The Great Central Ride: Two Motorcycles, one Endless Horizon

It all begins in the quirky gold-mining town of Kalgoorlie. A place that feels like someone copied the Wild West into Australia, just with more flies and fewer gunfighters. The absolute highlight: the massive Super Pit. This hole is so enormous that you can’t help but think, “This isn’t a mine, this is an attempt to hollow out Australia.” We stand at the edge, staring down, and watching the giant mining haul trucks that appear like small ants - although these trucks are the biggest trucks in the world. Just imagine these tech specs: empty weight ~150–200 tonnes and ~225 tonnes per load, height ~6 - 7 meters (240 - 275 inches), tire diameter ~3 - 4 meters (120-160 inches) and ~2,500–4,000 horsepower. These vehicles are just out of this world.

With full tanks (and a fair bit of respect for what lies ahead), we leave civilization and head toward the Great Central Road. But first: a stop at Lake Ballard. Sounds peaceful, right? And it is at first glance. Scattered across the white salt lake are the haunting sculptures by Antony Gormley. They look like lost alien souls in the middle of nowhere.

It became late and this place looked like a great spot to pitch a tent for the night. And then come the flies. Not a few. Not many. A biblical plague. We look like two motorcyclists performing improvised ninja moves - constantly swatting, cursing, and laughing at the same time. Eating? Only in the tent. Taking photos? With one eye half closed. Meditation in the desert? Forget it. These bush flies really try to find moisture in every single body opening. Without a head net and a tent, you’d probably get drained in no time. However we had a peacful night.

Then the next morning it really begins: the Great Central Road.

“Road” is a generous term. It’s more like a dusty suggestion of direction. Endless red tracks, relentless corrugations, and roadhouses spaced so far apart that spotting a fuel pump feels emotional. Each roadhouse is part gas station, part social hub, part survival outpost. And every time we arrive, we fill as much water and gas as possible. You definately don't want to run out of that.

Between stops: nothing. And everything. Endless horizons, shimmering heat and, unexpectedly, camels. Lots of camels. Seriously, a lot. They just stand there, watching us as if we’re the odd ones, then casually wander off. Apparently, they’ve decided Australia belongs to them now. We didn't even know, that there are camels in australia. Truly astonishing – what was once a leftover from the colonial era has become the world’s largest wild camel population.

The motorcycles hold up bravely. So do we. Dust is no longer a condition. It’s a lifestyle. Every bottle of water is a treasure, every patch of shade a luxury.

And then after days of heat, dust, and mild madness it happens. The dusty dirt road turns back into perfect asphalt again and, on the horizon, a red giant appears: Uluru - or, as many still call it: Ayers Rock.

Even if you’ve seen it in countless photos, nothing prepares you for it. It just stands there. Massive, silent, impressive. Almost unfairly majestic. That time there was a huge bush fire nearby which made its appearance look even more mysterious.

We roll closer, park the bikes, and suddenly everything goes quiet. No engines, no swatting flies, no dust in our mouths (well, almost). Just that moment. And somewhere between Kalgoorlie, the fly madness, roadhouses, and camels, it becomes clear: this is exactly why you do trips like this. Not because they’re comfortable. But because they feel real.