By James Moore   

“Four wheels move the body, but two wheels move the soul.” – Unknown

There are roads that unspool in the memory as elegantly as they do under your wheels. Travel them once and vivid imagery remains available for recall. They need not wind through mountains or course along ocean shores, but sunlight, and horizons to pursue, distinguish certain journeys.

My experiences include riding up Glacier National Park’s “Going to the Sun” highway on a Honda 450 into a vista that grows more incomparable with each foot of elevation. That same little engine took me north on California’s legendary Pacific Coast Highway to sleep on the sand near Pismo Beach and trace the palisades along the oceanfront up to Big Sur. In Australia, I rented an adventure motorcycle to cross the continent and every mile felt epic but none more than the sweeping curves along the continental bight and the Great Ocean Road.

The Great Ocean Road, Australia

The longest stretch of straightaway in the world is said to be the 90-mile run of chip seal that crosses the Nullarbor Plain in the Outback and I figured motorcyclists had fallen asleep leaning over their handlebars while navigating the endless plain. In my memory, too, the Great Basin Highway’s run through Nevada seemed longer but maybe back then I had been in a hurry. The beauty of a roadway tends to reflect grand engineering, also, like the roll and climb of Ross Maxwell Drive that leads visitors to Big Bend National Park down to the mouth of Santa Elena Canyon’s 1500 foot walls, rising up from the banks of the Rio Grande. Trail Ridge Road, a 48-mile wonder that climbs from Colorado’s Estes Park to Grand Lake, reaches 11,500 feet above sea level where the air is too thin to support the existence of trees.

The Great Basin Highway, Nevada, Photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash

There are far too many to list but one that calls me constantly is the River Road, Texas Ranch to Market 170, from Presidio to Study Butte. I think I have worn out a few sets of motorcycle tires riding that pavement through its mesas and volcanic rock formations of pre-history, stealing glimpses of the Rio Grande between the canebrakes and blind rises. It is one of the great motorcycle roads in North America and belongs on every top ten list. My friend Wade Goodwyn and I had been planning his first motorcycle ride on the River Road for when he recovered from cancer. He had purchased his first big touring bike and was hoping for increased confidence and a bit of fun but each time we set a date, his health denied him that particular dream. Wade was an accomplished reporter for NPR, ready for retirement, and wandering without deadlines.

Wade and I never got to take our rides or have the adventures we had begun scheming because he was taken by cancer. When his wife, Dr. Sharon Sandell, told me he had insisted she get his new motorcycle to me, I was stunned, and I still am. My promise was to ride the highways and backroads Wade and I had discussed and give some life to his dream, and maybe, help to sustain the memory of a good man. Consequently, this past week, I took off for the River Road with some old friends, and a few new ones, to ride it once for Wade. The bike, bearing his initials, “WG,” was out front, leading pals Gary, Torsten, Uli, Sean, and Chase as we passed Fort Ben Leaton, east of Presidio.

The “rio” is not very “grande” these days, however. There seems to be almost no continuous flow and the snow melt from its source in the Southern Rockies appears to be giving little water to the river course. West of where we were riding, Mexico’s vast Rio Conchos valley meets the Rio Grande at “La Junta de los Rios,” the junction of the two rivers. The location is one of the longest inhabited in North America with ancient life and crops made possible by an abundance of water. In the contemporary era of debilitating drought, however, the U.S. is accusing Mexico of violating a water treaty by delivering only 30 percent of its contractual obligations of supplies. Only rain will help, and spring looks to finish dry. More crops will fail.

A Waterless Watershed – Photo by Chase Rivers

I am certain this ride would have been delayed by Wade, who would have been compelled to start conducting interviews and tell the story of the deepening international water crisis and dispute, and the people being harmed. I thought of him also as we shifted to lower gears to climb the big hill before descending toward Terlingua. We were stopping at the “Dom Rock,” the spot where characters in the movie Fandango had buried a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne to be dug up and opened after graduating from the University of Texas. Wade had asked me about the difficulty of hiking to the rock and standing on the Rio Grande overlook where Kevin Costner made his famous toast.

