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Does my bum look fast in this?

25/10/2016

We buy motorcycles for different reasons. Sometimes we want to go as fast as we can. Sometimes we want to cruise. Sometimes we want to split traffic like a bastard. Sometimes we just want to bask in our own awesomeness reflected back at us from a shop window. Sometimes we’re vain, sometimes we’re determined and sometimes we’re just plain crazy. This is all us, at different times and sometimes all at the same time! We’re complex creatures and are continuously evolving and changing, every minute of every day.

This is why no single motorcycle ever made is the perfect machine that will satisfy all our desires for all eternity. No such motorcycle will ever be made.
In the absence of the perfect motorcycle, we buy the one that seems to tick most of the boxes that are important to us at that time.

I change bikes often and have ridden many bikes. But I always struggle to figure out whether I’m faster on one bike or another. Because the “feeeel” of every bike is different. Some bikes give an exaggerated sense of speed while others feel slower than they actually are. Big Twins and small i4s are perfect examples. Big twins rev lazily and feel slow due to the lumpy turning of the engine. You’re lulled into a feeling of “everything’s under control” till you look down at the speedo or arrive at a corner a lot quicker than you were expecting to. Small, revvy inline 4 engines are the exact opposite. They feel really fast because they rev to eternity and scream loudly. You feel like you’re taking off from the lights like a rocket only to look down at the speedo and see you haven’t even broken the suburban speed limit while the cars in your mirrors are big. On the Monster, a normal takeoff from the lights with average throttle feels totally nonchalant till I look in my mirrors and see the cars are tiny, blurry dots. It takes a while to get your head around this.

I went from a CBR600RR to a Monster 1200S and got asked recently which one I’m faster on. It set me thinking. The funny thing is that despite being half the engine size, the CBR600RR is the one that is all about speed. Corner speed to be exact. Everything about that bike is built for cornering excellence. The suspension (once I spent 2 Grand on it!) was fantastic at high speeds and high lean angles even with aggressive braking and acceleration. The bike felt light as a feather and completely composed on its chassis, no matter what you throw at it. You could change lines mid corner, even while fully leaned over. For such a nimble bike, it was extremely stable. This gave me a lot of confidence to charge corners at speeds higher than I’d ever done before. It was gutless exiting the corners though and that was frustrating at times.

The Monster is the exact opposite in this regard. It’s all about hard corner exits on this bike. Bloody sensational, front wheel in the air, corner exits to be exact. Not that it does corner entries badly, it doesn’t. But if I could enter a corner on a CBR600 and exit it on a Monster 1200S, that would be the holy grail of contemporary motorcycle cornering for me!
But like I said, we buy bikes for different reasons at different times in our lives. If going as fast as I can everywhere and all the time was my overriding aim, I would never have replaced the CBR. But the Monster is a lot more than speed. It has substantial presence and the looks have grown on me. It has a real quality feel to it and it makes me want to sit on it and make brrmm brrmm noises in the garage. The super comfortable riding position and hypnotic V-twin pulse allows me to relax and cruise if I want to, without feeling like “what the fuck? This shit makes no sense at all” like I did on the CBR. And lazy entry into corners, knowing I have truckloads of torque to enjoy while exiting, is also relaxing compared to the CBR, where the pressure was on to nail the entry on every corner and maintain high corner speed or it wouldn’t really be a satisfying experience. I don’t really know if I’m much slower overall on the Monster through a series of bends but the experience is a lot less intense and I’m noticing the scenery a bit more.

Looking back to my Tuono V2, on the face of it the Monster should be a very similar ride. In some ways it is and in many it isn’t. Serious torque propulsion kicks in on the Monster at 4K while on the Tuono, going by my seat-o-pant-o-meter, comparable torque would only build over 7K. While this may not seem much, it does change how you ride the bike. The Tuono was nowhere near as good a city commuter as the Monster. It had extra wide handlebars with weak and somewhat snatchy low-end throttle response which made manouvering through tight spaces at low speeds a chore. But the Tuono was most certainly a better touring and all-round bike. It’s probably the most comfortable bike I’ve ever owned, for extended time in the saddle. I was doing a lot more touring then than I do now and had other, more suitable bikes for the commute.

Was I faster on the Tuono or the CBR or the Monster? Who knows. Without objective timing under similar conditions, or feedback from riders I regularly ride with, one would never know. But the CBR “felt” the fastest while the Monster and the Tuono “feel” about the same, for whatever its worth.

Does this mean I’ve spent a fortune on a bike that I’m actually slower on compared to a bike 1/3rd the price? Possibly. Does this make me any less satisfied with my purchase? Nahh! Because what I do know for sure, is that I was having fun on the CBR and I’m having a blast on the Monster. And fun comes in different packaging – speed, adventure, daring, relaxation and the all-encompassing yet hard to define “how it makes you feel”.

And that’s what it boils down to folks. As long as you’re having fun on a bike and it “feels” right to you, it’s the right one. And you can’t put a price on that.

Coming to America

12/10/2016

As I lay prone on the floor of my bedroom, unable to move or breathe, 8 hours before my flight to America was due to depart, partying in Las Vegas was the last thing on my mind. About 30 seconds earlier, I’d been the happiest man in the world. Heading over to America on a boys trip to Vegas, to be followed by motorcycling around the beautiful mountains and deserts of South-West America. What was not to like?! Then I bent down to pick up a pair of undies to throw in my bag and TWANG! Something just gave way in my lower back and the pain knocked the wind out of me. I fell face forward unable to support myself. 30 seconds later, as I tried to move my right leg an inch to the right, I stifled a scream and knew this was serious.

I was still there at 3AM, asking my wife to bring me a cup large enough to hold the substantial amount of urine that had collected in my bladder and was now threatening to burst its banks.

I didn’t want to be the guy that got taken to hospital for a muscle strain but by 4AM, unable to move and dreading having to shit in that position, I gave up. The ambulance arrived and the medics were extremely sympathetic. They helped me stand, which was fucking painful but a huge relief. I couldn’t even scream as I didn’t want to wake up the kids sleeping in the next room. They took me to the hospital where I was the butt of many jokes as my tragic story of the boys trip to Vegas that was not to be was told and re-told to every nurse within a hundred metres. Random nurses walked up to me and asked “So where were you off to?” before stifling a laugh and hurrying away. Yeah very funny, cunts. Giz me the morphine and fuck off. Which is what they eventually did.

Not a word about the socks. Not a word.

I had a severe muscle spasm the doctor said and it would take a few days to settle down. I needed to walk and keep moving, avoid sitting and take it easy for the next few days. None of that sounded compatible with catching a 14 hour flight, carrying a backpack with camping equipment and then motorcycling and camping around south-west USA. But I didn’t tell my wife that, I told her the doctor said I was fine to fly. My wife, I must confess, was a champion through the whole thing. When I was lying on the floor, fucked, having abandoned all plans of the trip, she encouraged me and said I must go. She changed my flight to the next day, called the ambulance and basically kicked my butt to make a fight for it. I repaid her by partying like a Mofo in Vegas. It would’ve been wrong not to.

My 8 days in America can be split neatly into 2 distinct timeframes. 4 days in Las Vegas, full throttle partying. 4 days on the road, full throttle motorcycling. I did nothing else. In Vegas I was either drunk or hungover or somewhere in between for 100% of my waking hours and then I crashed, only to wake up to a beer after 2 hours of sleep. While motorcycling, I started my day in the saddle around 8AM and didn’t stop till 8PM (10PM once) and then I crashed (not the bike!).

Los Angeles
You know you’re somewhere cool when you’re doing 10Ks over the limit down a city freeway through traffic and a motorcycle cop passes you, in your lane, nonchalantly flicks you a sideways glance and continues on, splitting traffic at 100KMPH. This is LA. And it’s Mad.

The sheer weight of humanity on the roads of this urban jungle is mind-boggling. And this is coming from me, who grew up in one of the most densely populated urban areas in the world, Delhi.

LA’s roads are immense, all-conquering sinews of tarmac that can move a grown man to stage-fright and ingest the unworthy, whole and unchewed. Giving directions to someone goes something like “Get on the 139, then exit on 447 West for 14 miles, take the I5 till you hit the I3 North on exit 130, which will take you to Hollywood”. And this is just to navigate the same general area of the city. God forbid, if you have to make your way from the South-West to the North-east of the city. Such a journey could cover 200KMs and take over 3 hours. Yet you’d still be in greater Los Angeles, home to almost 15 million people. The airport is sheer madness, there’s cars, trucks, buses, forklits, tractors, pedestrians and aeroplanes, sharing the runway. There’s more vehicular traffic on the runway than on most inner city roads in Australia. And when a plane is landing or taking off, everyone hurriedly gets off the runway, only to get on it again as soon as the runway is clear of planes. How the fuck they’re not all colliding with each other regularly is a mystery.

I forget sometimes, that the USA is the 3rd most populous country in the world, after China and India. And in LA, it’s easy to believe. Yet, 100 KM east of the city, where the Sierra Madre mountains rise steeply to over 10,000 ft, wild bears and deer roam in alpine wilderness. And another 50KM further east, you’re in a desert as empty and parched as the Sahara.
I found Los Angeles fascinating. It’s harsh, raw and seems to function only through sheer, forceful will of humanity.

Which is something that can also be said of Las Vegas. “The Meadows”, is what Las Vegas translates as in Spanish. What fucking meadows? It’s the middle of the desert. The city, with its fountains and swimming pools has been created by sheer force of human greed. But what a city it is. If there is a place on this planet where “anything goes”, this is it. To me, Vegas is a giant mirror that reflects back whatever you want to see in it. You want to see the richest, most handsome man in the world, irresistible to women? Then that’s what you will see. Provided you tip enough cash in the box before the mirror lights up. A place where you can live in an alternative reality and become whoever you want to be. No-one gives a shit. You’re just one more crazy on a trip.

Who we really are

Who we became in Vegas!

When I flew from Vegas to LA after 3 days and nights of non-stop partying I could barely speak. I’d lost my voice to the drinking, shouting and generally pushing my vocal cords beyond their design brief. I tried to speak but all that bubbled up from the recesses of my throat was erratic bursts of hissing air and the odd, jarring squeak. I hoped airport security did not find any reason to speak with me. Can you imagine me trying to explain the positive drug reading on my backpack in a hoarse whisper accented richly with an Indian lilt accompanied by frenzied head wobbling?

It was amazing meeting my old mates. People with whom I'd taken my first steps from adolescence into adulthood many years ago. We hadn't met in over 10 years but in those 4 days we spent together, it was like we were 21 again and nothing had changed. We forgot that we were a bit fatter, a little balder and a lot richer than the last time we had shared drinks together.

