Matt O'Brien
How an everyday athlete rode unsupported from Perth to Sydney
Matt O’Brien is an everyday athlete who lost more than 50kg, changed careers, and fell in love with pushing his limits. After finishing Ultraman in 2024, he set out on a 4,213km unsupported ride across Australia – to test himself, explore what’s possible, and prove that big goals are built one stubborn day at a time.
I woke up, it was still dark outside, zipped inside my tiny one-man tent in Ceduna. I’m just under 2,000km into my crossing from Perth to Sydney. This morning was a very welcome planned sleep-in. I have been battling mechanical problems since Coolgardie, and a new wheel had been express-posted and was waiting at the post office for me this morning. As I crawled out into the cold South Australian air, I immediately froze. My bike – the one I’d chained to the fence the night before – was gone. Stolen…
I stood there staring at the empty space as my brain refused to load the scene. I’d pushed through the desert for nothing, and yet… somehow, I felt a strange wave of relief settle in – no more pain, no more grinding into headwinds, no more washing myself in roadhouse sinks. Maybe this was my out. Maybe this was the end – without me having to “give up.”
As I sat on the damp grass, I remembered my car keys – with an AirTag – were in the frame bag. I opened the Find My app, and a location pinged a few kilometres away. I walked to the police station and a few hours later, thanks to the Ceduna police, I had my bike back, although a few of my personal items were still missing. It didn’t, and still doesn’t, feel real. I picked up my new wheel from the post office, replaced what had been stolen, and by lunchtime I was back on the bike, reflecting on the ride so far as I ticked off another 170kms for the day.
Only 13 days earlier, at around 10:30pm, I had finished assembling my bike at a bus stop in Fremantle. I walked it down to South Beach and stood there alone with a fully loaded touring bike. It felt surreal. I pushed off into the dark, trying to sneak out of the city before morning to avoid the worst of the traffic. The first few days felt exciting. I’d promised myself: go out conservative, target around 150km a day – no heroics. Let the body adjust. Let the mind settle. Enjoy the honeymoon period before everything hurts. But it was evident early on that the trip wouldn’t come easily. By Coolgardie, I’d already snapped my first spoke on an almost-new bike, on a long weekend. Perfect timing. My naïve assumption that “new bike = no mechanical issues” was clearly off target. I got into Kalgoorlie and sat in Hungry Jack’s, googling things like how far can you ride on a broken spoke and watching dodgy YouTube repair videos.
Desperate, I posted on Facebook Marketplace for help. Within an hour, I was sitting in Louie’s front yard watching him repair my wheel – a kindness I didn’t know I needed yet. Looking back, that was the first hint of a theme: strangers would keep me rolling just as much as my own determination. In that Hungry Jack’s, I also found Donkey, a small stuffed toy someone had abandoned on a table. Sean Conway had talked in his book about the importance of having a mascot. Now I had mine, some things are just meant to be. As I approached Norseman, towns disappeared. At sunrise, that ground-cold air crept into my fingers and made the first hour of pedalling painful. My right knee was flaring, my hands swelling, and a saddle sore was developing that made every kilometre feel very… personal.
Norseman is the gateway to the Nullarbor. A sign pointed east: Limited water. Norseman – Ceduna. This was where the novelty ended. This was where the real work began, it would be long km’s between services. I pushed into the big empty plains – Balladonia, Caiguna, Madura, Eucla – names you’ll remember forever once you’ve ridden through them and seen what is essentially a roadhouse surrounded by nothingness. I was burning 4,000–6,000 calories a day and surviving on whatever roadhouses sold: burgers, pastries, chocolate, chips. I finished the whole ride 3.5kg heavier – under-fuelling was the least of my problems, but let’s not think too hard about the nutritional value of what I was eating.
Then came Ninety Mile Straight – 150km of dead-straight road. Strangely, it was one of my best days. My knee felt better, and I rode late under a sky filled with millions of stars. It was peaceful. Meditative. I couldn’t help but feel lucky to be out there. The next day absolutely destroyed me. I woke to a howling headwind – the kind that makes you rethink your life choices. I stepped out of my unpegged tent and watched the entire thing flip upside down as my belongings scattered into the dust. The Nullarbor’s way of saying: Not today, mate.
Minutes into riding, I knew I was in trouble – heat, wind, horseflies, yet another snapped spoke, a rear wheel that was creaking and buckled. Any aggressive gear change would see the chain fly off and wedge itself between the cassette and spokes, jamming the back wheel. I crawled at 14–16 km/h, screaming into the empty desert more than once. I hated being there – hated the bike, hated the whole idea of what I was doing. I thought back to a text a mate once sent me: “Just because you’re not having fun doesn’t mean it’s not fun.” I repeated that line sarcastically all day… and somehow it helped.
A motorist stopped earlier and handed me water and a banana. By the time I finally reached the next roadhouse, I found a note: $30 had been put over the counter for me to get lunch. Thanks, Paul and Karen. That small act of kindness helped me forget about the headwind. It genuinely reset something. I ate burgers and ice cream and sat in the air-con for hours, waiting for the heat to ease, then late that afternoon rolled out into the night – into a tailwind and a sky full of stars. It would be easy to assume the bike theft was the lowest moment of the trip, but truth be told, it wasn’t even close to how low I was on this day. Not even close.
As I approached Port Augusta, the world suddenly got loud again. Cars. Noise. Towns. A driver yelled something out the window – the first and only abuse of the entire trip. I wanted the isolation back immediately. I knew the hills coming out of Port Augusta would be real, but watching them on the horizon was daunting. As they got closer, I took on what would easily be the biggest hill I’ve ever ridden. I’m not too proud to admit I walked most of it. Soon enough, I started seeing Sydney appear on road signs. It was close. I’d always planned for the final push to be big. While I was bike-fit and already deep into the suffering, I wanted to see how long I could ride in one go.
I left Ganmain at sunrise with one simple goal: make it to the Opera House in one go. The Hume Highway was busy, trucks flew by, and the hills were constant. About forty kilometres before Goulburn, I ran out of water. I limped into a servo, inhaled two large McChicken meals, and rolled out again with roughly 60km to the next service station. Fifteen kilometres later, I realised I hadn’t filled my bottles. I hadn’t grabbed any food. I’d simply eaten like a wild animal and pedalled away. It was at that point I started to consider that I might need some sleep. I pushed on for a few more hours before collapsing onto the ground beside my bike and sleeping for an hour – shoes still on, sleeping bag on the road in a truck rest stop. Taking them off felt like too much commitment to resting.
Then I got up and kept riding – Goulburn, Southern Highlands, Blue Mountains, and eventually into western Sydney, half-delirious. The city threw everything at me: rain, hail, two punctures, and getting lost more than once. And then finally, around 7pm, I reached Circular Quay, the Opera House, 496km later. Just like that, the ride was over. No cameras. No crowd. No big celebration. Just tourists staring at a smelly cyclist with half his garage and a stuffed donkey strapped to his bike.
It took days for it to sink in. Not the 4,213km. Not the 198 hours on the bike. Not the wind, heat, cold, or breakdowns. But the realisation that I had kept going when stopping made more sense. I solved every problem the road threw at me, and every time it tried to break me, I kept moving east.
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