In Wade’s stead, Sean and Chase walked the dirt and stone track around to where the sun hit their faces and the Dom Rock’s. Maybe it is an imperfect way to remember the trip Wade and I had envisioned, and to honor him, but it’s a moment that mattered and it’s easy to see him standing there with his Goodwyn grin. Costner’s early film was a paean to the glories of youth and friendship and adventure with the inescapable cinematic theme that everything ends; we all leave each other, sometimes for different places and other people, but, eventually, each one of us is gone, by choice or chance.

We hung around in the sun, temperatures nearing 90, and not wanting to leave. After walking back down toward the overlook, we saw the remainders of the river reaching back toward Presidio. A few cottonwoods lined the north bank and ribbons of green ran where once there was water. We were thinking of a cold, cleansing ale on the front porch of the Terlingua General Store.

The greatest ambition of motorcycling is enjoyment, to feel and smell and see the landscape and know the pull of a horizon. You are lucky to have friends who share the love of the road on two wheels. You know a few things together that others do not, and not just how to plug flats in 100 degree heat or clean gunked-up fuel injectors at a rest stop.

Motorcycles are more than conveyances, though, and make possible emotions not as readily accessible as sitting behind a steering wheel. The road viewed through a windshield is just part of a movie; on the bike, you play a part in whatever adventure you devise or that is delivered to you by weather and circumstance. A sense of presence can become almost overwhelming.

A long motorcycle ride, it has been said countless times, offers the answer to a question you will soon forget. Life is reduced to basics by a motor that applies power to two wheels. Philosophy and anxiety do not run engines. Robert M. Pirsig, author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, said, “Other people can talk about how to expand the destiny of mankind. I just want to talk about how to fix a motorcycle. I think that what I have to say has more lasting value.”

I am, increasingly, inclined to agree.

Like every time I’ve traveled the River Road, there was nothing I did not enjoy. I did sense the one rider missing, though, and wished that he had been along for the trip.

But, hell, maybe he was.

This article was originally published on Texas to the world.

By a spokesperson for the eSafety Commissioner:

Yesterday the Federal Court granted an interim injunction compelling X Corp to hide Class 1 material on X that was the subject of eSafety’s removal notice of 16 April, 2024.

In summary, eSafety’s removal notice to X Corp required it to take all reasonable steps to ensure the removal of the extreme violent video content of the alleged terrorist act at Wakeley in Sydney on 15 April. The removal notice identified specific URLs where the material was located.

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Some of these companies have taken additional, proactive steps to reduce further spread of the material. We thank them for those efforts.

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By Roger Chao 

Not in my name

In this quiet hour, I summon words, a humble man amidst shadows long,

To speak of wounds not my own, to voice a plea so loud and strong.

For streets that haunt with harried silence, for whispers in the dark,

For the women who carry nightmares in the hollows of their hearts,

I say, not in my name, shall this darkness be just fate.

Not in my name, will the long night prowl with fears that speak untold,

Where sisters, mothers, daughters, wives, brave the icy streets so cold.

Each step a story of caution, each shadow a stifling cage,

In their eyes, an unshackled resilience, a silent but building rage.

Not in my name, shall safety be a treasure locked by sun’s last light.

A father’s heart, a brother’s vow, to guard and cherish life so dear,

Yet, lurking in the darkness’ shroud, a haunting, pervasive arc of fear.

For every woman who dares to dream, of simple walks in moon’s embrace,

Finds not the peace of starlit streams, but wary steps she must retrace.

Not in my name, shall fear strip their freedoms bare.

From park to bus stop, from alley to the open market’s sprawl,

There’s a vast trembling unspoken, a siege without a single wall.

Why should freedom wear curfews, tied down by heavy cords of threat?

Why must half the world’s hearts beat loud and their foreheads bead with sweat?

Not in my name, shall freedom’s price be paid with fear.

Hear the voices rising now, a chorus grown too loud to mute,

Of those refused their evening walks, a jog, a simple forest route.