Friends like that are to be treasured and never taken for granted.

You can be whoever you want to be.

But it’s good to be back to who you are.

My mate Guy had kindly lent me his Suzuki V-Strom 1000 motorcycle to use in America. Marsh, who holds the key to Guy’s bike in LA, is a champion bloke. Neither of us knew that the other was well acquainted with BikeMe people. So we were pleasantly surprised when we discovered that we had a lot of friends in common – Guy, Canning, Klavdy... It’s always funny to hear about people’s first ride with Canning. Because Canning is such an unassuming gentleman. And then he gets on a motorcycle and you cant believe how fast he rides. Remembering Marsh’s expression, as he told me the story, is cracking me up as I write this. hahaha. It’s something that mere mortals, the world over, can bond over. Then we shared Klavdy stories over drinks later, which are somewhat more divisive, though undeniably funnier.

And I realized that when you become part of BikeMe and are friends with these people who are held in such high regard and esteem the world over, you are automatically given a position of trust and privilege, simply because you have broken bread and ridden miles with these people.

I left Marsh’s place around 10AM on the 4th and returned around 5PM on the 7th. I covered 1200 miles over the next 4 days, over half of it through magnificent mountain roads.

There are many fantastic mountain roads (or canyon roads as the murkins call em) near LA. I did the Angeles Crest Highway, a superb piece of tarmac that climbs high into the pine forests of the San Gabriel Mountains and then descends into dry, desert canyons twisting and turning in neat, predictable corners on a fantastic bitumen surface. I missed my Monster. The V-Strom, while a capable all-rounder, was too soft, heavy and floaty to really attack corners. Dat top box is practical but.

I headed through the desert to Mojave where a ferocious wind picked up from the east, forcing me to ride tilted at a 30 degree angle to make northerly progress in a straight line. The friendly native American girl at the fuel station in Mojave took pity on me and gave me some route advice to try and keep the wind on my back. She musta said “stay safe” at least 10 times before she let me go, while trying to convince me to “party” in Mojave before moving on. Mojave is a dusty dump in the middle of the desert so you’d have to do some pretty serious drugs to even get in the mood to party there but apparently there’s no dearth of drugs in America, especially on Native reservations.

I followed her advice and hit some dirt roads that tracked north-west and eventually came out on the northerly approach to Death Valley, which is where I was heading. I hit some really awesome middle of nowhere roads in the desert that went up and down and swept around like a roller coaster. Mojo-inducing fun! The fabled Mojave desert, I was in it. It was all like a dream. Then as the sun was setting I hit a little town called Trona, whose existence seemed owed to a monstrous Borax processing plant. Now, I’ve been to some pretty rough towns in remote areas of many countries but either I’m getting soft or Trona, California is the arsehole of the world, this place scared me. There was 1 motel in town, 2 of the rooms had their doors broken down, windows were shattered and needles lay around like twigs. Rough, bare-chested men walked around looking for trouble and I decided I was not ready for this. Not today. I high tailed it 30 miles in the dark, in the wrong direction to get to Ridgecrest, a decent sized town where I could disappear without disruption.

During the night I got a text from a cousin of mine who I hadn’t seen in years. Apparently he lived in LA and it would be rude not to catch up with him. So I decided to skip Death Valley and continue my march north towards Yosemite National Park. This would hopefully give me enough time to get back to LA 3 days later in time to spend a few hours with him before flying out.

Yosemite. I’d dreamed of visiting this place ever since I’d first seen pictures of it in a rock climbing magazine as an impressionable 19 year old rock climbing wannabe. I’d built it up in my mind as this mythical land of adventures that there was no way the real thing was going to match up. But it did. And more. Yosemite. The place is just magic. One of the most powerful places in all of nature. If you can look past the tourists and the noise and the commercialisation, the silence and the stillness in Yosemite valley, in the shadow of the giants, is breathtaking. As I lay in a meadow, all alone, looking up through fields of wild barley at Half Dome in the brunt of the setting sun, I connected.

Suddenly I didn’t care how far I needed to ride that day, where I was going to sleep and whether I had “ticked off” all the big attractions of Yosemite. Then I walked to the base of El Capitan, the genesis of big wall rock climbing in the world.

I touched El Capitan and closed my eyes in prayer. I had a strong urge to climb some of it so I did. 5 metres up and I suddenly slipped and fell. The back of my right hand was bloody and gouged, there was skin missing. I smiled. It was somehow fitting. I left some skin at El Capitan. There’s a t-shirt in that.

Those dots are climbers on El Capitan.

I didn’t hang around the base of El Capitan too long though because it takes most climbers at least a week to the climb it. And I’m pretty sure there’s no toilets on the wall.

I rode through the park at night, beautiful gloriously twisty roads that were so much nicer to ride when the tourist traffic was gone. I’d been so mesmerised by Yosemite that I’d forgotten about my fuel situation and was shocked to notice the fuel light flashing at me in the middle of nowhere. I was strangely calm though, a night in the open in Yosemite seemed almost inviting. It was freezing of course, with sub-zero nightly temperatures so just as well that I did manage to find fuel at the park exit at Wawona and then found a cosy cabin to sleep in at around 9:30PM at Fish Camp, a few Ks out of Yosemite’s southern entrance.

The next day I needed to end up somewhere within a couple of hours from LA so that the day after I could meet my cousin, then ride back to Marsh’s place to return the bike and then go to the airport to catch my flight at 11PM. So I headed south, meandering through scenic back roads, avoiding the highway. The day really began to take shape as I headed up Squaw Valley towards Sequoia National Park.

The sign is misleading. No Indians were being traded inside. I was hoping to trade myself in for a redneck hillbilly.

This was the start of the best motorcycle road I have ever ridden on. Yes, Best.
It’s called the General’s Highway, California route no 198. It has character this road. It doesn’t have the best corners I’ve ever ridden or the best scenery or the most floral diversity or the least traffic. But it has a mix of all of that in such abundance that the character of the road is undeniable. The road climbs from 1000ft to 12,000ft and then back down, loops through the Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks, all in the space of a hundred KMs. Both parks are superlatives of the American landscape. Kings Canyon is the deepest canyon in America while the Sequoia National Park contains the largest tree in the world and the highest peak in America (outside Alaska).

The first part of the General’s Highway climbs up the dry tussock hills of Squaw Valley, higher and higher the road twists endlessly till you enter the national park and you dramatically enter a shady pine forest. The next 20 odd kilometres climbs up a ridge and then winds along the top giving occasional glimpses of endless, misty mountain ranges. Then the woods deepen further, the trees become bigger, the road becomes narrower and the corners get sharper. There are occasional meadows where you can spy deer, or a bear if you’re lucky. Then there’s a sign saying “Entering the Giant Forest” and your heart skips a beat. I remember readin in school about the giant redwood trees of the east coast of the United States. The largest trees in the world. But nothing prepares you for the size of these behemoths. 300ft tall and 30M in circumference, the General Sherman Tree is the largest tree in the world. And there’s hundreds of such giants around. Thank fuck for that! The loggers wanted to get all of it for timber.

The General Sherman Tree. The largest tree in the world.

Walking amongst these giants is humbling. You can imagine the earth quaking and men and animals running in fear as one of these came crashing down in a thunderstorm. Photos will never do these things justice. I would highly recommend the trip up to see them if you’re ever in California.
The road changes character again after the Forest of the Giants. For a few Ks you ride through massive trees that are right on the adge of the road.

In fact, many corners are basically going round the circumference of giant Sequoia trees! At one point the road actually splits between 4 giant trees. It’s a bit bizzare but super cool.

All the time, the road is descending. Over the next 30 odd Ks, it descends from 10K ft to 1Kft. That means, steep, tight corner after corner after corner. Motion sickness victims need not apply. By fuck, it was an amazing ride. Smooth and grippy for the most part, narrow and blind always. All the corners are between 10 – 30MPH signposted and all of them are fucken fantastic!

Then you hit the Kaweah river canyon and the road winds along the canyon most pleasantly, finally straightening out in the valley past Three Rivers.

I hadn’t eaten anything all day and it was 3PM. I stopped at a pretty lodge next to the river and there was a big fuck-off custom Harley thing parked outside. It belonged to Josh Van Leeuyem. He was a friendly motorcyclist and started chatting by remarking that my bike looked very comfortable. I said his bike looked cool. He smirked and said only while standing still. It had no rear suspension and his balls had been re-arranged in the 20 odd miles he’d ridden that day. He had a gixxer thousand as his daily ride so basically he was a Harleyfag and a Gixxerfag. I felt sorry for the guy so had a drink with him.

We chatted for a while about America and Australia and motorcycles and people and family and guns. And then he got up to go, leaving me his number and an invite to come stay at his ranch in Northern California where there were even more awesome riding roads.

It was getting late now and I was still hundreds of miles from LA so I decided to slab it down and make some distance. The water and sediment coming down from the Sierras makes the land fertile and this part of California is the fruit basket of the country. Giant citrus groves extended for miles in every direction. And all the labour was, of course, Mexican. So the place had a distinctly Mexican working class flavour with lots of little corner shacks.

I marked my territory in one of them Orange groves. Just to show the Mexicans who’s boss

Despite my best intentions, I just couldn’t handle the straight, boring highway road. I live for twisty backroads. It kills my soul, the highway. I cannot do it. I stopped. The Sierras taunted me by glowing purple in the fading sun, making them even more irresistible. I looked at the map. There’s got to be a way over them that still heads south. Then I saw it. Woody. 2 weeks before I left for America I did a run down to MacPass. There I met a guy on a VFR800 and started chatting. When I told him I was heading to ride a motorcycle in California, his eyes glazed over and he started talking about his own trip. And the thing he said most emphatically was "you must do this road. It goes over the Sierras through a place called Woody. And when you top out, there’s a view of green valleys on the one hand and dry desert on the other." And right there, off the highway I was on, was the road to Woody. Fuck it, I turned left!

And I am so glad I did. This was one of the most technically twisty road I’ve ever been on. Immediately reminded me of the Omeo Highway out of Mitta Mitta in the Snowy Mountains of Australia. Tight, twisty, with steep dropoffs, gravel on the edges, beautiful mountain scenery and I had the sun on my back. There was not a single vehicle or person or animal on the road. It was like my own private racetrack and I took advantage. It was tricky though as there was gravel on the edges and sometimes in the middle of the road. And I was reminded a couple of times that I was on a V-Strom and not my Monster, which immediately also reminded me that I was in the middle of bumfuck America and had a flight to catch back to my loving family, who were counting on me to get back to them in one piece. I backed off and enjoyed the road at a more sedate pace. But by fuck, the memory of that ride is etched in my mind and I thank that unknown rider I met at MacPass.

