I awaken slowly from deep sleep, lying still in the cool quietness. With the gradual realisation of time and place, a tingle of excited anticipation runs through me. Today! It starts today. My tour, long anticipated, planned and prepared, is here.

I sense my lady, loved friend and partner, stirring beside me. We lie together, discussing things in intimate whispers, enjoying the last moments of closeness. I sense her melancholy, her reluctant acceptance that I am leaving again for a time, yet accepting my need to embrace these experiences, understanding the important role that motorcycling occupies in my life.

We both know there are dangers, that each journey has an uncertainty of outcome, no guarantee of the order of things. Yet, I have always come home to my family, more experienced, hopefully wiser in the ways of survival, to the joy of reuniting. She gives me the freedom and support to indulge in the adventure of life, and I love her intensely.

My eye finds the bedside table, the clock’s numerals glaring redly in the dark. 4.42. I want to head out as soon as the greyness of dawn dilutes the night, around 5.45.It’s time. We rise. The kitchen fluoros are harsh in the cool silence of the house, the air conditioner a distant hum, its cool breath wafting over my bare skin. I prepare a favourite breakfast drink, a concoction of fruit, honey and soy milk, in the blender, seeking carbohydrates and hydration. The talk is muted, inconsequential, skirting the impending departure. The 2-litre bladder, chilled overnight, slides into the Camelbak.

I open the front door, the balmy warmth of the night washing over me. In the yellow glow of the porch light, the bike awaits me, standing strong and silent in the courtyard. My R1100GS, already a familiar and trusted steed over 18 months and 40,000 kilometres. The burnished alloy highlights gleam softly, the paint blood red against the dark foliage. Much of the previous day was spent in meticulous preparation. The riding gear, the additional tools, some spares, manuals and documents. Rain wear, first aid kit, trouble light, space blanket. Jacket liner and thermal underwear, gloves for climates ranging from the south of Tasmania to the top of the Northern Territory. Then the multi-tool, army knife, phone, camera, the travel clock, walkman, toilet bag, sunglasses. I need a little food, Power bars, dried fruit, glucose tablets. Finally, some clothes and light footwear. Everything is bagged in plastic, sorted and organised, frequently needed items the most readily accessed. Now, the panniers are locked on, luggage roll and tankbag fitted the previous evening, tank brimming full, tyres and oils checked, instrument faces and mirrors spotless. My competent, capable companion in adventure ready. The first hint of dawn pales the eastern sky, the first birds tentatively call in the gloom. Time to dress.

I pull on the long thick socks, the leather pants next, the deep brown leather soft and conforming after thousands of hours of wear. The knee-high boots, creased and polished, zip on smoothly, the ancient Gold Belt wraps tight over my waist. The heavy familiarity of the Hein Gericke coat slides easily onto my back, the lining silky cool against my bare shoulders, the shape and fit so perfectly adopted to my contours over many years it is like my second skin.

The rest follow quickly, the Camelbak, bandanna for protection of the throat, the thin and beautifully sensitive Spidi gauntlets, the System 3 gleaming black, visor polished, new earplugs.

Kate watches, her secret fears contained. Her fingers brush the bike, a link, a bond, imparting her wishes for my safe return, bring him back home to me. I climb into the saddle, hook up the audio lead to my helmet, key the dash to colourful life, touch the starter. The motor erupts, the deep steady rumble of the Staintune banishing the pre-dawn silence. We embrace awkwardly, her skin soft, the fresh smell of her hair in my nostrils. She steps back, eyes brimming, her last words, "Have fun". My throat thick with emotion, I blow a last kiss, ease down to the street, the ABS chirping its acquiescence, and idle past the sleeping shuttered houses, out onto the main road, and away. It has begun.