See the power in their marching, in their signs, and in their tears,

Resisting the violent silences that have spanned through many years.

Not in my name, shall the violent claim their gruesome deeds are just.

Oh, how can it be in age so bold, where justice claims its ever reach,

That women young and women old, must cautiously move and freedom beseech?

It is not just, it is not right, this burden heavy they must bear,

To shrink beneath the veil of night, feeling eyes that linger, stare.

Not in my name, shall this blight persist its dawn.

From my own steps, unburdened, free, I wander paths both far and near,

Yet ponder deep this irony, that half the world moves gripped with fear.

What creed or colour matters not, when shadows threaten, chilled to the bone,

For we are kin, this truth forgot: a woman’s fight for safety – our own.

Not in my name shall this imbalance further propagate.

Let not the blame rest upon the shoulders of those who merely live,

Who seek only the liberty that the light of day can give.

The burden is on us as men, men to stand, and men to hear,

To hold our brothers accountable, to lend our voice clear.

Not in my name, shall passivity be our spirit’s stance.

I call upon my brothers, to break the chains we see and don’t see,

To challenge each cruel whisper, each injustice, with fervent plea.

For in our silence, we speak volumes; in inaction, we consent,

To the perpetuation of fear, of loss, the freedoms rent.

Not in my name, shall I walk this path in silence, nor in blame.

This is our moment, forged in the glowing courage of those who dare

To reclaim their nights, their rights, to breathe free the sweet evening air.

Together, let us rewrite the longstanding rules of night and day,

Where every soul can wander free, where strident fear dissolves away.

Not in my name, not in my name, shall this world remain the same.

To walk in peace, to jog alone, should not be acts of courage told,

But everyday by sunlight shown, in stories both bright and bold.

So here I stand, a man, a shield, against the dark that preys unchecked,

Until the streets at night are healed, with dignity and respect.

Not in my name, shall women grip their keys between braced knuckles.

Thus, I stand before you, a man amidst the now turning tide,

To declare, through poetic lines, where my convictions do abide.

For every single woman’s right, for every life restrained by dread,

I’ll raise my voice, I’ll fight their fight and not leave a word unsaid.

Not in my name, shall the shadows rule; we demand the dawn.

So I will stand, and I will call, and raise my voice in this grim tide,

To challenge night, to build a wall of solidarity wide.

For every time a woman shrinks within herself to hide her fear,

A piece of our humanity sinks, lost within this frontier.

Not in my name, shall women glance in fear o’er their track.

I stand beside, not in front, my voice a quiet but growing hum,

For this is not my story to tell, but I will not be numb.

The dark history of battles, scored deep in silent welling tears,

Calls me to a solemn duty that transcends all gendered fears.

Not in my name, shall women carry the weight of blame.

For too long, the lingering night has claimed them, a shadowy domain,

Where whispered threats and clutching fears form an oft recurring chain.

Each news cycle spins its stories, the headlines all too stark and clear:

Another one assaulted, raped, more violence for women to fear.

Not in my name, shall these grievous events stir.

We talk of change, we talk of rights, in buildings both large and small,

But talk must move to action now, to change this once and for all.

It’s not just about the alleys, or the dangers lurking late,

It’s about the homes, the offices, where power seals their fate.

Not in my name, shall this abomination pursue its prey.

No more, they say, and no more, I echo, standing by their side,

No more using strength to smother, or secrets to further divide.

No more culture that dismisses, no more brushing off the pain,

No more turning blind eyes, allowing these horrors to remain.

Not in my name, not in my name, not in my name.

Let this refrain, not in my name, echo through the streets and time,

A call to change, from every man, and in every single clime.

May it carry the weight of justice, may it break the chains of fear,

May it be heard, may it be lived, until no one must adhere.

Not in my name, no, not in my name, shall we permit this night to last.

With every single line penned, with every chorus that we recite,

Let us mend the fabric torn, of humanity’s vast, vibrant site.

For all the world’s daughters and sisters, for justice, bright and bold,

Not in my name, shall the story of fear ever be retold.