I reached Lake Isabella as it turned dark and as pretty and inviting as the place was, it was too far from LA for my purposes. I needed to cover at least another couple of hours closer. So after a couple of enquiries, I set off on a back road heading south. This road went over a pass and I’m sure the view would’ve been lovely if there was daylight to see. I was in the desert again though and heading to Mojave, which was familiar territory for me.

The night was spent sprawled out in a shitty but not uncomfortable motel run a little Indian (real Indian not native Indian) lady who didn’t give me a discount for me being of same colour but did share the wifi password. We both considered it a good deal. Dealings amongst Indians must always culminate in the satisfaction of both parties, otherwise its bad karma and will come back and bite you in the arse. The lady didn’t look like she wanted Karma to bite her in the arse. I’ve been bitten many times and am rather immune to it.
I celebrated my last night in America, eating a humungous dominos pizza sitting in the middle of the desert, taking it all in (the desert, not the pizza. I could only finish half of that).

It has character, the american outback. Just like ours in Australia. And I definitely want to come back and camp in it.

The next day was a slog on highways and city freeways. Drinks were had and stories shared. With old relatives and new friends. And before long Marsh was driving me to the airport. It took us 2 hours in the LA traffic and I still had to walk the last half KM to the terminal because it was faster than the car! LA. It’s mad. Marsh had made sure I had enough alcohol in me to last the flight and I was out like a light as soon as my head hit that airplane seat.

PS – Massive thanks to Guy for lending me his bike, it was the best way to see America and I definitely wouldn’t have seen everything I have seen if I didn’t have a bike there already. I owe you big time. I have ridden the bike of those hideous chicken strips now though so consider that as part payment.

Massive thanks also to Marsh, Guy’s mate in LA. He’s a true gentleman and incredibly generous. And a real motorbike fanatic too.

Australia - Abode of Snow

1/9/2016

No-one told me Australia gets cold. They leave that out of the brochures. It’s all sun, sand and blond kangaroos. No freezing Antarctic winds or horizontal sleet inducing wind chills of -10 while riding a motorcycle. It was June and brisk in Sydney. The crisp air reminded me of the Himalayas and I pined for mountains. Someone told me there was a place called "Snowy Mountains" in Australia where it actually snows. I called bullshit but went to look for them on my dog eared map anyway. It was true, there really was a place called Snowy Mountains past Canberra! I read up on them and they didn’t seem particularly high or awesome but beggars can’t be choosers and I decided to head down there for a mountain fix.

My mate told me it was nuts to go to the Snowy Mountains on a bike in winter. It’ll be snowing there. Now, I didn’t believe it actually snowed anywhere in Australia. Maybe they had a freak storm 20 years ago and claimed it as a regular event. I come from the Himalayas, whose literal meaning is the “abode of snow”. “Him” means snow in Sanskrit and “alaya” means home. Australia’s not going to scare me with its threat of snow. I packed my trusty rucksack, which had held together despite getting dragged along the deserts, beaches, cliffs and forests of Australia nearly every weekend for the past 6 months. I didn’t have any cold weather gear to speak of so just packed as many t-shirts as I could stuff into the pack that was already busrting with camping and cooking gear. I’d acquired an OzTrail 2 man hiking tent since my desert adventure and this wonderful invention literally saved my life on this trip.

It was a sunny Sydney day as I headed down the Hume, full of excitement and the exuberance of youth. A couple of hours later, I pulled in at Goulburn, defeated and almost frozen to death, unable to pry my fingers off the handlebars. Now you’ll probably call bullshit at what I’m about to say but its 100% true. I wore no gloves while riding, ever. I tried them once, couldn’t feel a damn thing and never tried them again. So I rode everywhere regardless of temperature or speed, without gloves. Not just gloves, I didn’t have any motorcycle gear. I just wore all the t-shirts I owned and squeezed on a thin wind cheater that my cousin had bought for me from the USA years ago. I wore 2 cotton pants, one over the other and my hiking boots. Rain, hail or shine, this was my expedition outfit. And I’d been riding around in Australia for 6 months like this and it had been fine but fuck, I was woefully under prepared for a trip to the snowy mountains in peak winter.

So I walked into the service centre toilet at Goulburn and shoved my hands, which were paler than Nicole Kidman’s, under the hand dryer for 5 minutes. I stifled screams as the blood, and my native complexion, returned to my hands like a river of needles. I wondered if that’s how white people felt all the time. Stinging needles under their white skins, all the time. A truly great people, to be sure.

I was a bit shook up at how cold it was and I hadn’t even reached the mountains. Now, there are 2 types of people in this world. There is also, of course, the 3rd type who give up and go home but this is not a story about them. The first type, when faced with adversity, innovate and find creative solutions to overcome difficulty. The other types go about it with brute force. They will keep hacking at the mountain with stone tools making tiny dents every day, till they have made a cave big enough to house their family. We all have a bit of both in us and today I called on my dogged reserves of determination rather than the ones of sub continental cunning. I didn’t want to hide behind gloves and parkas and insulated pants. This passage of cold had become a challenge to my masculinity and I roared back at it, baring my chest and challenging it to do its worst. I headed out again to the battlefield, gloveless still but a lot more determined and prepared for the battle, now that I knew my enemy. And riding a motorcycle can sometimes feel like a battle when the elements turn against you or if you take it lightly.

I bypassed Canberra because I still had no interest in cities but I remember being quite impressed with Lake George. That vast, dry, flat land in the middle of rolling hills. Eerie. As I approached Jindabyne, I had imagined mountains rising up from the ground but was somewhat disappointed that there were no real “mountains”, still just rolling hills. Pretty but not the spectacular views I have always associated with mountains, growing up in the shadow of the Himalayas. I reached the entry gate to the Kosciouszko National Park on the Alpine Way and there were signs about putting on snow chains. I freaked out thinking they may not let me go ahead so when the ranger lady asked me where I was going I lied and said Thredbo. I actually had no bloody idea where I was going but certainly wanted to go a lot further than Thredbo. She was nice and said there’s no snow on the road to Thredbo so I should be right. Though she did look at me funny when I asked where I could camp in the park, just in case, like.

The ride up to Thredbo was scenic and there were finally some big hills to be seen. I stopped in at Thredbo and got a bite and a coffee. But it was so bloody busy and crammed with cars in the tight streets, it put me off civilization. I headed further up the Alpine Way till I came to Dead Horse Gap. There was not a human in sight and patches of snow dotted the ground. This was more like the mountain views and solitude I was looking for. I lingered and watched dark storm clouds pull in from the south. It was getting dark as well and still didn’t know where I was going to spend the night. This seemed as good as any place though, so I decided to walk into the wilderness and camp. But first I hid my bike in the bush. Not because I thought someone was going to steal my shitbox but I have always been secretive about my whereabouts and movements in the bush. The less people that know about where I am and what I’m doing, the better. I have always been more apprehensive of humans in the bush, than of animals. I remember when I was younger and trekking in the Himalayas, if I heard or saw people, I would hide in the bush and watch them walk past or circle around them before emerging and going on my way. It was a kind of boy-scout game I played to amuse myself in the bush but stems from a deeper self-preservation reflex.

I strapped on my backback and followed a faint track going east into the forest. It started snowing and I thought Fuck, they were right, it does snow in Australia! Very soon everything around me was blanketed in soft, powdery snow. It was deathly quiet as the snow weighs everything down preventing the rustling of leaves. It was magical. After walking for half an hour or so I setup camp in a small clearing in the forest. The wind was picking up and snow was starting to fly around. As I lay in the tent, watching my breath mist up and then condense on the roof, I thought “Wow, this is a whole different side to Australia I’d never imagined”.

I broke camping rule #1 (no I didn’t fall over in the tent) by firing up my gas stove inside the tent to cook my 2 minute noodles and melt some snow. But my tent didn’t have a vestibule and it was too cold and windy to even contemplate an outdoor cooking excursion. I was well aware that if I burnt myself along with my tent in the middle of this wilderness, it’s likely my remains may not be found for a long time. So I worked with exaggerated care and slow motion movements and succeeded in not setting the tent on fire.
It was a long night. It was well below Zero, the storm thrashed the tent around and I didnt think my little $50 would survive but to its credit, it did. And saved my life. I got little sleep but. At some point close to dawn the storm abated and at last I let myself relax a little and believe that I won’t die out here!

I opened the tent, stepped out and couldn’t believe the incredible spectacle that I beheld. A world of pristine white encompassed me. It covered everything and the stunted snow gums drooped with the weight of snow on their branches. My tent was half buried in the snow and I had to dig it out to pack it. It was a grey, overcast day but not all that cold anymore. I packed up and set about exploring the area. I climbed up random rock bluffs and bush bashed my way through the knee deep snow. It was pure jungle exploration, I may as well have been the last human left on earth. I returned to Dead Horse Gap after a few hours and since there was no sun, no watch and no mobile phone I really had no fucken idea what time it was. Could’ve been 10AM or 3PM. I dragged the bike back out of the bush and tried to start it. Nothing. Great, I thought. Bloody thing is probably frozen shut. This happened to my Enfield in the Himalayas a couple of times and we had to light a fire under the engine to warm up the oil and fuel enough to make them flow. But everything was wet and making a fire would take ages. I just rolled it down the hill towards Thredbo and tried to jump start it. Naah. At least it was all downhill to Thredbo. After several kilometres of rolling and pushing the bike, I arrived at Thredbo and shocked the upmarket clientele of a trendy café with my dishevelled appearance, wolfish appetite and horrendous table manners. Then I walked out, said a small prayer and hit the starter on the bike again. It started!

It was already late afternoon and while I had planned to head over to Khancoban and explore further south, I just didn’t have the testicular fortitude to spend another night up in the heights in case the bike died on me again or I got snowed in. So I legged it down to Jindabyne and found a beautiful, secluded camping spot on the lake and just thawed. I remember losing feeling in my hands and feet on the ride down and being seriously concerned about frostbite but down at Jindabyne, the sun was shining and it was mild. I dried out all my clothes and thawed out in no time. It’s amazing how the human mind can flip from misery to ecstasy in the space of a few minutes.

