles. It would be mostly desert bush riding and the only obstacle would be passing through Adelaide since speeds generally slow down with traffic.

Time has a different meaning for me on a motorcycle, especially when I'm driving on a straight, flat road in the middle of the desert at a constant speed for hours at a time with nothing to look at but bushes - and sometimes not even a bush. I zoned out. I was still paying attention to the road of course but I really wasn't thinking... about anything, really.

Cars were few and far between. One thing I did think about was how few cars there were on this road. I even did a bit of math. I went 220 miles from when I set out and when I first filled up the motorcycle with gas. I passed 24 cars from the opposite lane. On the main highway between to of the largest cities in Australia, Melbourne and Adelaide, I passed one car every nine miles. Sometimes there'd be two, three and four automobiles at once - that leaves thirty plus miles of driving with the road as the only piece of civilization in existence, as far as the eye can see.

Once in a while I'd pass catchy slogans on road signs that read, "Fatigue is Fatal", or "Drowsy Drivers Die", or "Survive the Drive"