Not in my name, not in my name, with these words, I stake my claim.

Not in my name, not in my name, not in my name.

By James Moore

“We need the tonic of wildness. At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and un-explorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, un-surveyed and unfathomed by us because it is unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.” – Thoreau

I once rode up to the headwaters of two rivers in one day. Motorcycles can simplify such accomplishments. The Guadalupe I knew well and had traveled much of its length in a canoe and raft, and I had seen it in a fierce flood that had taken innocent lives. Upstream where the river moves placidly over shining limestone beds it is not easy to imagine murderous rushes of water leaving float piles of debris a hundred feet up in the branches of an ancient cypress, but it is not uncommon.

Riding over the low water crossings of the river on my way west I was still unable to imagine such flooding. The Guadalupe is a languorous, spring-fed flow that offers mostly shallow pools and views to clear, stony bottoms. The crystalline reflection of a spring sun was almost blinding but offered no evidence nature might wrest such a tragedy from such an idyllic setting.

The big BMW motorbike was nearly as silent as a trickling river and took me up a slow rise to a box canyon that had long ago birthed another river. A visitor follows the water back up to a limestone cliff where hundreds of springs leak from the rock and gather into a flow that becomes the Frio River. Once known to beer marketers as the “Land of 1100 Springs,” a 10,000-acre ranch was worked along these headwaters by descendants of Stephen F. Austin’s sister.

The Frio River

Oma Bell Perry, who had never married, and her sister, deeded the land over to Gary Priour, the poet-philanthropist who has devoted his adult life to raising children broken by unfair circumstances of their birth. Invisible hands, Priour has always claimed, guide his work, and when visitors see children playing in the water beneath the Texas sun, they understand why the ranch’s location is now referred to as “The Canyon of Angels.”

The highway through Frio Canyon unspools from the hill country twists to an easy run toward Uvalde. The hills are almost Irish green and treed with live oak and cottonwood and the tall cypress that always find the water. I slow the bike and stop for pictures without thinking I might be keeping a friend waiting down on Highway 90. Leakey and Utopia, dreamy little country towns, demand lingering but I pass through as quickly as though I were watching a movie and roll the throttle up.

Jake and I connect and move in the direction of the sun, riding parallel to the Rio Grande. His bike shines and rumbles in the southwestern glare as we get west of Del Rio. The sky must be as clear and blue as the day the world began to spin. Bluebonnets and paint brush spread out over the rocky hills and color the desert. Water from Lake Amistad is backed up into what ought to be dusty arroyos that have been transformed into canals and waterways that are settings for large vacation homes owned by wealthy Mexicans. The vistas are improbable after the urban franchise sprawl of Del Rio, an unusual border town that is surrendering to American homogenization.

Highway 505, South Toward Mexico

Jake is an excitable boy in his 70s and cannot wait for the Davis Mountains to rise in front of us. He has spoken vaguely about cross country motorcycle rides but I am not certain he has experience with longer trips. His enthusiasm suggests this is certainly the first time he has gotten on two wheels for a run to the Texas Trans Pecos. Always energized by this ride, I am, nonetheless, affected by Jake’s garrulousness on our stops and become enamored anew with familiar sights. Being a lobbyist in the state capitol and living in the tropical Rio Grande Valley has kept him from such scenery most of his life.

The sky gets bigger and consumes the countryside. We catch glimpses of Lake Amistad between the low mesas until U.S. 90 points down toward a river bridge. The Pecos, rarely much wider than a city sidewalk, has cut a deep canyon on approach to the lake. Water appears to be hardly moving but from above it is clear and shimmering in the breeze. The watercourse of the Pecos, which is mostly through the arid ranch country along the eastern perimeter of the Chihuahua Desert, has made it one of the most disputed water sources in the civilized world. Thousands of years before we motored across the river, indigenous peoples lived in the canyon below, possibly some of the first in North America, and they have left stone paintings and petroglyphs on the walls of caves and rock overhangs down where the Pecos meets the dammed up Rio Grande.

