Weekend Wheels: Bikes, Fires & Aussie Bush Runs

Just rolled back into town from a winter holiday with the kids. I’ve barely shaken the sand out of my thongs, and already my mind’s drifting back to the weekend we spent out bush. Funny how you come home knackered but all you can think is: When’s the next one?

This past weekend, we loaded up the gear and headed to a mate’s farm for a couple of days of dust, dirt, and solid laughs. And fair dinkum—it was one for the books.

One of the biggest highlights? Finally giving my new Yamaha a proper run. I’d been itching to let it loose on the tracks. The moment I kicked it over, I was grinning like a bloke who’d just found an esky full of cold beers. The bike tore through the red dirt, bit into every corner, and never missed a beat. Even Julia, who’s only ten, wanted a go. Trouble is, her feet don’t reach the ground yet, so every time she needed to stop, I had to sprint over and catch the bike before she toppled. Not that she minded—she was buzzing. Maybe we’ve got a future Aussie motocross champ on our hands.

Meanwhile, the kids were having the time of their lives. Little bikes roaring off in every direction, dust hanging in the air, helmets bobbing along the tracks. There’s nothing quite like wide open space for kids to go feral—in the best possible way.

Then Turtle rocked up, true to form, with his Japanese-made .223 rifle. One shot from that thing, and the kids nearly hit the deck in shock. It’s bloody loud—my ears are still ringing. I ended up plugging my ears every time Turtle let another round off. But the kids thought it was the best thing they’d ever seen. Only out bush, eh?

As the sun dipped low, we cracked open a few tins and lit the bonfire. It was already blazing pretty well—until Petrol Man decided it needed more of a fireball effect. Next thing you know, he’s pouring a litre of sump oil into it. Flames shot sky-high like a rocket launch. Pretty sure I’ve singed off half an eyebrow. Worth it, though. Nothing beats standing around a fire, faces glowing, spinning yarns, and arguing over who’s on breakfast duty.

And then there was Jimmy’s birthday. It started off civil enough—a few beers, music drifting through the paddocks. But in true Jimmy fashion, it didn’t stay quiet for long. Soon we had bush karaoke echoing through the night, kids doing donuts in the ute, and blokes staggering around barefoot with half-eaten sausage rolls. No one hit the swag before 2 a.m. Classic Jimmy.

Another rite of passage: the kids all had a crack at driving the old paddock-basher. Private property, so no dramas there. You should’ve seen their faces, bouncing over the ruts, grinning like little legends. Reminded me of learning to drive in an old farm ute myself—bloody memories for life.

And then there’s The Track. Every time we’re out there, we try to push a bit further through this wall of thorn bush. It’s about five kays long, linking one paddock to the next, and it’s become our unofficial blokes’ mission. Chainsaws, machetes, scratches up your arms—it’s slow work. But each year we carve the track a little further. We’ll get there eventually. Might take another decade, but that’s half the fun.

By Sunday arvo, we were dusty, half deaf, and absolutely rooted—but happy as. There’s something special about weekends like this. No phone signal. No bloody emails. Just good mates, good yarns, and the occasional singed eyebrow. I rolled back into Sydney covered in dust, Yamaha strapped down in the trailer, already counting the days till the next escape.

If you ever get the chance to head bush for a couple of days—do it. You’ll come home with a few scratches, a pocketful of stories, and a grin you can’t wipe off your face.

— M.