AUSTRALIAN ODYSSEY:In the latest report from his antipodean adventure GEOFF HILLand his travelcade overheat in the Australian sun
CLONCURRY is where the highest temperature was ever recorded in Australia – 53.1 degrees in January 1889. We reflected on this today, as our knackered back-up van Matilda attempted to follow suit – in spite of having a new radiator fitted in Brisbane.
It was, right from the start, one of those days sent to try you. First of all, my bike, which had been refusing to start when warm the past two days, refused to start at all in Winton, and had to be pushed. Still, there was a Triumph dealer 500km up the road in Mount Isa, where we planned to be tonight, so I could sort that first thing in the morning.
Then Matilda began overheating, misfiring and backfiring. Suspecting dirt in the fuel because Matt had let it run low, we push-started it.
All was well until Cloncurry, when some idiot, possibly me, decided it would be a good idea to stop for a Magnum bar; at which point Matilda’s battery died and she stopped completely.
Another push, and she was off, only for the same thing to happen a few minutes down the road, then again after another push, by which time we were soaked with sweat in the searing heat.
Closer examination revealed the battery was either dead or not charging, the radiator header tank had come loose and been holed by the fan, and the engine was firing on only two of its four cylinders.
Gaffer tape failed to seal the hole in the tank, and we stood around scratching our heads. “What about sticking a plastic bag inside it to act as a membrane?” I said, making my only practical contribution to the expedition, or possibly ever.
That seemed to work, but five minutes later, everything stopped again, this time for good.
It was now only a couple of hours to dark and we were stranded in the middle of nowhere. But one thing adventures teach you is that there’s always a solution and, after a speculative walk up the hill, Colin got a signal on his phone and called the local breakdown service.
Barry Woodhouse was there with his tow truck 45 minutes later, as helpful and cheery as everyone in Australia in spite of the fact we’d dragged him away from the footie. Within half an hour, we were back in Cloncurry with Matilda booked into the local garage and us booked into the Wagon Wheel Motel.
The next morning, the word on Matilda was that her alternator seemed to be working, and the battery seemed to be charged up and ready to go. Naturally, five minutes up the road, the battery light came on and Matt stopped, a worried look on his face.
“Do you want to go back to the garage?” Colin asked.
“No point. They’d just tell us she was all right when she left them, the way Belfast people say about the Titanic,” said Matt.
“Anyway, the battery light was on for the past five weeks out of Adelaide, so she should make it the four days to Darwin,” I said.
Matt drove on, and we followed in Kierkegaardian fear and trembling, our hearts slowly lifting with every mile as we rode past scores of giant anthills, all facing east-to-west to catch the cooling effect of the prevailing winds.
Late in the afternoon, as we were sitting at a random police checkpoint, Matilda’s engine suddenly died.
“Battery,” said Matt grimly as the nearest policeman came over, looked in the window, then drove his patrol car over and gave us a start with my new jump leads.
In Australia, even the police seem like they’re on Prozac. As for Matilda, only the days and weeks to come will tell if she will waltz all the way around the rest of Oz.