Pecos River Canyon

There are still lawsuits over the diversion and consumption of the Pecos and when you stand on its bank and taste the sweetness of the water in 100-degree heat, surrounded by rock, sand, and cactus, you understand why it has been treated as sacred by every human who has lived within its watershed. Encircled by ocotillo and pinon and cholla in the rising spring heat and staring down at the Pecos from the bridge, I end up thinking about the delta down on the Gulf Coast where the Old and the Lost River sweeps to the sea. Those two waterways always have looked to me as though they have the capacity to slake the thirst of all eight billion souls on board our little ship even as we shoot at each other across a stream like the Pecos.

The world continues to confound me.

When the road levels out farther west, we see the green and white Border Patrol vehicles dragging tires behind them on a long rope. A dirt track has been bladed beside the highway beyond the bar ditch and up next to the fence line. The dusty line runs west to Sanderson and then beyond toward Marathon and Van Horn and there are several of the government SUVs pulling tires and covering their tracks.

Unless you know the border, there is no context for such an absurd endeavor. River crossers with the right gear and water and food often come to these remote spots to enter the U.S. They are sometimes carrying backpacks with marijuana or other “contradbando,” but mostly they are just determined spirits that believe they can survive anything if they just get to America. The soil itself holds a magic for them. They are often wrong, though. The Border Patrol drags the dirt to make footprints visible and to know where to go to capture the transgressor.

“Seems to me we ought to want those guys here,” I heard an acquaintance say over breakfast in Marathon. “Anybody gets that far; they are pretty damned determined and might be useful in a country like ours.”

There were just Jake and I at a nearby table, each with a full head of hair, and not a single strand showed any color. We only looked like we might have a touch of wisdom. Such a judgment was only marginally accurate.

“Just seems to me like an insane waste of money,” I said, aware that we had both overheard the nearby conversation. “Doesn’t appear to offer much of a return on investment by catching a few pounds of marijuana or the lone border runner.”

“Well, Jimmy, we don’t have much say about it either way,” Jake said. “It’s just the way it is along that river.”

“They’ve been doing that drag and detect foolishness since I was a kid,” the man at the other table said, having picked up our exchange. “No way of knowing if it’s effective.”

“It’s effective at spending government tax money and keeping people employed,” I told him. “And I suspect that’s what matters more than few pounds of pot being confiscated. Makes politicians feel better, too. Secure the border!!”

Jake and I sped south toward the national park after breakfast and watched the clouds shred themselves on the Glass Mountains. The sky above was clear and blue but the pretty people on the motel TV had said rain was likely before sundown. I was skeptical as we began the sharp climb up to the Chisos Basin a few hours later because we stopped and looked behind us to the north and the air was pure enough to almost make visible McDonald Observatory about 150 miles distant.

The park road curled so sharply it almost felt as if it were twisting back onto itself and we slowly rose to altitude past the signs warning about bears and panthers. The ancient world was visible from up there and looking through “The Window” that opened up between two mountains at the desert floor, I had no trouble imagining great prehistoric species stalking the far plains along the shores of ancient, inland seas.

The Window, Chisos Basin, Big Bend National Park

We ended up on the porch of the general store in Terlingua, a ghost town that thrived briefly during a global demand for mercury. There is now the little store and the Starlight Restaurant and rustic adobes turned into pricey bed and breakfast establishments. A few cantinas and burger joints are along the bumpy road up the hill. The predominant feature, though, is the graveyard with Spanish surnames cut crudely into stone or desiccated wood crosses, many of them tilted by weather and time.

I went to the icebox in the general store and got two Tecates and came back out to sit on the bench that spans the front of the building and looks out over the long slope back to the river. The Chisos cut a ragged line across the horizon as we looked eastward toward the park and leaned against the wall to talk with the assembled strangers.

“Where’d you two ride from?”

The question was from a young man in a dirty baseball cap, jeans, and work boots. His dark tee shirt was sweated through and dirty but it was not torn.

“Different places. Austin and the Rio Grande Valley,” I said.