As the bike rolls easily through the quiet town in the Sunday dawn and out to the highway, I reflect on the journey ahead. I am leaving Karratha, on the northwest coast of Western Australia. I will travel initially to Perth, the state capital, about 1600km south of here. After having the machine serviced and new tyres fitted, my route is east over the vast Nullarbor plain and on through South Australia to Victoria. Together with hundreds of fellow owners, I will take an overnight ferry from Melbourne to Tasmania for the 8 days of the BMW Safari ‘98. Following my return to the mainland, I will continue up the eastern seaboard to Townsville in northern Queensland before turning west to span that state, then traversing the Northern Territory, and crossing another border into the top of Western Australia. From there it’s just another 2000km through the north of my home state back to my starting point. I have four and a half weeks to complete the expected 16,000km journey.

Ten minutes after leaving home, I reach the open highway, turn south and ease up to 100km/h as the temperature RID clicks up to five bars, oils warmed through, the machine coming fully alive. I settle into the rhythm, the sheepskin plush beneath me, the air warm, the leaves on the few trees scattered over the dusty red landscape hanging limply in the still conditions, listening to the 6am news on the local FM station through the helmet speakers. The headlight still retains some effectiveness as the daylight gathers strength, and I deliberately hold my speed down, wary of the ever present threat of unpredictable kangaroos until full daylight.

The road is mine alone, apart from the occasional lonely crow flapping reluctantly away from road kill at my approach. Scattered pools of water and signs of new greenness signify recent rainfall, something denied my town, only 50km behind me, over recent months. Gradually the day brightens fully as the big machine carries me effortlessly through the crisp still air, until the first rays of sunlight slash shadows across the wide sweep of tarmac leading me south in gentle curves through the infrequent low hills and along barrel straight stretches in between. The indescribable core feeling of contentment that all long distance riders experience descends over me, the encapsulated cocoon of comfort and quiet I occupy astride the bike, settled in the familiar sensations, fresh, eager, at one with my surroundings, yet apart, detached, the cassette feeding music into my helmet. An hour and a half from home, I’m fully up to my cruise speed, straddling the white line flicking beneath me. The empty road spears straight ahead under a perfect blue dome, the sun’s warmth more authoritative as it climbs into the morning sky.

Sudden movement. Kangaroos!! Two brown shapes burst onto the left verge 20 metres ahead and lunge across the road. Shocking realisation of imminent collision. Throttle snapped shut, my waiting fingers claw in the lever, but still the bike rushes down on the frantic muscular efforts of the animals as they desperately attempt to evade me. The first, larger, will cross clear. I see with terrible clarity the second leap into my path as the final metres are swallowed in an eye blink.

The huge smashing impact wrenches the wheel right, the bike instantly goes down, slamming me onto left forearm and knee. My world explodes into a mad maelstrom of colours and noise, violent tumbling, sliding, flipping and rolling, huge tearing friction clawing at me, tiny and powerless in the grip of these savage forces on and on in an endless barrage of the senses.

Finally I am still. Mindlessly, I clamber desperately to my feet, the "fight or flight" consequences of the adrenaline roaring in my arteries. Panting hard, wild eyed, the realisation dawns as I stand shakily in the road, and I shout to the silence, "I’m all right!, I’m all right!! The first sensation I become aware of is severe pain in my hands. Both gloves are shredded over the knuckles, bloody flesh visible through the tattered leather and vaunted Kevlar protection. I get them off with difficulty. The pads of my fingertips are blistering, friction burns. I take further stock. The chin piece of the helmet unlatched but intact, visor gone. Huge white scars in the glass fibre. Jacket and trousers, boots, scratched, scarred and scoured, all savaged by the coarse chip road surface, ruined to save my skin. Pockets torn away, the left inner leg seam ripped open, wrist zippers melted, studs scarred or missing. The left boot, calf and forearm are coated in silvery granules, alloy ground off in the long slide. As well as my hands, skin gone from my left forearm, left knee and right ribcage where the jacket was rucked up in the slide. Experimenting gingerly, everything works after a fashion, no concussion, no obvious fractures, no lacerations or internal pain. I decide I am a very lucky guy.

