I want to get my iPhone out to film.
But I can’t.
And it’s not just because we’re tearing along full-tilt down a forest track, as the bike jolts left and right, ducking and diving over bumps and ruts, front-suspension hissing as it depresses, back suspension bobbing up and down.
It’s not because I daren’t take my hands off the controls for fear of being thrown clear either. Trees flash by. We charge over cattle grids, wooden bridges, creeks and causeways. Stones ping loudly off the sump guard beneath, whilst the rocks spring up, clipping my feet cased in a pair of thick armoured adventure boots.
A huge plume of dust fills the rear view mirror, billowing out for what looks like miles behind.
The front wheel squirrels as it finds a route through the loose surface that switches constantly between dirt, gravel and sand.
The loose collar strap of my Barbour flaps in the wind, cracking loudly against the side of my helmet. The windscreen rattles endlessly. A loose bolt on the cross-bar jingles away a merry rhythm of it’s own.
The single cylinder is thumping away, droning vibrations surging through the bike, pushing out horses to the back wheel that’s slipping and sliding, biting through the dirt and gravel, constantly trying to find grip on an unfamiliar and ever changing surface.
As a corner fast approaches, my heart is in my mouth, adrenaline surging. I’m at the limit of my abilities. I’m not sure if I’m controlling the bike or whether it’s controlling me. But, to me, this is riding at it's best.
Shoulders back, elbows down. Spaghetti arms. Hands just resting on the grips to keep the forearms loose.
Trust the bike. Don’t…fuck…it…up.
Clutch in, down-shift, engine brake, weight on to the left foot-peg, counter-balance the body right. Shoot the apex, then gas, gas, gas to keep control. The back wheel drifts a bit before the tire finally bites.
I'm up on the pegs, weight forward, as we climb up and away over a crest, catching a few inches of air before we land with a thump.
A huge autumnal vista unfolds as we burst out of the forest into a vast panorama of open fields, green rolling hills peppered with trees, cattle and small silver lakes, met on the horizon by a bright blue, cloudless sky.
A pair ‘roos break cover, bouncing across our path a hundred meters ahead. A trio of brightly coloured birds dive towards us, fleetingly flying alongside before breaking away.
We flash past signs like ‘Three Mile Creek’, ‘Wattle Flat’ and ‘Killekrankie Lookout’ - names that all invite the briefest of thoughts about where they came from.
But none of these are the real reasons why I can’t get my iPhone out.
Part of me feels I should; to capture all of this, to show off, to feature in the inevitable movie montage I’ll cobble together in a few months time once I’m home.
But I can’t. Because it wouldn’t do it justice. And it would be a distraction.
I’m grinning from ear to ear, relishing the pure joy at being there, on that bike in the middle of that vast landscape not knowing what’s ahead. I love the solitude, the anonymity and, above all, the feeling of charging through it like a bat out of hell.
The bike’s scratches and scuffs, battered side-panels, twisted front-forks, buckled front-wheel, skewiff headlight frame, smashed windscreen, bodge-welded brake pedal and missing left rear-view mirror - they all tell a story.
Even after 348 days on the road; 348 days of mishaps, broken bones, cuts, scrapes, breakdowns, bike-backflips, loneliness and frustration and 348 days of the most amazing, ridiculous, superlative-ridden experiences - this is still the kind of moment that I love the most.
I can’t think of a better way to end what has been perhaps the most perfectly imperfect of adventures.
Thanks Oz - you’ve been a blast.