“I need to get to Austin some day,” he said. “But it’s just another big, corporate city now, I suppose.”

“There’s more than just a touch of that, for sure,” I said. “Whatever we used to like about it thirty years ago is slipping away. Where are you from?”

“Oh, Connecticut.”

“Really? What in the hell got you out here?”

“I just wanted to get as far away from corporate bullshit as I could and this looked like the best spot on the map.”

“You don’t look old enough to be fed up with climbing the corporate ladder.”

He cut his eyes at me but then smiled. “Well, I am. I hated it. I had a good job. But it was all politics and caring about shit that seemed pretty stupid to me. Out here, I work when I want, do what I want, and nobody cares what I think or do.”

“I guess that’s worth more than a corporate salary.”

“It is,” he said, and then pointed to the Chisos. “The light at the end of the day on those ranges never gets old to me. Ain’t it funny? This is probably the only place in America where people come to sit and see the sunset by looking east at those mountains.”

The people who live in the desert around the ghost town all have a story about wanting to be away from the world. They move up into the remote stretches and build adobes and survive off the grid but never have to impress another human or answer any questions. I have met government agents and truck drivers and drug runners sitting the sun on that general store porch and they all view privacy as Terlingua’s most precious commodity.

We got back on the bikes and went north toward Alpine. Crossing deserts on a motorcycle always leaves me with a sense that even the most mundane human act takes on epic proportions. Closing a door or simply walking across a street feels like it has a connectedness to some grander endeavor, which cannot immediately be known. This is mostly delusional, I suppose, but no one ever seems to simply watch the rain as it falls after a storm arrives in a desert; they appear to be battling the elements before an incomprehensible backdrop. I have ridden across the Mojave, Sonoran, and Chihuahua deserts many times and up and down the Great Basin and have always expected the universe to reveal secrets as the road endlessly extends.

More than an hour out of Alpine we had ridden under a black sky and left the sun shining behind us on the canyons of the Rio Grande. Lightning shot across our view in sharp-edged bolts and the thunderclaps were disturbing even above the wind and engine noise. When we rode into the rain, we were drenched in minutes, and as we came over each rise I looked to the north for a break in the sky and a furtive hope our destination might yet be dry.

Curtains of rain hung over the high mesas to our east and the inky black in some parts of the cloud cover faded to gray. Rain sways as belts in the far wind. Immediately, small breaks appeared in the storm and the sun found a few white basalt hills and dried out ranges and illuminated them in the afternoon darkness. A spotlight was cast across our front and onto a scene as old and eroded as it can be made by time and the elements. The show was almost more than could be imagined because the light and the dark and the rain and the desert offered such contrasts in microcosm.

“I prayed all the way through that storm, Jimmy,” Jake said later. “I got us some good mojo.”

We are eating thick steaks at the Reata and trying to dry out over dinner. Friday night was working hard to be exciting outside in Alpine.

“I guess you got us some magic then, Jake. Here we are. Wet but alive. And you’ll remember that stretch of Texas highway, I bet.”

“Yeah, but let’s not do that again real soon, pardner.”

“Let’s see what the ride looks like back to Marathon.”

The storm was rolling east as we ate, and we lingered to give it time enough to pass but as we went back down U.S. 90 the lightning lit our way. We did not hear thunder, but the cell was curling back on its own cloud tops and peeling away toward Del Rio, leaving great flashes of light across the night as it receded. We slowed enough to let the weather guide us down the road, but we were still surrounded by momentary brightness and daggers of light that seemed like cannon shot and were frequent enough that they might eventually find their targets.

We had dined also the day previous in Marfa at the old Paisano Hotel, and I was confident the ghosts of Liz Taylor, Rock Hudson, James Dean, and Dennis Hopper were shuffling the halls looking for their rooms and wondering what had happened to the desert ranch town they had left behind after filming Edna Ferber’s “Giant.” I worried greatly about the monsoon and lightning also turning us into something incorporeal.

Almost biblical rain had fallen in Marathon by the time we parked our bikes. Six to eight inches running across the rock and finding the dry arroyos, eventually reaching the Rio Grande.