The bike lies on its left side 15 metres further down the road, silent in sad ungainly posture, a pool of oil spreading beneath it. I shed jacket and helmet, remove the tankbag, luggage roll and right pannier with difficulty. The left pannier is absent. My damaged hands limit progress and I am unable to lift the bike standing on the slippery surface. In the silence, I walk slowly back to the impact point, collecting bits of my gear and broken components shed in the crash, pacing out the distances. The shattered disembowelled carcass of the kangaroo lies on the right verge 51 metres from the impact point, flies already buzzing over the feast, blood quickly congealing to brown crust in the gathering heat. I stare bitterly into the sightless eye, considering the influence this insignificant animal, among millions of others, has brought to this phase of my life.

A clear scar on the tarmac surface shows where the cylinder mashed down less than ten metres from the strike, and an unbroken oil smear, growing in size as the alloy rocker cover ground away, leads from there to where the bike lies, 96 metres from impact. I myself have slid and tumbled at least 80 metres.

The road remains empty in both directions. I make my way slowly back to the bike, becoming aware of smaller details as the initial shock subsides. My water supply is gone, the helmet chin piece has belted me in the mouth, and I have bitten my tongue at some stage. The abraded left knee is becoming swollen and stiffening up already. I dig out the BMW first aid kit, but my clumsy efforts to wrap my aching hands, covered in blood, oil and dirt, are largely ineffectual. I eventually discover the wayward left pannier, about 40 metres into the scrub on the opposite side of the road, heavily scarred but intact, a testament to their intrinsic strength.

Twenty minutes after the fall, a dusty red Datsun 300Z, loaded to the roof with his worldly possessions, ambles up from the south with my saviour, Mike, a crane driver looking for construction work. He helps me get the bike up and off the road, bandages my injuries, gives me his only bottle of water, and heads off, promising to call my wife at the next roadhouse 50 km away. I am reluctant to leave all my gear unattended by the roadside, and having decided none of my injuries are too serious, I settle down to wait for the cavalry. Fortunately there is plenty of shade in the form of a sprawling eucalyptus gum only 15 metres from the bike, and although it is quite warm now approaching 8.30, with only a breath of breeze, the silence is absolute, punctuated by a plaintive bird cry in the distance, the sudden ratcheting of a cricket startling in the stillness, and the buzzing of flies around me.

Time passes slowly. A couple of hawks or kestrels spiral warily above the remains of my kangaroo. Sporadic traffic, heard from afar in the quiet, tears by in a sibilant whoofle of air-conditioned tinted capsule, the occupants proffering a casual wave or cheery toot, before rushing into the distance, the falling engine note finally swallowed by the descending calm once again. I wonder if they realise what has befallen me, or notice the deformation and scarring of the motorcycle, or whether they care at all, lounging behind the dark glass.

A Falcon wagon, big trailer in tow, slows and stops beside my pathetic little encampment. The driver climbs out, dog barking monotonously in the rear, and hands me two large bottles of spring water from his icebox. A legacy of my saviour Mike, this guy has agreed to carry them down to me from the roadhouse. I learn my wife is likely to be already en route to collect me, sit tight, hang in. I chug deeply on the dewy bottle, the sweet icy liquid and the positive news cheering me considerably. The pummelling I received in the accident is causing me to stiffen up, aching in all joints, now a couple of hours have passed. Strangely enough, I feel very sleepy, yawning continuously in the tranquil shade. I dig out a paperback, try to immerse myself in the story and ignore my discomfort.

Finally, at 11.30, Kate arrives with trailer, water, food, clothes, blankets, bandages, pills, willing helpers, succour and sympathy. I reassure her all is fine, nothing serious, to her transparent relief. With the bike and gear stowed, rolling homeward settled in the comfort and cool air, my emotions finally get the better of me. Tears sting my eyes, and I feel tremendous gratitude for the loving support and non judgmental concern of my family and friends.

Arriving back in Karratha by 2pm, I spend several hours in the emergency department at the local hospital. My contaminated abrasions require extended soaking to loosen the caked blood and dressings, then scrubbing under local anaesthetic to clear ingrained grit. A tetanus booster and a thorough overall examination which comes up clear, to the disbelief of the medical staff who hear the story.

Finally home, tired, sore, clean. A meal, first since breakfast so long ago. I sit immobile, stuporous, yawning in front of the television for a time, absorbing nothing, then hobble stiffly to that welcoming bed at last.

The first day is over.