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28 July 2026

Sand, Sunsets & Sore Legs

by Alex Jovanovic

There's something about Robe that keeps pulling you back.

Maybe it's the endless beaches, the towering dunes or the kilometres of sandy singletrack winding through coastal scrub. Maybe it's the challenge of riding terrain that can humble even experienced riders. Or maybe it's simply the excuse to spend a weekend riding dirt bikes with good mates.

Whatever the reason, after five years away it was time to head back.

Nine of us loaded the bikes, checked the gear and made the six-hour drive from Melbourne into South Australia. The lineup was as diverse as the personalities riding them. A beautifully restored vintage Husqvarna shared the trailer with everything from a custom-built big bore 500 to the last of the carby KTMs and Huskys, alongside a handful of TPI bikes. Only two riders had chosen 450 four-strokes—a sensible decision considering how much power soft sand likes to steal.

Before we'd even unpacked at the Airbnb, we'd already organised a fuel dump halfway around the following day's ride. Anyone who's spent time riding deep sand knows fuel anxiety is very real.

Most of the crew had done this trip more times than they could remember. I'd ridden Robe a handful of times before, but that certainly didn't make me a sand expert. Add in being the oldest bloke in the group, plus a serious lack of bike fitness lately, and I quickly adjusted my expectations.

This weekend wasn't about being up the front - it was about surviving.

Saturday morning greeted us with cold temperatures, low clouds and a salty mist that seemed determined to coat every pair of goggles. Visibility came and went, but we weren't about to let the weather spoil the weekend.

Within minutes we were into kilometre after kilometre of sandy singletrack, weaving through coastal scrub before the familiar whoops arrived.

If you've never ridden endless sand whoops before, imagine doing squats while someone repeatedly punches you in the legs while the front wheel has a mind of its own and just wants to go wherever it feels like.

Now keep doing that for hours - well it sure felt like hours.

Eventually we reached the inland dunes. Normally this is where everyone spreads out to play, but with the fog still hanging around we stayed close together. Losing sight of the rider in front would've been all too easy, and finding your way back across kilometres of open dunes without a reference point wasn't high on anyone's weekend bucket list.

By this point my confidence had taken a slight hit, but my legs had completely waved the white flag. Every whoop seemed twice as big as the last and my body had started negotiating with my brain.

"Mate... if we can just make it back to the house, we'll start training before next year's trip."

Somehow we rolled back into the Airbnb with just enough daylight left for Sam and I to head out with my camera and scout a few locations for the following evening. The light was flat, grey and uninspiring, but at least we'd found a couple of promising spots and snapped a few cool roller images and embraced that flat overcast light.

That night, after the compulsory pub dinner in Beachport, nobody needed convincing to head to bed early.

Sand riding has a funny way of making you feel about eighty years old.

Sunday arrived and, despite waking up feeling like I'd been hit by a small truck, we pointed the bikes back towards the beach.

The riding immediately rewarded us.

Flowing singletrack twisted through thicker scrub before opening into rolling sandy hills, and then one of the more memorable moments of the trip happened completely by chance.

An emu burst onto the trail directly in front of me.

Instead of disappearing into the bush, it simply kept running.

For nearly two kilometres it effortlessly floated over whoops and carved through the sandy corners while I followed behind hanging onto the handlebars for dear life.

Watching it glide across the terrain made me wonder if it'd secretly upgraded to Cone Valve suspension.

Needless to say, it handled the sand considerably better than I did.

The climbs soon became steeper.

Two particularly soft, chopped-out hills completely defeated me.

While I dug trenches with my boots and questioned every life decision that had led to this point, Sam and Richard casually rode my bike to the top without so much as raising their heart rate.

The rest of the boys watched from the summit offering plenty of encouragement...

...mostly in the form of laughter.

What looked like a small sandy hill from the bottom felt suspiciously similar to Everest - especially when having to walk up it in full gear!

Eventually we reached our hidden fuel stash, emptied the last of the jerry cans and continued towards what we'd all been waiting for.

The dunes.

By now the weather had completely transformed.

Blue skies replaced the grey, temperatures climbed and the Southern Ocean sparkled in the distance.

After a quick stop amongst some incredible rocky sand formations that looked more like the surface of Mars than South Australia, it was finally time to play.

The dunes are impossible not to smile in.

Everyone scattered in different directions, carving fresh lines through untouched sand, charging up steep faces and railing berms as if we were kids let loose in the world's biggest playground. It reminded me of skiing fresh powder—you simply pick a line and enjoy the ride.

I'd waited five years to come back to this place.

Within five minutes, every sore muscle from the previous day suddenly felt worthwhile.

Eventually we had to point the bikes home, winding through more incredible singletrack that climbed onto high ridgelines overlooking rolling farmland on one side and the Southern Ocean on the other.

It's a landscape that's difficult to describe until you've seen it yourself.

Towering dunes fade into green paddocks, with the ocean never far away. It feels uniquely Australian.

Knowing golden hour wouldn't wait, Sam and I peeled away from the group slightly early.

Waiting back at the house was his beautifully restored vintage Husqvarna.

Sam has owned the bike for years and kept it in immaculate condition. We'd talked for ages about creating a classic California-inspired shoot featuring the old Husky, and this trip finally gave us the opportunity.

Dressed in period-correct Sidi boots and retro riding gear, he looked like he'd just ridden straight out of the 1970s. Steve McQueen would've approved.

Five minutes from town we found ourselves standing on a rugged limestone outcrop overlooking the coastline as the sun began dropping towards the horizon.

Everything came together.

The light turned golden.

The cliffs glowed.

The Husky looked right at home against the coastal landscape, and Sam rode it exactly as I'd imagined—fast enough to throw beautiful arcs of sand, but with just enough mechanical sympathy to avoid burying a freshly restored classic in salt water.

As photographers we're often chasing those rare moments where preparation, weather and luck all align.

This was one of them.

Rather than try to describe the rest, I'll let the photos do the talking.

Back at the house, a hot shower and a well-earned beer quickly disappeared before we headed out for one final surprise.

One of the boys had booked dinner at Mayura Station's famous Wagyu restaurant.

After two days surviving on muesli bars, electrolyte drinks and determination, sitting down with eight mates to arguably one of the best steaks any of us had eaten was the perfect way to finish the weekend.

The following morning we packed trailers, swept what felt like half of South Australia's sand out of the Airbnb and started the six-hour drive back towards Melbourne.

The funny thing about dirt bike trips is that while you're riding them, your body spends half the weekend asking why you signed up.

Six hours later we were home and about five minutes after that, we were already planning the next trip.