The next day was clear, I rode over the Snowy Mountains Highway and was really impressed with the road and scenery in the national park, especially around Kiandra. Desolate, wind-blown, god-forsaken kind of place but with a haunting beauty. I poked around the old ruins strewn around the hills, then continued on my way to explore this fascinating area further. The Cabramurra road was closed due to snow so I went on towards Tumut. There was some scenic stuff around the reservoir but I missed the beauty of the mountains I’d left behind so I had lunch in Tumut, bought some sausages to cook for dinner and headed back to Kiandra. I pitched my tent in that vast amphitheatre of grass and mountain streams near the Cabramurra turn-off. It is, till date, one of the most memorable experiences of my life, that bitterly cold night in the Snowy Mountains. The sky was clear, with a fire going, watching stars and plugged in to the awesome silence. The silence and isolation in such a place can drive you mad or fill you to the brim. I didn’t ride many kilometres that day but I was deeply content and wanted for nothing more than what I had and to be where I was.

The next day I lingered, meandered and procrastinated till finally accepting my logical brain’s strict refusal to go AWOL from work and stay another day. I didn’t know then that this was my last trip in Australia for when I got back, my manager greeted me with the news that my contract wasn’t being extended and I was going back to India at the end of the week. Just like I was the first person from my company to come to Australia, I was also the only person who’s contract wasn’t extended. Apparently, even though my work was excellent, my attitude was not “professional” and I wasn’t a “team player”. Whatever, I didn’t give a shit and got my return itinerary altered so I could spend 3 days rock climbing in Thailand on the way back.

As I remember those events in my life, I can’t help but think that last night in the Australian wilderness at Kiandra was an immaculately planned farewell that the universe had conspired to make happen for me.

The First Australian bike trip

24/8/2016

Disclaimer - To my eternal regret I didn't take many photos during this trip and the ones I took with my shitty 10$ camera turned out, well shit. So I have added some pics from my other trips and a couple stolen from the internet to give more flavour to the narrative.

To me, Australia was the beaches and the outback. The Sydney Opera House was cool, as was all this foresty stuff along the coast but that was not what I’d been dreaming about. I’d been dreaming about white sand beaches and red sand deserts. And that’s what I wanted to explore. So once I got comfortable with the XJ, I started planning a trip into the outback. The first stage of the plan was to acquire an appropriate map. This was accomplished during my lunch break one day, via sleight of hand at the NRMA shop on George Street while no-one was looking (OK OK I stole it. One map for fucks sake, it wasn’t exactly shop lifting though I probably would get tasered for doing it today). I barely had enough money for food so I definitely wasn’t going to spend 10 bucks on a map. While all the other Indian software programmers spread out their greasy tiffins in the kitchen at lunch time, I unfurled my map while chomping on a chocolate stolen from the charity basket at work. To most of my Indian colleagues at work, I was an anomaly. A weird young punk who had no interest in saving money, eating curry and staying under the radar, like all good Indian software developers on overseas deployments were supposed to do. And to the white folk, I was just another darkie who had his eye on their job. So I didn’t quite fit in either block and kept mainly to myself. Not that I cared, I was too busy planning solo adventures to worry about what people were thinking of me.

I pored over the map, searching for desert. Didn’t need to look for long, it was the large orange blob that started not too far west of Sydney and filled up the map all the way to Perth! The quickest way to get there seemed to be towards Broken Hill and the distance from Sydney to Broken Hill didn’t look too far. A few hours easy, I thought. And I’ll go onwards from there. I hatched a plan to do a 5 day trip and take in as much of the outback as possible. It was February and there wasn’t a public holiday for months so I’d have to take 3 days off from work. Now I’d only been in my job for 3 weeks and my manager wasn’t very impressed with my proposal. But I was young, naïve and bursting at the seams for exploration. I didn’t give a fuck and fucked off anyway. Over the course of the next few months, I had several run-ins with this particular slave-driving manager and the cunt got me back finally by not extending my contract but I had explored the fuck out of Australia by then, besides leaving a trail of fatherless, half-caste children in my wake. I think I won.

So one fine summer morning, I strapped my rucksack to the back of the ventura rack on the XJ600 and headed west. Now the trouble with getting an overview of regional distances by glancing at a map of Australia is that it can give you the wrong impression. Sydney-Broken Hill is over a thousand kilometres. I could’ve sworn it looked less than 500 on the map. By the time I got to Dubbo, much of the day was gone and my arse felt like a fresh new arsehole had been pummelled into it. The desert was still nowhere in sight and looking at the map again, I seemed less than halfway to Broken Hill. Welcome to Straya matey! She’s a bloody big’un innt she?

But I wasn’t fazed, having done a few big motorcycle trips in India, I was ready for more. At Nyngan, my dreams of red Australian dirt starting coming true. The landscape turned deserty and everything was covered with the fine red sand of the desert. I pulled over next to a muddy river to eat a sandwich and ruminate on how far I’d come. For the past 3 years I’d been in a tumultuous relationship with a superhot but unhinged Russian girl and I’d broken up with her just before leaving for Australia. The Australian trip couldn’t have come for me at a better time emotionally. I had needed to get out of that relationship and sitting here at the edge of the desert, staring into nothingness, becoming nothing, was exactly what I needed.

And the nothingness was so real. I’d never seen or even imagined so much space, such endless horizons. Riding dead straight for an hour between Nyngan and Cobar froze me to the bike and when I tried to get off at the fuel station, I fell over with the bike on top of me. I sat in a corner there for a long time as darkness descended wondering why this fast, straight line riding without traffic was harder than it first appeared. I’d done long days in the saddle in India but I wasn’t used to the consistently high speeds. And I was only doing the speed limit. In India, there is a constant barrage of obstacles and kamikaze road-users you have to dodge. Dogs and buffaloes will run out on the road, you will travel through the middle of a village with ladies drying their washing inches from you, tractors and bullock-carts will block your way on a single lane road, you’re constantly slowing down and accelerating, weaving and swerving. The level of focus required is easy to maintain because you know you will die within minutes if you don’t. But the average speed over a 100KM stretch rarely exceeds 60 kmph, even on highways. You did big days but only covered 300KMs at the end of it. This outback riding was very different. No obstacles, nothing obvious trying to kill you. But holding a bike wide open for 1 minute, let alone 1 hour is something I had never done before and there was a different kind of concentration and endurance required.

But I prided myself on my endurance so I gathered myself and headed further west from Cobar as dusk turned to night. I didn’t know that this was the most dangerous time of day to be out on a motorcycle in the outback. We don’t have wild animals running across our roads at night in India you see and all I really knew about Australia was gleaned by closely scrutinising that beach poster I’d grown up with. As Kangaroos starting popping onto the road in front of me with alarming regularity, I freaked out and crawled along at 60 almost popping my eyeballs trying to pick them in the dim headlight. A road train went thundering past me blaring his horn, scaring the beShiva out of me. And then, like magic, some lights twinkled up ahead and Emmdale Roadhouse emerged from the gloom. It looked like a deserted haunted-house but I could’ve hugged the building, I was so relieved to find some respite from the road. I walked in and bought the cheapest sandwich in the place and asked if they was anywhere to sleep. The old moll pointed out the door. I looked around in case I’d missed some secret cabins coming in. there were none. I looked back at her, quizzically. She looked at me like I had asked her a dumb question and was keeping her from important business. “Go on, there’s no accommodation here”. This was a culture shock. Having travelled extensively on shoestring budgets in India, I’d never been rejected out of any place so rudely. You rock up at a highway joint in India regardless of the time of day or night and the people will always try to serve you as best as they can, especially if you’re a tired, solo traveller on a motorcycle. If there is no accommodation available, people have let me sleep in their personal shacks, on patio floors, or terraces or fields but I’ve always been looked after. And if there is literally no place available, they will try to call around or give suggestions on what I could do. A traveller or a guest is treated with respect and care in India and I just assumed that’s how it was around the world. I was shocked that this didn’t seem to be the case in Australia. I walked out Emmdale road house, ate my sandwich and rode on till I found a spot in the bush to spread out my sleeping mat under the stars. I wasn’t carrying a tent and was dead scared of snakes (that’s something I did know about Australia). I lay awake to visions of a slithering serpent crawling across me as I slept. But the sky was clear, millions of stars shone brightly down at me and I couldn’t help but marvel at the majesty of it.

After an eventful sleep I woke to a beautiful cloudless day. I did my first open-air shit in Australia. Light and liberated, I embraced the day. As I headed west towards Wilcannia a most wonderful thing happened, the memory of which stays crystal clear in my head till today. A big, orangish Kangaroo suddenly appeared in the low scrub on my left and starting sprinting along the road. I was doing about 80KMPH and slowed down to 60 and this guy was keeping pace. It was the first Kangaroo I’d seen in the day time and I was just blown away at the speed and grace of that big animal. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, I was all alone on this endless road in the Australian outback and a Kangaroo was heralding my arrival to his people. I felt welcome. And blessed. As I stopped to take a picture to remember the moment, a 4WD pulled up and I feared the worst. Some racist is probably going to abuse me or worse, kill me and bury me in the nothingness. But the old man just asked me if I was OK and needed any help. I was stunned and thanked him profusely for asking. He winked at me and drove off, leaving me confused about his intentions. I didn't know, then, that the great australian wink was as ubiquitous and harmless as "she'll be right".

At Wilcannia I filled up and was pleasantly surprised to see my first aborigines. For my 12th birthday, Dad had gifted me a map of Australia drawn on a cloth and it had aboriginal symbols and instruments like a Dingo, Boomerang on different parts of the map. I’d always been intrigued by Aboriginals and had hoped to interact and get to know them in Australia. The black kids hanging around outside the servo hassling me for “smokes, Mista!” weren’t exactly what I had imagined my first contact with Australian aborigines would be like. I had expected a more romantic first meeting “HarryD, I presume”, I’d expected some wizened blackfella with a spear to say when he saw me emerge from the desert dust. The kids pressed money in my hands and asked me to get them smokes from the servo. I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t get them themselves but in the spirit of trying to strike up a conversation, I bought them the smokes. They took ‘em and ran off, leaving me looking like a fool in the glare of the servo attendant. This episode left me very confused and my romantic notion of the aborigines (based on how they were portrayed overseas) were somewhat shaken.

From Wilcannia, I made for Lake Menindee. It looked fascinating on the map, 2 bulbous blobs of blue in an ocean of orange. The dusty dirt track was the stuff my Australian outback dreams were made of. Empty, scrubby, parched land with the occasional shady tree and me on my motorcycle raising dust through it. I felt like the explorer I’d always wanted to be. At Menindee town I fuelled up at the station where a chirpy young girl started chatting to me from behind the counter. She had light brown skin with golden hair, probably part aboriginal. As I paid her the money she said “Ta”. I said “What?”. She said “What?”. I said “what did you mean by “Ta”? She laughed and explained what it meant. Oh, I said I thought it was some exotic aboriginal word meaning “peace be upon you” or “travel well stranger”. She laughed again.

