This year, AMCN reader Anthony Mitchell and his mates figured that flying to the MXGP was like taking the easy way out
Long-time AMCN reader and adventure junkie Anthony Mitchell decided that buying an airline ticket to attend the 2025 MXGP at Hidden Valley this year would have been far too easy. Instead, he and two mates saddled up, loaded a pair of support utes and pointed north from Brisbane on a 3800km odyssey through some of the toughest, most unpredictable terrain in the country to Darwin. What started as a ride to watch (and volunteer!) at a world-class motocross event quickly became a test of bush skills, mechanical luck and pure stubbornness – with limp-mode utes, bushfires, and kangaroo dodging all part of the fun. This is Anthony’s tale…
Loaded up and ready for anything
Three riders, two support utes, one trailer – and an eight-day deadline to make it unscathed to the 2025 MXGP at Hidden Valley almost 3800km away. The plan was to get from Brisbane to Darwin for the MXGP by taking the ‘hard way’. On paper the support vehicles were meant to make things easier; in reality, they needed more nursing than the bikes.
I was aboard my trusty BMW F 800 GS, loaded and ready for whatever the Outback threw at us. Mick, our onboard mechanic, brought his KTM 950 Super Enduro – all grunt and dust. Stuart ‘Lizard’ Glennie, sidecar speedway legend turned bush explorer, was on his KTM 500 EXC, fitted with two-wheel sets so he could swap from dirt to tar when the mood took him. Mick had two sets as well, while I stubbornly stuck to one set of Tractionators and hoped they’d last the distance.
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET OF ROOS AND FIRES
The early days set the tone. The run between Roma and Charleville was supposed to be straightforward, but it quickly turned into chaos. The support drivers missed the RV point in Roma completely, assuming the riders were already out in front. Instead of turning back they pushed on, convinced they were chasing the bikes down the highway. That left us on our own – and the day soon stretched into night.
What followed was a white-knuckle ride dodging kangaroos by the hundred, their eyes flashing in the headlights, and weaving around a massive bushfire that lit up the horizon like a furnace. The mix of bone-deep cold on one side and searing heat on the other made it a surreal ride.
By the time we finally limped into Charleville we were frozen, rattled and not exactly thrilled to learn that the support crew had been waiting there for hours, still scratching their heads.
OASIS AT URANDANGI
From there the temptation to keep to the dirt was too strong to resist. Lizard made a tyre swap while Mick and I persevered with original rubber. We swung north towards Urandangi – the famous drovers waterhole.
Urandangi looked like a place that time had forgotten, a scattering of weathered buildings, dust blowing down the empty street and not too much to suggest life passed through here too often.
But just beyond town, on the Georgina River, we found a reward – an unlikely oasis. A shady, fly-free camp on the river’s edge, where water still pooled, cool and inviting. It felt like paradise after days of bull dust and flies.
HILUX HELL IN CAMOOWEAL
From Urandangi we pushed on toward Camooweal, chasing the fading daylight. The dirt roads were freshly graded as if they knew we were coming, often better than its bitumen counterparts. We happily played on the edge of traction at speeds of up to 185km/h, drifting around non-corrugated corners and hitting some G-outs over cattle grids and creek beds.
That’s when the support Hilux finally spat the dummy, coughing its last breath, just five kilometres short of town.
Salvation came courtesy of Zeke, who unrolled a snatch strap from his own Hilux and towed the crippled rig into Camooweal – an arrival that was less heroic and more hilarious.
Camooweal turned into more than a fuel stop; a full day was lost under the Barkly sun, chasing down parts and swapping bush mechanic tricks. Luck finally turned when Dave from the RACQ appeared like a guardian angel in his high-viz. He somehow dug up a new fuel line, and with a bit of swearing and socket work, the stricken Hilux roared back into life.
HEARTBREAK AND HAPPINESS IN THE GULF COUNTRY
From Camooweal the landscape began to change. The spinifex thinned, the red earth deepened and the scrub opened into wide, shimmering plains. Riding through the Gulf country was one of those moments that remind you why you ride – an endless horizon, clean air and a feeling that you’re part of something far bigger than yourself.
Cape Crawford was the next target, and by the time the crew rolled in, dust-caked and thirsty, the neon sign of the Heartbreak Hotel felt like another oasis. The place lived up to its name, but in all the best ways – fuel for the Hiluxes, food for the stomach and cold drinks that went down far too easily.
OUTBACK COMFORT PUBS
From Cape Crawford the kilometres ticked by under a warming Gulf sun. Daly Waters came right on cue. No ride through the Territory is complete without a stop at its legendary pub, and the boys weren’t about to break tradition. Lunch was served Territory-style (big plate, bigger portions) and eaten under a ceiling dripping with bras, banknotes and souvenirs left by travellers from every corner of the world.
By mid-afternoon, the road carried us into Bitter Springs just outside Mataranka. Nothing quite prepares you for Bitter Springs. One minute you’re coated in red dust, the next you’re floating downstream in crystal-clear water surrounded by palms and pandanus.
After days of dust, grease and bushfire smoke still lingering in our gear, slipping into those waters felt like heaven. We all floated downstream in the gentle current, the aches of the road melting away.
KATHERINE LOCKDOWN
While enroute to Darwin, many locals had advised us to avoid Katherine altogether, but we needed to get off the road and had booked into a secure lock-up motel. As we passed through the outskirts of Katherine, I noticed the largest police station I’ve ever seen, all part of the adventure.
Rolling into town meant one thing: lockdown. Fuel first, supplies second and a quick sweep for anything that had shaken loose or broken along the way. Instead of settling for roadhouse food, Zeke stepped up. Out came the grill from the back of his Hilux and before long the carpark smelled better than any cafe in town. Steaks hissed, onions sizzled and the smell of a proper barbecue drew in half the passing traffic.
DARWIN ARRIVAL
The final run north was hot and fast, the highway alive with heat haze. It was also full of road trains, but nothing could slow the momentum now. By midday the crew rolled into downtown Darwin – dusty, sunburnt and grinning like we’d just completed the Dakar. Our home for the next three days was Hidden Valley, where the thunder of the world’s best motocross riders erased any memory of limp-mode Hiluxes, bushfires and roos.
A PROPER TERRITORY ENDING
For two days it was everything promised: heat, horsepower and world-class racing in the Top End. Then Sunday arrived and with it, the deluge.
The skies opened in true Territory style, turning the track into a swamp and washing away the final motos. Just like the ride north, nothing went to plan, but that was only half the story, we laughed it off, knowing we’d made it the hard way.
Through it all, the bikes had been faultless. No punctures, fair tyre wear – in fact the only thing with shredded tyres was the trailer. Looking back, the MXGP might have been cut short, but the journey sure wasn’t. The real race was getting there – across dust, fire and long lonely stretches of Outback roads.
We came for the racing but it was the ride there that made it unforgettable.
The ride back surely must be easier.
Do you have a moto story you’d like to share with AMCN readers? Get in touch via amcn@amcn.com.au
