Flinders weekend
Ride Smart
Stay Protected
Day one began for real at the Tea Tree Gully Hotel—the same place where many a misadventure has been hatched before. A band of intrepid riders set their sights north, lured onward by the promise of coffee and a hearty breakfast in Clare. An hour or so in and a quick “smoke and water the grass” stop gave us a chance to stretch legs and trade banter before ducking off the bitumen for a cheeky off-road flurry into Clare. After all, what’s the point of a trip north if you don’t test both rider and machine on a bit of loose gravel? Spirits were high, the sun was shining, and although the wind howled across the plains, the first hours were filled with that sweet sense of freedom only the open road can deliver.
Over the COMM's came the announcement from the Africa Twins we’d been waiting for: a detour up an unknown track. Now, the Flinders ride had really begun. Unfortunately, Andri’s BMW chose this moment to audition for “Best Rattle in a Supporting Role” before collapsing in a dramatic puff of mechanical despair. A roadside diagnosis was attempted, but it was clear the wounded German soldier needed more than bush medicine. As dusk closed in, three strong men rolled the stricken Beemer into hiding behind a stand of gum trees, like an embarrassing secret to be collected later. With Johnny’s Africa Twin now moonlighting as a taxi, Andri was shuttled back to civilisation while a rendezvous with the oil-fetching crew was made in the fading light.
By the time we regrouped, one bike down but spirits intact, the convoy pushed on to Wilpena Pound resort. Where Cold beers, hot showers, and a hearty feed awaited to turn the day’s frustrations into laughter. With the finals footy on the TV providing the perfect backdrop. Out on the road, we were treated to some excellent impromptu entertainment arrived in the form of an emu, dancing up the road like drunken girls in stilettos to the sound of Paul’s Africa Twin horn. Day one had been chaotic, dramatic, and unforgettable—exactly how a Flinders adventure should be.
Day two dawned with the smell of bacon and eggs wafting from the Wilpena kitchen, the sort of fried breakfast that puts both cholesterol levels and riders in a fighting mood for another day in the saddle. Fuelled up and ready, we set off to explore a nearby track that wound past camel-trekking tours more on this below, waving at bemused tourists who wondered why anyone would choose two wheels over four hooves. By mid-day we rolled into Alpana Station, bags unstrapped and dumped in the grand old shearers’ quarters—our home for the next couple of nights—before pointing the bikes toward Blinman.
The bakery café there saw a good few fellow Adventure riders and did its best to undo Wilpena’s breakfast, serving up pastries and caffeine strong enough to power us back over the dusty dusty tracks. More exploring filled the afternoon before we returned to Alpena, where the shearers’ quarters creaked with history and character but gave us all the creature comforts we needed. Dinner was at the local pub, complete with its “special staff” who made sure our glasses were filled and our food served. The stories got better. The night’s comedy act came courtesy of the camel-herder ladies, and Our new number one fan who had somehow had a wonderful hot shower after accidently wandering into the men's shower block at the pub.—“by accident, of course.” she was keen to tell us With that, our time at the pub was to come to an end, heading back to the shearers quarters with a carry out in preparation for some more craic with good blokes.
Day three began with another round of caffeine and calories at the Blinman Café, the perfect prelude to a long, straight, dust-choked run out to Arkaroola. The miles stretched endlessly ahead, the kind of riding where your visor collects more outback grit than you’d find in a sandblaster. The payoff was worth it though—refuelling both bikes and bellies at Arkaroola, where the service and lunch were first class, an oasis of hospitality in the middle of nowhere.
The ride back to Alpana was anything but straightforward. Wayne managed to rip a tyre, providing Mark the chance to showcase his plug-wielding wizardry. Multiple repairs later—and with terrain determined to spit those plugs back out—we limped on, stopping and patching like a bush-league pit crew until the battered tyre finally surrendered us safely home. Hopeful of a Sunday roast, we descended upon the Blinman pub, only to be met by the “special” bar staff who first blamed tomatoes, then—after a long pause—potatoes, for the absence of any roast whatsoever. Fed and watered nonetheless, and armed with more carry-outs for insurance, we returned to the shearers’ quarters. There, a campfire, a nightcap, and a chorus of tall tales brought the curtain down on a day that tested tyres, tempers, and stomachs in equal measure.
Day Four dawned with Wayne’s tyre turned out still the star of the show despite holding pressure while we told stories and drank around the campfire, demanding a couple more unscheduled stops for on-the-go repairs. We limped into Hawker where salvation came in the form of a kind-hearted servo man who not only lent us his expertise but also rolled out the proper equipment. With his help we had Wayne’s wheel off, patched, plugged, and sealed for one final hurrah. From there the road home unfolded under perfect sunshine, the kind of ride that makes you forget the dust, the dramas, and the dodgy bush repairs of the past few days.
A final regroup in Clare gave us one more chance to refuel both bikes and bodies before bidding each other fond farewells, peeling off down our own separate stretches of road. It had been a weekend packed with laughs, wildlife, breakdowns, beer, and bush ingenuity—everything an outback motorcycle adventure should deliver. Perhaps not Andri’s idea of a dream holiday, but for the rest of us it was unforgettable. And with February’s great Tassie trip already on the horizon, one thing is certain: the band of brothers will be back for more chaos, more kilometres, and more stories worth retelling.