I asked her how to get to the lake and she said, I’ll take you if you give me a ride on your motorbike. I said cool but I don’t have another helmet. She said “no worries” and hopped on anyway. That’s the first time I’d heard that expression “no worries”. It sounded Buddhist and I didn’t quite grasp what it meant but I liked it immediately. Anyway, Kate took us on a dirt track that crossed a train line then went over a little sandy hill where I nearly dropped the bike. This only made Kate hug me tightly so was clearly a clever strategy. I fumbled a bit more before reaching the top of the hill where I suddenly beheld a vast expanse of blue water in stark contrast to the dun coloured desert around it. It was breathtaking, Lake Menindee, the deep blue waters created a huge oasis that extended beyond the western horizon. There were dead trees of all shapes and sizes poking out of the water along the shoreline and thousands of birds swarmed around. We sat there in silence for a while before I announced I was going to camp at the lake. Kate had to go back into town so I dropped her back promising to catch up with her later. She suggested “8PM”, I suggested “sunset” because this was way before I begrudgingly accepted that clocks and mobile phones were necessary to live a satisfying life.

I chose a big tree at the shore line, collected heaps of large bird feathers, which were strewn all along the shoreline and spread out my sleeping mat. I then dug the biggest feathers I could find into the sand to demarcate the boundaries of my little patch of the world. It was corny but fuck it, it was mine and I was proud of it. I went back to get Kate at the first hint of sundown as I didn’t want to miss the spectacular sunset that was obviously going to follow. As we sat watching nature’s spectacular movie unfold, my mind switched to my childhood poster of beach, water and Australian blonde. I checked Kate's hair colour again. Close enough. Ha, some dreams do come true! I dropped Kate back and went to sleep at my million star hotel.

My morning slumber was interrupted by loud mechanical noises very close to me. I woke up in a panic, looked around me but couldn’t see anything. Then suddenly 1, 2, 3 dirt bikes came storming out of the tree line and onto the sandy lake shore. They were roosting each other and pulling wheelies. I’d never seen a proper dirtbike ever before and they looked like they were having the time of their life. But I was also annoyed because their loud shenanigans were so in contrast to the peaceful natural surroundings and they seemed like intruders.

Packing up camp, I headed west through the Kinchega National Park. The track skirted the lake and was very sandy. It was hard going on my bike and I dropped it at least 10 times before the track veered away from the lake and hardened up (the track, not me!). The track came out eventually on a metalled road with a sign saying “< Wentworth | Broken Hill >”. I went right and into Broken Hill. It’s a weird town, Broken Hill with wide roads and grand old buildings but hardly any people. It has the air of a once bustling town trying to hold onto its glamorous past. Street names like Sulphide Road and Carbide Street cracked me up. I had no interest in towns or mining so I headed out to the Desert Sculpture Park outside town. This had rock sculptures parked on the top of a hill which were pretty amazing and full of interesting information about the area. Then I headed west to South Australia. The state borders of Australia have always been a source of curiosity and amusement to me. Arbitrarily drawn lines across no-man’s land, unlike the ones in India where the borders are drawn on complex criteria like ethnicity, language, culture and geography. When you cross over a state border in India, it immediately obvious from people's dresses, the language of the signs and geography. Crossing over to SA at Cockburn was interesting though neither the language nor the countryside changed much! I spent the night near Yunta, under a bridge, next to a little stream, like a Hobo. I was a little less scared of snakes after my 2 nights in the open and slept peacefully.

I would’ve liked to visit Adelaide but having used up 3 out of my 5 days and being 1500 KMs from Sydney, I needed to start making my way back. Heading back the way I came held no appeal to me so looking at the map, I decided to head to Mildura and make my way from there. The South Australian countryside got greener around Peterborough and there were huge farms. I remember wondering where they got enough water to irrigate the farms. It was a bit of a slog to Mildura but it was worth it. A picturesque town on the banks of the Murray river, I enjoyed dawdling while watching an ancient paddle steamer go up and down the river. Thinking I’d like to come back and spend some time in this town, I went back to my bike and hit the starter. Nothing! All my worst fears started screaming in my head. Fucken shitbox is gonna leave me stranded 1500KM from home! That motorcycle salesman looked dodgy for sure, it’s probably never been serviced in its life. Since my mechanical knowledge was even less than my knowledge of Australia, I just kneeled and prayed and cursed for a while then hit the starter again. It fired up! Before it could change its mind, I jumped on and crossed into NSW. At some point before Mildura, I’d entered Victoria, only briefly but still, I checked it off my list! The bike played up again a couple of times and I worked out it didn't like to be started when it was hot so I timed my breaks to allow it to cool down. Mechanical analysis is over rated.

Nearing Balranald around dusk, I was bombarded by the biggest swarm of insects I’d ever seen. It was like the biblical plague of locusts. My helmet, an open face thing with a visor was covered in them and some of them got inside the visor up my nose and into my eyes and ears. I didn’t wear any gloves or boots so a few of them went up my jacket and jeans. I danced a funny dance on the bike trying to squash them as best as I could. I stopped a couple of times but it was the same whenever I got back on so I just limped into Balranald and collapsed in a fast food joint. I sat there till the young attendant girl looked like she might call the cops on me. I emerged and found a beautiful spot to camp under some huge trees next to the Murrumbidgee river. I walked around town at 9PM and it was a ghost town, kinda cool though. Sleeping under a huge gum tree I was woken by a loud crack in the middle of the night, then a thump. In my dim torchlight I couldn’t see what had happened and all looked the same as I’d left it. In the morning I discovered a massive tree branch on the ground about 10 feet away from my head. It had obviously spontaneously fallen off at night.

The next day was a slog. I don’t remember the exact way I came back but I do remember the endless Hay plains and arriving in Cowra. The road finally got some nice bends after Cowra and I was enjoying myself when I came around a sweeper doing 120 and saw a big black snake lying across my entire lane. I had nowhere to go and cut him in half. Now, in India, it’s really bad luck to kill a snake and all sorts of legends are associated with killing snakes. One says that if you kill a snake, their mate will come after you to take revenge, another one goes if you cut a snake in half, the portion with the head will continue to live and come after you. I wasn’t really concerned about the snake’s sweetheart coming to look for me in suburban Sydney but the second myth concerned me enough to go back to make sure that both pieces of snake were plastered on the road and incapable of revenge.

Civilisation shocked me after 5 days in the outback and Sydney seemed to have gotten larger and busier in my absence. This is why I like travelling by land though rather than by air. As you approach your destination from ground level, at an organic pace, you have time to get a feel for its surroundings, its history, its context, its place in the world. Air travel provides no context or time to adjust to your destination and I find it incredibly disorienting.

It was a big day that last one, over 12 hours on the bike but I was nowhere near as tired as I was on Day 1 as I pulled into Emmdale roadhouse. I guess my body was getting used to the Australian motorcycling experience. There were more trips to come but this first trip remains my favourite for the rich memories and the greatest personal growth.

Read about my next adventure - Australia - Abode of snow

To Australia!

24/8/2016

I first came to Australia on Australia Day 2002. I was 23 years old. For 23 of those years, I’d lived with my parents, wrapped in cotton wool like most Indian kids from well-off families. Sure, I wasn’t your average Indian kid, having roamed the Himalayas on my own and had spiritual discussions with nomadic ascetics in caves. But I’d never lived away from home, even in another city, let alone another country. Never managed my own finances, put bread in a toaster or even washed my own plate. We’re sheltered, us privileged Indian kids. For those 23 years of my life I woke up at 11AM on weekends, was given a glass of milk in bed by one of our servants and then began an extensive ritual of being handed delicious food at regular intervals by family members and servants who did everything for me from ironing my clothes to cleaning my bathroom. Sometimes I reminisce about those days of excessive comfort when I collapse into bed from a hard day of working, looking after kids and doing house work. And I wonder “What the hell am I doing in Australia?”. In India, I’d only have to do the “hard day of working” bit, everything else would be taken care of.

Anyway, I digress from the story I want to tell. There are obviously underlying issues I need to address.

I’d dreamed of coming to Australia since I was about 10 years old and first saw a poster of an Australian beach with a tanned blonde lady who’s swimsuit was highly modified. I later realized that the swimsuit was actually stock and was called a bikini. I remember that poster clearly and have no doubt that it was a major catalyst in my relentless march towards puberty. After finishing school, I nagged my father to send me to Australia to study. All the kool kidz wanted to go to America and England, enticed by fancy names like MIT and Oxford. But I wanted nothing more than to be at that beach from my favourite poster, with kangaroos hopping around me while a bronzed blonde handed me my chocolate milk (I hadn’t caught onto beer then). I didn’t even know, or care, how good the education in Australia was. It was the education I wanted. But it was too expensive and my Dad wasn’t a “debt” kinda guy. He’s still not. I tried to sneak my way to Australia again after finishing my engineering in one of the top engineering colleges in India. This time trying to get Dad to pay for my Masters in Environmental Science at the University of Sydney. I got the brochures, put in my application, got accepted and begged Dad for money. It was still too expensive though so I got an IT job instead and replaced my aussie poster with one of an attractive Indian model in a Sari, resigned to my fate.
Which is not as bad as it sounds because fate works both ways and it worked out a way for me to get to Australia anyway.

I had opportunities to go to America but I knocked them back. My colleagues thought I was insane, it was everyone’s dream to go to America. But the idea of America never appealed to me. It was like I was waiting. For what? I didn’t know. And then I did. A request came in from Australia for a software developer with exactly my skills. My company arranged a telephone interview for me with someone from St.George Bank in Sydney. To prepare for the interview I listened to Ritchie Benaud’s cricket commentary. I can’t remember what I said in the interview but I got the role and was on a flight to Sydney within a week, the first employee from over 1,000 in my office (most of whom were a lot more skilled and experienced than me) to go to Australia. If this isn’t fate, I don’t know what is.

I reached Sydney on Australia Day 2002, which is co-incidentally also India’s Republic Day, the day the Indian Constitution was framed and India was declared a republic, January 26th 1950.