Jake took off his helmet and smiled in the dim light from the cabins. “Got ya more mojo there, too, brother. Kept ya safe all the way in.”

“Yep, you are, from here on, Lightnin’ Jake.”

The magical desert sky and the western landscapes had fooled me yet again. And made me believe we were immortal.

Jacob Fuller, Dec. 1940 – Mar. 2024 RIP

This article was originally published on Texas to the world.

By Roger Chao

The Silent Truth

In the tumult of a raging battle, beneath the echoing cries,

Where shadows merge with fading lights, the silent truth belies.

A world not split by borders, nor by rifles drawn in dread,

But bound by shared existence, in the spaces tear-stained red.

We gather here as fragments of a once harmonious whole,

Diverse in thought and creed, yet one in heart, in soul.

For pain, it knows no language, nor sorrow a flag does claim;

In every mother’s weeping eyes, the tears fall just the same.

The earth beneath our feet, soaked with the ages’ cries,

Does not discern the victor, nor the truth amongst the lies.

It absorbs each drop of blood as if to cleanse our skin,

Hoping perhaps that from this soil, peace might grow within.

Can you hear the echoes of the fallen, whispering in the breeze?

Their voices carry stories across the oceans, through the trees.

They speak of dreams unfulfilled, of lives too swiftly taken,

They sing a sombre lullaby of the lost and the forsaken.

For what is war but a mirror reflecting our darkest fears,

A testament to what is lost through forgetting our common tears.

A child’s laughter silenced before it can fully form,

A lover’s bed left cold and empty, never to be warm.

Imagine now a world untouched by the scourge of war’s design,

Where the morning dew whispers of peace, and all our hopes align.

Where children’s laughter fills the air, free from the shadow of fear,

And the old are left to ponder life, with no more need for tears.

Let us then lay down the arms that serve only to divide,

And walk the path of understanding, with our hearts open wide.

For we are one beneath the stars, in the sun’s eternal light,

Divided not by our differences, but bound by our shared plight.

So remember this silent truth, not anger, hate or blame,

That the dreams and hopes and fears we share, are proof we are the same.

And never again shall division, see the light of day,

For in unity, we find strength, and in humanity, our way.

UNSW Media Release

Australia’s rising cost of living is squeezing household budgets, and with high fuel prices and public transport costs increasing, many Australians face the reality that the expense of commuting to work may no longer be financially sustainable.

The Australian Commute report showed that the average daily cost for an Australian to get to and from work is $20, totalling $5020 annually. Collectively, this translates to a national expense of $43.2 billion a year. The cost of public transportation is also increasing; Opal fares rose by 3.7 per cent in October 2023, as reported by Transport for NSW.

Associate Professor Evgenia Dechter from the UNSW Business School says that the complex relationship between commuting costs and salaries is primarily based on preferences and household constraints.

“Individuals make choices based on their preferences, budgets and time constraints,” she says.

“Subject to constraints, some prioritise shorter commutes by living closer to work hubs, even if it means higher housing costs and lower quality housing. Others prioritise better living arrangements and may accept longer commutes.”

This raises the question: With rising economic pressures and commuting costs, will Australian cities transform to be more commuter-friendly, or will work arrangements undergo a fundamental shift?

The economic impact of commuting

While salaries may indirectly reflect commuting choices, A/Prof. Dechter acknowledges the growing economic pressure on workers as well as the current cost of living crisis combined with high inflation rates.

“For many households, the current economic conditions imply tighter budget constraints, putting immense pressure on workers, which may in turn affect their commuting and employment choices,” says A/Prof. Dechter.

“Traditionally, commuting costs haven’t been directly factored into salaries, but some employers are starting to explore ways to compensate for them.

“Employers offering remote work options are a positive development in mitigating commuting costs.

“Remote, hybrid and flexible work arrangements may not only alleviate the financial burden on employees but also potentially broaden the talent pool for firms struggling to find workers,” she says.

