We were overnighting at the Penong roadhouse, whose gas pumps, we were told, are among the most profitable in the world. It was in this haze of pain that I glimpsed the man-or, more accurately, the footwear-of my dreams. Each foot fall felt like I was stepping on broken glass. The heat reflected through my running shoes and back onto my feet, as my heels and toes blistered and burned. Daytime temperatures on the Nullarbor can reach 100 degrees Fahrenheit, but the jet-black asphalt can far exceed that, glowing up to frying-pan levels. I had trained for the effort, and we planned to run 15 to 20 miles daily. We’d do this while pushing a cart full of water, since hydration packs don’t even come close to handling the capacity of liquid needed for a full day of Nullarbor heat.
My friend and I decided that running the hottest, most barren part of the plain-the middle 200 miles-would be a fun thing to do. These are tiny hostels/groceries/gas stations in one, and you’d better stop, because you could run out of gas or food before the next time you see one.
If you drive the Nullarbor, you’ll find, at intervals of 50 to 150 miles, a series of roadhouses. Totally treeless and absolutely flat, it hugs the continent’s southern edge at the Indian Ocean, connecting Adelaide and Perth, and covering a distance of more than 1,000 miles. I’d lost my mind and dragged a friend with me from Los Angeles to Australia, to run 200 miles across a searing stretch of desert called the Nullarbor Plain. My love affair with what are undoubtedly the best shoes in the world began with an unexpected man crush.
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