I was shocked as the taxi drove me to my B&B in Strathfield from the airport around 9PM. The streets were so deathly quiet and empty that I thought there must be a curfew on. Now, it is likely that many of my Australian friends will be unfamiliar with the word “curfew” so let me explain. In India, there are regular riots. Not like your cute little Cronulla riot where a few drunk yobos took their shirts off and drank marginally more VB than they usually do on a Saturday arvo. No, I’m talking about people burning their fellow countrymen alive impervious to their terrifying screams of agony, raping defenceless women at knifepoint and setting alight and destroying all and any public and private property they come across. Riots are worse than war. At least in war, you know who your friends are and who the enemy is. When a riot happens, after the mandatory (and crucial) lapse into shock and paralysis, the authorities clamp down with a blanket ban on civilian movement. Any person seen in public may be arrested or shot at. This state of virtual emergency is known as a “curfew”. It’s supposed to give everyone some time to calm the fuck down. It used to happen with such regularity across India that it became the butt of jokes and worked its way into Indian language slang. That’s what I was imagining had happened in Sydney that night. Coming from 23 years of living in the constant noise and commotion created by 1 billion people living in close proximity, it was inconceivable to me that such silence and isolation in the middle of a world-class city was “normal”! I have never really reconciled to this, even now.

Anyway, this was supposed to get to motorcycles quickly but I’ve obviously failed spectacularly in that aim. Immigration is a pandora’s box and it was ambitious of me to try to weave it as the prologue of a motorcycling story.

But let me at least kick off the motorcycle story here.

My Indian IT employer booked me a week’s accommodation in a B&B, gave me $2,000 cash as a salary advance and sent me over to fend for myself. On the first weekend after I got here I blew all my cash, which was supposed to pay for my rental bond and living expenses for the next 1 month, on a motorcycle.

Close Motorcycles in Redfern saw me coming from miles away I reckon. They sold me the most dilapidated shitbox in the whole shop, an ancient Yamaha XJ600. But hey, it was 600cc and it was mine.

Continue onto the First Australian Bike Trip

BikeMe Pilgrimage 2016

2/8/2016

I’d been wanting to do a camping trip away on the Husky for ages but it hadn't happened for one reason or another. So when Rob floated the idea of the Original Recipe Pilgrimage, back to basics camping carrying everything you need, it sounded like a perfect trip for the Husky. I did consider taking my road bike, a Monster 1200S, the thought of hammering it on the Ilford-Sofala raceway was salivating enough. But I managed to stay true to my original plan and I'm glad I did.

The BikeMe Pilgrimage camping weekend is held every year in memory of the Bathurst Motorcycle races. The motorcycles stopped racing at Mt. Panorama years ago but some hardy souls continue toasting the memory of those heady days of racing and rioting. The Pilgrimage is always held at the coldest time of the year in one of the coldest places in Australia, Sofala. The temperature dropped below freezing and only the toughest and the stupidest answer the call. And I'm not tough.

As the day approached, things started to unravel a bit though. First the Husky refused to start. I charged the battery and it started. Then 2 days later it refused to start again. I changed the Battery. It started. Then I got sick. I took 2 days off work to give myself a chance to recover in time for the Pilgrimage. It worked, I felt good enough by Friday to consider going. Maybe not good enough for a sloggy dirt ride and camping in sub zero temperatures but good enough to get out of bed at least. But if you can get out of bed, you can ride a motorcycle!

Morning Husky, Clean Husky. That marbley pebbly road surface is really slippery!

I’d planned my route around 2 good looking (on the map) dirt rides. The first was in the Blue Mountains from Hartley to Jenolan Caves taking in part of the famous Six Foot Track. The second ride starts past Lithgow, at a little village called Sunny Corner and takes you all the way to the Sofala campground some 70 odd kilometres away through rough bush tracks.

I was pumped (full of panadol!) and keen to hit the trails. The track to Cox’s river campground is slow and slippery going. The track is narrow, clayey and covered with those marbley little pebbles that make going doing steep downhills a real arse clenching experience. And to make it even more interesting, there were quite a few 4WDs coming the other way at regular intervals. I was super cautious. Just where I hit the 6 foot track, I overtook a couple of 4WDs, then came around a steep downhill right hander and stacked it. It was a rookie mistake. The front wheel got stuck in a little rut and because the track was narrow and I was heading straight for the edge of the cliff, I tried to turn while the wheel was in the rut and the front washed out quicker than Snowy can say “IED”. I fell on my right shoulder (and it started really hurting like a bastard the next morning!) but had the presence to keep a grip on the clutch and keep the motor going. Picked it up quickly as I knew the 4WDs I had just overtaken would be coming around the corner any second. Too late. Just as I was picking the bike up, they were there and my embarrassment was complete. Well, actually no. there was more to come. I couldn’t get back on the bike. Picture this. I’m standing on a steep, slippery downhill slope at the edge of the road with a steep cliff a few feet away. The front is slipping even with the brake pressed. The bike is loaded so I can’t just swing a leg over and need to contort my left leg straight in front of me like a high kicking Cossack dancer while holding the front brake and maintaining my and the bike’s balance to avoid us toppling over the cliff. All this under the watchful stare of 2 families worth of 4WDs. The pressure was on and I took what seemed like 5 minutes to get on, while the 4WDers waited patiently, with not some slight amusement I’m sure. I overtook them again down the road but.

Coxs river campground is beautiful though and well worth the effort to get there.

Plenty of water in the river and the grass is a lurid green.

From there I headed up on fire trails through the Kanangra Boyd National Park towards Jenolan Caves.

This is a beautiful area with lots of little creeks and shady camping spots.

There were a few fallen trees on the track but it was easy to get around them through the bush

I finally came out into civilisation on the Jenolan Caves Road, maybe 5 Ks before the caves and headed towards Hampton. From Hampton, I headed down the Rydal road and explored the coastline of Lake Lyell. There’s a whole range of bush tracks around the lake, some are well steep and challenging. It’s a very scenic area and I lingered.

There is something very therapeutic about being on your own in the middle of nowhere. Nothing to distract you from yourself and your innermost thoughts. You must confront them

I was paranoid about my fuel range as the Husky only has a 12L tank but I was pleasantly shocked to find I’d only consumed 6L for the last 100KMs, which included some pretty slow going on bush tracks. This gave me the confidence that I’ll be right for fuel for the rest of the trip.
As good as the 6 foot track was, it was nothing compared to the ride from Sunny Corner to Sofala. That is just a sensational ride.

Scenic, Remote, isolated, technical, narrow, wide, bumpy, smooth, heaps of wildlife, thick Jungle and dairy properties. It just has everything. I didn’t see another vehicle or human for the whole 70Ks except in the last bit where I saw a couple of farmers while crossing their property. I was acutely aware that this could get messy if I got lost or fell off or if the bike played up. But that just added to the adventure of it and the exhilaration at the end.

It hadn’t rained for a week around here but it was still wet enough to keep me on my toes and I had a few interesting 2 wheel sliding moments.

There were so many kangaroos jumping around through this whole trek, I lost count of the number that dashed in front of me. Everytime the road opened up slightly and I thought I could open it up and relax a bit, bam! a hopping rat jumps out of the bush, scaring the shit out of me.

Evening Husky. Dirty Husky

Getting close to Sofala, the road crosses the Turon river 4 times on causeways and the water gets progressively deeper and faster on each crossing. The last one was genuinely scary with the water coming up over the front fender. I had visions of drowning within shouting distance of the campsite! But thankfully that didn’t happen and it was great to see some familiar faces as I rolled into the campsite close to dusk.

The Sofala campsite

The night was cold, long and full of hugs, explosions and deep and meaningful conversations. It was below freezing of course but that's not the bit I remember. The memorable bits were the eulogies to fallen comrades, the drunken riding, crashing and near lynching, the shouting and laughing. The specifics are not important. What's important is that it was a great night, which lead to a deep and blissful "passing out" in the wee hours of the morning.

And the ride the next day was a lot less enjoyable on account of the shenanigans of the previous night. That tends to happen though. No-one goes to a BikeMe event counting on being fully functional on the ride back home. It kinda defeats the purpose.

The Commute

7/7/2016

I’m a nice guy. No, really. Most people find me pleasant and friendly. I’m patient, empathetic and reasonable. I play the joker at kids parties, give up my seat on the train to the elderly and am moved to tears by emotional stories.

And then I start my bike.

It’s like the noise of the engine triggers latent aggression buried deep inside me and it bubbles to the surface with the vibrations. My heart rate quickens, my hands twitch in anticipation of holding the handlebars and I start the Stop Clock. I time my commute you see. It wasn’t always like that, I only started doing this when I got the CBR600RR 12 months ago. I have been commuting for many years of course but never like the mad bastard I became on the CBR. The commute was never a race, it was a treacherous obstacle course to be completed safely. But the CBR, with its manic, revvy nature, cat-like agility and uncanny ability to fit into the tightest of spaces took commuting to a whole new level for me. It became a predatory, hunting experience and I became addicted to it. Even if I was in no hurry to get anywhere, I still HAD TO ride like my family had been taken hostage and the only way to keep them alive was to break the existing commuting speed record. I live in southern Sydney 18 KMs from my office in the CBD. In a car, it would take me around an hour at peak traffic time from my garage door to the car park boom gate. My best time on the CBR was 18 minutes. This is in peak hour traffic with stop lights, some 50KMPH suburban streets and the average speed of cars on the Eastern Distributor being 10KMPH. That time is a bit insane and I don’t do that regularly as it takes me 15 minutes to stop shaking after. The average is more like 30 minutes but some days my hand twitches more than others.

I ride my motorcycle every day, hail or shine. Here’s how a typical commute flows for me.

I snick it into first, release the clutch and ease out of the garage. I stop outside, press the garage door remote button in my right trouser pocket to close the door behind me. I then wave bye to my kids who always come out to the balcony to see Dad streak away on his bike. I look at the bike clock and make a mental note of the starting time.

Accelerating slowly down the street I let the bike warm up a bit. Stop at T junction to turn left. There’s a car coming down the hill on my right but he’s still 20M away. I cut in front of the approaching car and accelerate swiftly to get away from it. The genial, accommodating Harry who gives up his seat to the elderly is already gone. 50M ahead is a traffic light 5 cars deep. I filter to the front and watch the traffic lights in all directions to be able to predict when my lights are about to turn green. I look into the car on my right to see if they’ve taken offence to me splitting to the front. There’s a burly man in a ute looking agitated so I take off hard from the lights and am clear of the intersection before he has even moved. Hang a left at the roundabout and take back streets to avoid the big lights to get onto The Grand Parade. Get onto The Grand Parade further up the road. The fun begins.

