"Tommy, I'll give you 20 seconds to get off my truck before your riding with me to Broome!!!", came the booming voice of Chris the truck driver at first light of the morning. I lifted my tired head to see his grinning face peering over the railing of the trailer. He was laughing and handed me a hot coffee which I threw out when he wasn't looking (I hate coffee).
Luckily the young girl behind the bar had given me a shower key the night before, so I took the opportunity to clean the Nullarbor scum off my sticky body to start the day fresh. I looked down in shame as I watched the dirty brown water of my own filth flowing down the drain. My hair had looked like one thick, short dreadlock. It was strange to look into a mirror again and see my transformed, rather thin body and terribly patchy beard.
The road to Madura was a flat 116km's, but I was feeling a little 2nd hand (possibly related to beer consumption the previous night) and probably hadn't eaten enough food - resulting in a heart-breaking ride. Certainly, it was the worst day of my experience on the Nullarbor, and I cursed every inch of white-line.
Madura is situated mid-way up the pass within the Hampton Tablelands, and is an incredibly scenic, peaceful stop. It was nice too see trees again, and the buildings of the road-house were quaint but beautiful.
When I finally arrived feeling weak and beaten-down, I had to sit down outside first with a bottle of water to collect my thoughts and strength to talk to strangers once more. It was lucky I did, because when I walked into the restaurant/bar area, I was stunned and rather embarrassed to receive a round-of-applause from the patrons sitting around the room. I wasn't too sure what to say, and stammered a few words of thanks before sitting at the bar to order a beer with a very flushed face. I didn't even want a beer, but it was my automatic reaction to the sudden burst of attention. I was soon talking to people within the bar, and they told me that they had been talking about the crazy cyclist (me) just as I pulled up.
Most people were brimming with questions about my trip and despite their friendly nature, I was just too tired to sit and talk for long. So I excused myself politely and rode a few km's up the road to find a patch of bushes to camp in.
That night my tent was swarmed over by a plague of mice, some 20-30 at a time, between the tent and the fly. They chewed their way into one of my drink-bottles, nibbled my helmet and shoes (all stupidly left outside), and chewed small holes in my tent, luckily not big enough to fit through.
Fittingly, it was a horrible end to a horrible day, and I was left to fall asleep to the sound of their tiny foot-steps hurrying around my tent.
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