While salaries may indirectly reflect commuting choices, A/Prof. Dechter acknowledges the growing economic pressure on workers as well as the current cost of living crisis combined with high inflation rates.

“For many households, the current economic conditions imply tighter budget constraints, putting immense pressure on workers, which may in turn affect their commuting and employment choices,” says A/Prof. Dechter.

“Traditionally, commuting costs haven’t been directly factored into salaries, but some employers are starting to explore ways to compensate for them.

“Employers offering remote work options are a positive development in mitigating commuting costs.

“Remote, hybrid and flexible work arrangements may not only alleviate the financial burden on employees but also potentially broaden the talent pool for firms struggling to find workers,” she says.

City infrastructure is not designed for everyday commuting

The travel-to-work challenge is further amplified by the design of Australian cities, with urban sprawl leading to longer commutes and a need for more suitable housing options near workplaces.

“The ugly truth of the matter is the shape of our cities is far from ideal to support sustainable and efficient commuting,” says Professor Philip Oldfield, a leading expert in architecture from the Faculty of Arts, Design & Architecture at UNSW.

According to the Regional Movers Quarterly Index released in late 2023 by the Commonwealth Bank and Regional Australia Institute, this trend is reflected in a significant shift in migration patterns. The report highlights a 12.6 per cent increase in the population moving from capital cities to regional areas compared to pre-pandemic figures.

The rising cost of living may not be the only reason why it’s harder for Australians to travel to work. Prof. Oldfield says that cities are expanding outwards with residential densities decreasing.

“It’s often cheaper and easier to build housing on the edge of cities rather than trying to ‘infill’ gaps in the city. In Sydney, 21 per cent of homes built in Greater Sydney were on the city edge across the last decade. We call this urban sprawl, and it’s apparent in virtually all cities worldwide,” says Prof. Oldfield.

Using Sydney as an example, Prof. Oldfield says we don’t see enough family-friendly and three-bedroom apartments built near city centres and places of work.

“This is because developers are creating apartments for those who purchase them – which tends to be owner-investors, and not those who ‘actually’ live in them, which includes families with children. Owner-investors prefer one- and two-bedroom apartments and that’s why these get built.

“The impact of this is that families may want to stay in centrally located neighbourhoods, but because of a lack of family-friendly apartments, they either have to ‘cram in’ to two-bedroom units not suited to the family dynamic or move further afield where more ‘conventional’ and affordable detached homes are located,” says Prof. Oldfield

Prof. Oldfield explained that the knock-on effect is if they move further away, commute times increase, which can increase costs and lost time and subsequently make working at home more attractive.

The power of hybrid and flexible work

With the economic and urban landscape placing a strain on wallets, hybrid work arrangements are becoming increasingly popular.

Dr Andrew Dhaenens, an expert in workplace relationships from UNSW Business School, says that working from home and with more flexible hours is increasingly becoming more attractive.

“For those with longer commutes and caregiving responsibilities, working from home offers a significant financial benefit,” he says.

“There’s also a perception among employers that remote workers are more productive, further incentivising flexible work models.”

Dr Dhaenens says employers are becoming more accommodating to hybrid and flexible work patterns, yet employees are facing new pressures to spend more time in offices.

The Hybrid & Flexible Working Practices 2023 report showed that almost half of the employers say that they have a minimum requirement for full-time employees to be at the workplace between three and five days a week, up from 37 per cent during the same period in 2022.

Dr Dhaenens says that hybrid and flexible work is key to easing financial pressures and believes that hybrid models will likely stay the norm.

“Employees save on commuting costs, lunches out, and public transport fares, but they also gain time back from their commute to spend more time with friends and family.”

“Additionally, we know that work-life balance is key to employee wellbeing and productivity,” says Dr Dhaenens.

While some employers require employees to be in the office for a set number of days, Dr Dhaenens emphasises the negative impacts of return-to-office mandates and believes hybrid models will likely be here to stay.

“Both employers and workers are still adjusting to remote work, and new management strategies will emerge to ensure effective collaboration and communication, but an additional day in the office often comes at a direct cost to employees,” says Dr Dhaenens.