The morning sun rises over Botany Bay to my right and the water shimmers. I see old people walking along the foreshore on their morning walks and hot chicks in tight pants try to distract me with their calisthenics on the beach but I stay focussed on the task at hand. I come up fast behind a Garbage Truck in the right lane with a slow L plater blocking the left lane. I ride bang on the centre line between the 2 lanes to try to glimpse the road ahead from between both vehicles and plan my move. There are many cars up ahead but they’re all moving and in my mind I visualise virtual LEDs lighting up a zig zagging path through the traffic. If only I can get past this damn truck now. I could split between the truck and the L plater but I can see the young, Asian female L plater is freaked out by the huge truck next to her and is struggling to maintain focus and line. Too risky. I wait till the L plater drops just behind the truck, bang it down a gear and take the truck on the left before the L plater has any time to panic. For a split second I register the negative effect the howling CBR has probably caused to her heart then I quickly change focus to my breathing. My breathing is slow and measured, my back is taut, my hands hold the grips only lightly, my eyes are wide and my brain is attuned to my surroundings like a Cheetah scoping its prey. I carve up the next 10 cars keeping a margin of at least 2 feet between myself and all vehicles front, back and sides. I also always have an escape route if the car in front brakes or the car behind speeds up or the truck on the side merges into my lane. I am constantly checking my mirrors, looking through car windows at the drivers to gauge the level of attention they’re paying to the road. Then I make my moves.

There’s a jam up ahead near the airport, I sneak in between a Hertz Rent-a-truck and an AMG Mercedez. The truck suddenly moves left to block me, maybe inadvertently. I was expecting that so quickly clench the front brake to stop inches behind the AMG’s flashy driver side mirror, probably worth a few grand. The mature blonde lady driver looks sternly at me. I smile at her in my open face helmet then look away. I paddle walk the CBR between the truck body and the AMG mirror with maybe a centimetre to spare either way. I can feel Blondie’s disapproving stare fixed on the back of my helmet, which has a sticker that my mate Madart made for me. It has a sword crossed skull with a latin phrase scribbled across it “Oderint Dum Metuant” – “let them hate, so long as they fear”. I wonder if it applies to Blondie. I then create my own highway between 2 wide lanes, dodging and weaving through SUVs, sportscars and sedans. Some people make space for me. I stick out my left hand as thanks, if I can. Then I get honked at. I pay no attention. I get to the tunnel under the airport runway just as a giant 747 crosses it, carrying people full of the anticipation of far away places. I relax and wave at the translucent airplane windows, maybe someone can see me. Maybe I made someone smile. Then I make the CBR wail in the tunnel and split the narrow space between lanes. Exiting the tunnel, the 2 left lanes are always blocked, so I head over to the third lane and gun it swiftly past a ute that’s about to turn right into my lane. He hasn’t indicated or made any movement to turn right but I just KNOW he’s going to turn right. He’s got the telltale look of a tradie heading to the Mascot industrial area. I look in my mirror to satisfy my curiosity and smile smugly as I see him change lanes behind me. I store that information in my ever growing database of motorist behaviour.

I streak past the 2 lanes of stopped traffic on my left, watching out for the smart arse who will try to suddenly pull out right and try to jump the queue further up. I spot him 20M ahead, a second before even he knows he’s going to pull out in front of me. I give him a wide berth as he pulls out exactly as I had expected. Just as the Grand Parade curves left up onto the flyover over Botany Road I spy a tiny spot and tuck in behind a car that’s just moved forward. Then I swing left between lanes and split all the way over the flyover. As we reach the bottom of the flyover, a lane joins us from the left and I know, from experience, that this is the quickest lane so cross the solid white line and jump into the left lane. This one comes to a crawl about 200M up the road and there’s a tiny stretch of asphalt between the lane and the kerb. I head into this “lane”, which is about a foot wide and full of cracked and swollen tarmac. I consciously slow my breathing, tighten my core, my hold on the grips light and my vision far in front of me as I guide the CBR at 50KMPH, straight as an arrow with my front left brake disk less than 6 inches from the kerb and my right mirror 6 inches from car mirrors and truck bodies. A couple of places I need to jump over gutters, fallen debris and sticks. I stay on throttle to keep the front wheel light and the CBR remains composed.

I hit the Eastern distributor, which is crawling at snail’s pace, and quickly shoot up the emergency lane maintaining a constant 60KMPH. I scan constantly to my north-east for possible cop cars or bikes and inattentive drivers who may drift into the emergency lane. I know there are cop bikes usually lurking here to pull rule breaking motorbike hoons over but I roll the dice. The alternative is to crawl along in traffic but that is not why I took up motorcycling. You see, motorcycling has a flowing rhythm, it only works when you’re moving at a certain pace, otherwise it just feels awkward and silly. Motorcycling makes no sense at 10 kilometres an hour. I decided a long time ago that I will ride my way or I will not ride at all. I will not be dictated to or cowed into submission with threats of my own safety. I ride smooth, safe and in a state of hyper alertness. What I’m doing may appear dangerous but it certainly doesn’t feel like that to me and I feel in complete control. My right index finger is always hovering over the front brake lever while I keep the throttle constant. Sometimes I drag the rear brake through really tight spots, I find this stabilises the bike when you need to be straight and stable at walking pace. You can carry a higher rpm and don’t need to feather the clutch as much. Not great for your rear brake, of course, but it’s hardly used anywhere else and I haven’t found any excessive wear on it.
Then we (Casey and I) hit the Eastern Distributor Tunnel, which is fairly easy to split through and doesn’t hold me up at all. I cut off at the William Street exit and a couple of stop lights later, I’m at my car park. I look at the bike clock and calculate my time. 18 minutes.

I park the CBR next to the other bikes in the lot and stroll through checking out the bikes. I then walk to the office, decompressing. My fellow pedestrians are unaware of the adrenaline pumping through me. I am indistinguishable from them as I show no overt signs of being a motorcyclist. No jacket, no boots, no helmet, no swagger.

I work amiably with my colleagues, designing enterprise grade software systems that help my company sustain their phenomenal growth. Evening comes and another uneventful day has passed. I text my wife I’m on my way home and check if she needs me to pick up any groceries.

Then I start my bike.

Monster - meet MacPass. Macpass - Meet Monster

4/7/2016

I have put 700KM on the Monster in the 5 days that I have owned it. Around 400 of them came on Sunday. It was my first run on the open road on it and I got to know it better. It has been absolutely sensational for the urban running I've done on it till now so I was keen to see if it was just as good on a real-world country run. I was almost relieved to find a couple of chinks in its erstwhile virgin armour because I’ve been so smitten with this bike, it seemed almost too good to be true.

I went south, through the Nasho, Mt Kiera, back roads to Mac Pass, Kangaroo valley, Cambewarra and retraced my steps back home. It’s been a while since I've done a weekend run on a perfect, sunny day like today and I was gobsmacked at just how many bikes were out and about. I was also amazed that I didn't see a single cop all day. It was a very slow run through the Nasho following cars and some incredibly slow bikes. Tootling along in 1st and 2nd gear, entering corners almost upright that I'd normally be railing into at 100KMPH, the Monster took it in its stride. It wasn't fussed, no fretting or fuming, it was happy to cruise, even if I wasn't.

Stanwell Tops was full of 2 wheeled contraptions and associated humans tasting the freedom of the motorcycling lifestyle. Standing around looking cool for the asian tourists, sipping endless coffees while enjoying the climax of their day's riding, an hour from home. They reminded me why I couldn't remember the last time I was there on a Sunday. I love this place but its much better enjoyed on a weekday evening when you're guaranteed a traffic and cop free run through the Nasho and quiet contemplation on the hill. Still, I lingered longer than I wanted to as a leather clad cutie came over to chat to me about the Monster. I have a weakness for leather clad cuties. Even female ones.

Then I hit the Old Princes Highway heading south. That's where I discovered the first weakness of the Monster. Well, its my weakness more than the bike's to be honest. A weakness of my neck muscles to be even more specific. The year on the CBR has hardened my back and knees but has definitely softened my neck. The Monster is a true naked bike without any wind protection of the metallic, plastic or Perspex variety. There is no buffeting and the wind in your face is fresh and turbulence free. But there is a lot of it. Over 130, my neck was straining. I found the handlebars, which are perfect for urban riding, a bit too high for high speed touring. And the foot pegs, which again are perfectly placed for a roadster, are too far forward for higher speeds where you need to lean into the wind. This is where the Tuono would kill the Monster.

The bloody thing rips hard but. Rolling on in 4th gear from 100KMPH sees 170 come up in the blink of an eye. The suddenness of the acceleration and the exponential increase in wind pressure nearly dropped me off the back as I inadvertently twisted the throttle even more! Then I hit Mount Kiera and it all made sense again. Tight, technical and bumpy, I love Mount Kiera road. Its only short, maybe 30 corners over 5 Ks but stringing them together is hugely enjoyable and I’ve never enjoyed them more than on the Monster. Enough grunt to carry it all in 2nd gear and a couple of times I whacked the throttle hard on the exit of a 25K corner, the Monster snarled and the front lifted a foot off the ground.

Then I hit MacPass and it made even more sense. I overtook so many bikes going up, I lost count. The Monster came with the Michelin PR4 tyres that I’ve never used before. They’re a nice profile though not as soft as I’d like them and don’t heat up very quickly. Still, I was confident enough to lean it all the way over though I was conservative with how quickly I got on the gas. The Monster lives for leaping out of corners. I doubt there is any production motorcycle that is more enjoyable to just whack out of corners. So much grunt, it snarls, lifts the front and you feel like one of those guys from the test riding videos.

It was bike central at the Robertson Pie shop too and some beautiful bikes were getting a good tan in the sun. Got chatting to a couple of wizened gents on sportsbikes. One was on a Panigale S tricolour, the other one on a tricked Busa. I could tell, by their relaxed manner, that they were old timers at this “going fast” game and quite enjoyed chatting to them about everything from Squids to MotoGP.

I left quickly, went down to Kangaroo Valley and the Cambewarra bends before turning around and retracing my steps all the way home. Heading back down MacPass I baited some sportsbike riders and a dude on a Multistrada to see if they were up for some fun. They thought they were but naah.
It was an epic day. Hard and fast in the twisty bits but plenty of breaks and just enjoying the day at my pace. The fuel range was fantastic though I don’t know exactly how many Ks I got as I couldn’t work out how to reset the bloody trip meter, the dash has so much information and options!

Overall, the Monster does have limitations for high speed touring. Not insurmountable ones. Sure you could fit a screen and put rearsets on it to make it more comfortable at higher speeds but that would fundamentally change the look and character of the bike. I don’t plan to do either. I love it as it is and for 90% of my riding, I cannot think of a better bike on the planet.

I am really starting to like the look of it too. I’ve ordered some bits to clean up the rear, which should help with the gag reflex everytime I walk around it.

Hail motorcycles.

MT-09 Ride Review

27/6/2016

I rode a 2014 MT09 with 15K KMs on it and an Akrapovic exhaust. It is on sale for 8K. The brand new Brutale RR costs 21K though you can get a decent 2013/14 one for 12.

The MT09 and the Brutale are similar in so many ways. Lightweight, powerful, triple-cylinder performance naked is the basic formula. And from there they depart. While the MT09 remains true to that basic ethos, the MV builds it out with dollops of electronics, tuning and struts out of Italy wrapped in the most stunning packaging. The MT09 is a good looking motorcycle in its own right though and with a bit of work can be made to look quite purposeful. As you get on it, the seat is low and if I flat foot both my feet, I can actually stand up and lift my bum off the seat an inch. This is really weird and something I haven't experienced since riding 100cc shitboxes back in India. I don’t like this. I bounce up and down on the stationary bike and the suspension feels very soft. Pushing the forks makes the bike rock like a playground rocking horse. Not a good start!

Thumbing the motor starts to bring the smile back to my face. It sounds crisp with the classic Triple cylinder cyclic rattle. It sounds like an inline 4 and then suddenly every split second there’s an extra beat that you’re not expecting and is the signature of the triple. The riding position is fantastic once you’re moving, with high bars and roomy ergos you quickly forget how low the seat is. Twist the throttle and the thing just GOES! The acceleration really took me by surprise as with the soft suspension and easy ergonomics, I wasn’t expecting sportsbike take offs! The front gets light immediately and the whole package makes sense. It’s ridiculously easy to ride, turns effortlessly and stays planted. The brakes are very good, excellent bite though I only braked down from 100KMPH so not sure how they bring you back from 200. The dive under brakes is terrible but I will come to suspension in a bit. I gunned it more and more to see if the top end was as good as the bottom and mid-range and it is. Upto 10K RPM I think it revs and it pulls cleanly throughout. One does not need any more acceleration than this thing provides.

That’s what I’d be doing. Everywhere!

The 2 glitches that most reviews talk about are the snatchy fuelling and the suspension.
The snatchy fuelling, I can happily confirm, does not exist. Well, at least it didn’t on the bike I tested. It may have been sorted. The throttle response was perfect in A mode (the most aggressive), much easier to control than the Brutale. I wouldn’t change modes on this thing at any time except maybe when its raining. A is perfect.

The suspension has been called out, in almost every review, as a weakness. And while I take journos opinions with a grain of salt, this time I concur. It is just squishy, soft and wallowy. Dives under braking like a seagull chasing a discarded chip. As a result it is very comfortable but most unsettling charging corners hard. The whole ship is pogoing around you. The suspension is adjustable I’m told but I think you will need to spend some good coin to get it sorted.
But herein lies the brilliance of the MT09. It is so cheap, you can afford to buy a brand new one, throw 2 grand at the suspension and it will still be cheaper than used bikes from the competition. Yamaha have hit the ball out of the park on the value for money stakes with this thing. It has unbelievable performance for what it costs.
The best thing about the MT09 is that despite its cheap entry price and substantial performance, it’s perfectly neutral and so easy to ride that one feels comfortable at any lean angle and any speed, almost immediately.
After my test ride, I looked up some MT09s on internet forums and I reckon with a bit work, the bike can be turned into a real weapon and a looker.

Overall I was amazed that the performance of the 21K Brutale RR and the 12K MT09 was very similar and with a 14K MT09 (with upgraded suspension), it would be dead even. You would really WANT that MV to spend 21K on a brand new one.

I then rode a Ducati Streetfighter 848 >>

Comments

Test Riding 2016

26/6/2016

“I’m thinking about getting a new bike” I said to my wife a couple of weeks ago. Usually her reaction is a roll of her eyes or a kick in the nuts, depending on whether the kids have been at childcare or at home that day. This time she stopped tinkering with her phone, looked at me and said “Yeah, it’s been a while since you bought one. Which one are you thinking of getting?”. I stared at her for a few seconds to make sure she wasn’t doing one of those things that women do when they say something but it means the opposite. Like “Its fine, do whatever you want”. She wasn’t.
You know you’ve fucking nailed the buildup to buying a new bike when your wife not only agrees that you need a new bike but is actually interested in what bikes you might be considering. The last time this happened was in 2004, when I was buying my first post-marriage motorcycle. “We” (not me and Casey) bought a VFR then and she recommended the blue colour. “We” haven’t bought a motorcycle since though “I” have bought many.

Anyway, that same evening the CBR was on Gumtree and the day after that, it was BrotherPete’s. And the day after that, I was test riding!

I’m going back to a big bore naked. The CBR has been a great little bike but I’ve missed the torque and hooliganism potential of a crazy naked. As some of you might already be aware, I love the hunt for a new bike. I’m not one of those people who just looks at a bike, knows that’s for them and they live happily ever after. Naah. Too easy! I like to drag this process out. It’s like foreplay, it’s the best bit. A bit of teasing, a bit of probing, oohs and aahs and then when you’re ready, you dive in head first, so to speak. Buying the bike straight away would be like premature ejaculation!

This is my system for getting a new bike. I start with a budget (13K in this case) and look at every possible 2 wheeled contraption I can attain in that price range. Many sleepless nights and workless days of internet research later, I have narrowed it down to a genre and 5-6 bikes.

I love test riding. Whats not to like?! That is always the true test of a bike’s suitability for what I’m looking for. And I’m looking for different things at different times. And I don't always know what i'm looking for. But slowly, it becomes clearer the more bikes I research and ride. But this time was different. I already knew I wanted a Tuono V4R. I’ve lusted after this bike since I first saw it. And now I have the money to buy a decent 2nd hand one. It’s a no-brainer. Find best value V4R, buy it. Have massive party with the latest addition to your family, uncle Bob.

But..aha… Oh yeah But! Life, full of twisties eh?

You test ride a few bikes anyway because your innate indianness must find justification for your decision. And you’re a bike whore.

Wham MT09! WhamBam Brutale 800RR!

I’ve never ridden a proper modern performance nakedbike. Not a Tuono v4, not a Streetfighter, not a Brutale 1090RR. I've ridden a 2011 Z1000 and a 2011 Speed Triple R but let me tell you right now, the world has moved. In a fantastic direction. The MT09 and the Brutale 800 are incredible bikes. In similar and different ways.

I rode 4 different bikes in one manic day of dealer hopping and test riding. I spent about half an hour in an urban environment on semi dry roads with some corners and a little freeway travel thrown in. Here are my thoughts.

2015 Brutale 800RR

Look at it. Fuck.

MV has re-invented itself with the triple range. While there may be questions about their reliability, there is no question about their boldness. Wild, whacky and attention grabbing machines. True to the MV spirit. The Dragster, Rivale and Brutale are all essentially the same bike with minor differences. And it’s a great bike.
The Brutale 800 looks tiny and that impression is perpetuated when you sit on it. The seat is small, the tank is small and you basically look down the forks if you lean forward too much. The weight seems comparable to my 4 year old daughter's pushbike. Factoring in the training wheels on her bike would tip the scales in the Brutale's favour. Starting it up an angry, raspy unmistakably Triple cylinder engine grabs your attention. The kind of note that you want to listen to for a while. The all-digital dash has much information and many options. I zone out as the salesman toggles the modes, engine braking, throttle sensitivity, ABS and Traction Control settings. I will pay attention if I buy it. Right now I’m desperate to unleash this thing. It has me intrigued.
MotoTecnica in Artarmon are the only MV Agusta dealer now in Sydney, having taken over the dealership from Trooper Lu’s a couple of years ago. The shop is well laid out with lots of Bike porn hanging around

Like this Lewis Hamilton special Dragster thing that you could ride to the Mardi Gras if you were homosexual or tricurious.

It seems like a Chinese operation at MotoTecnica with both the sales guy and the chief mechanic being chinese. They were friendly, helpful and courteous. The mechanic sent me off with a “You must push this bike. If you don’t push an MV Agusta, you’re missing the point”. I wondered if he meant that in a “It will stop and then you have to push it back” kinda way but then figured he probably meant you need to ride this baby hard for it to come into its own. He wasted his breath. There is no other way to ride this thing. As soon as you take off, it’s like the bike chuckles to itself and rubs its hands with glee. “heh, new meat, lets see what this guy’s about”. And then it grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go till you roll on that throttle. 3 wheelies in the first 5 minutes. All of them unintentional. Wheelies from stop lights. Wheelies out of corners and wheelies over speed bumps. Fark. Me.

This is the revised 2016 model whaich has 2 world firsts
1. It has less power and more weight than the previous model
2. It has a hole under the seat. Presumably to air out your balls as you unwind after a hot and sweaty run

I rode the 2015RR and it is INSANE. The throttle is so light, I reckon you could make it rev by blowing hard on it or even looking intently in its direction for long enough. This may be perceived as jerky by some people but I found it to just be exciting. There’s only noticeable snatch on long decelerations or steady throttle under 3K RPM. But who the fuck rides like that?! You twist 5 degrees on the throttle and get instant throttle totally disproportionate to the effort. And you twist some more, and the thrust just keeps on coming. There’s no flat spots or hesitation, just propulsion, from 3K to 16K. There’s no red line, just an abrupt rev limiter. Peak HP is around 14K so probably best to grab another gear around then. You’ll be well over the speed limit by then and the authorities would probably be scrambling helicopters to reel you in. But you will not be giving a fuck about any of that. You will be laughing in your helmet and shaking your head at how anyone could be depressed in a world that produces motorcycles like this.

In case I haven’t been clear, I loved it. The engine sounds and goes great. Brakes are eye popping. Wheelies are mandatory. Suspension is firm. The whole impression of the motorcycle is one of taut and muscular agility. I’d love to push it more in some proper twisties. And that’s exactly what I’m planning to do tomorrow. Take the non RR version (which I can actually afford) for a spin through some twisties on the south coast. I test rode it for a laugh, not expecting it to seriously impress me. But that’s exactly what this firecracker of a bike has done. It’s made it to the next level. With flying colours. Lots of flying colours.

I looked at this one later in the day at a private seller but the bastard didn't let me ride it. I think he was racist.

I rode the MT-09 next >>