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.
​

​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.

“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 >>
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​My love affair with the Blue Mountains continues unabated as once again, when I had the opportunity to go north or south, I headed west on the Husky. I was hoping to build on the exploration work BrotherPete and I had done around Lithgow a few days before. But before I got to Lithgow, I got distracted (this seems to be happening frequently in 2016!) by the King’s Tableland sign at Wentworth Falls. The King’s tableland is a “peninsula” jutting out from the main spine of the East-West ridge of the Blue Mountains. There’s a dirt track that runs the length of the Kings Tableland plateau till its abrupt end over the cliffs at McMahons lookout. As I head down this track, I can feel the heat of the day ramping up. It’s gonna be a scorcher! 

​The track itself is quite pleasant, mostly open firetrail with some rough and steep sections. By now I’ve realized that the Husky’s rear shock is setup hard, which is excellent for aggressive supermoto action on the road but is too hard for the dirt. So I get knocked about a bit on the rough sections. Tweaking the preload is a pain because there’s so much stuff in the way. I’ll get to it one day but in the meantime, it’s a good excuse to work on my “stand up” posture. Everyone’s seen those really cool pictures of adventure riders on Enduro bike, standing up and disappearing into glorious sunsets. But when I tried this, I didn’t feel in control of the bike at all. I went to my local shop and asked them to raise the handlebars so I could stand up straighter. The mechanic, who’s an unusually honest bloke, looked at the bike and said “It’s already as high as it should be. You need some weight on the front or it’s gonna wash out without you knowing what’s going on.” He proceeded to give me tips on body position. Who says customer service and honesty is dead in Australia. Highway Performance Bikes at Rockdale, folks. Hit it. 

​Anyway, it seemed pretty straightforward when he was explaining it at the shop but it’s a different story in the real bush! You need excellent balance and stamina in the legs. Your knees should be bent while clutching the tank and this, along with your feet on the footpegs is what “holds” you on the bike. It’s the same on any type of motorcycle really.
For best control, your hold on the handlebars should be light and used only to provide directional input and “feel” what the front end’s doing, not to actually hold you to the bike. But this is much easier when you’re sitting on a road bike and you’ve got heaps of body parts in contact with heaps of bike. On a slim dirtbike with hardly any tank area, while standing, you’ve pretty much only got the inside of your knees and boots to provide any clamping area to hold you to the bike. And then you have to somehow balance while every rock you hit tries to catapult you off the bike. This dirt biking caper is not as easy as it looks! But it sure IS fun. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I almost certainly have really bad technique but Fuck, tell that to someone who cares. I’m having the time of my fucking life on this thing! 

I come to a tight left hander (would be a 25/35 on the road), throttle off and dab the rear brake slightly. The rear wheel skips as it searches desperately for traction. I counter-steer into the corner. The front slides, I let it. I get on the gas. The rear also slides. I let it. The thing I’m learning most from the Husky is to just let it do its thing. It knows a lot more than me out in the bush and I’m starting to trust it even when both wheels are sliding. A few minutes later I’m going down a slight decline at 50 and get air over a slight bump. In the air, I spy a sharp right hander coming up. As soon as I land, I lock up the rear brake. The bike slides and I push the right handlebar. The front slides and the bike turns sideways abruptly. The bike is at (what feels like) full lock and my right foot is out skimming the rough ground. I feel the front will wash out from under me at any second and the temptation is to stick the foot out further to break the fall. I resist this temptation, placing inordinate faith in the front TKC80. It pays a handsome return on my faith and sticks. I have just executed, what seemed like to me, a full lock speedway type manoeuvre. I’m sure it was nowhere near as dramatic but fuck, I’m stoked! I consider placing my camera at that corner and doing it again. Then I realize that the odds of me pulling that off twice out of twice are less favourable than me having a threesome with Megan Gale and Jennifer Hawkins. Twice.

​I quit while ahead and continue on. Soon, a most interesting rock formation rises majestically from the bush. I stop and check it out. It looks like an overhanging arch of the Sydney Opera House and is most unusual in its convex, cave-like shape. It is obviously an aboriginal sacred site and would've had an appropriately meaningful name but some white guy, in his infinite wisdom, has named it Battleship Tops. You’d have to be particularly naval if the first thing that came to your mind when you beheld this rock was “battleship”. 

​But white people have plenty of form when naming things inappropriately, at least this guy tried to name it after the actual physical feature. Many other landscape features are named after totally irrelevant people or things, with total disregard for established names. Mt. Everest, for example. The local sherpas had a name for this magnificent mountain centuries before any white man laid eyes on it. A name fitting of its place at the top of the world mountain hierarchy. Chomolungma, they called it. “Mother Goddess of the Earth”. Impressive eh? But some white guy came along hundreds of years later and named it after the Surveyor General of India at the time, George Everest. Everest, who never even saw the mountain in his lifetime, himself thought the name was inappropriate and protested it. But no heed was paid, the white man’s discovery of the mountain had to be stamped on history. You can just imagine the conversation in some colonial office:
​
“Hey old chap, so how big is this mountain you’ve discovered?”
“It’s the highest mountain in the Queen’s commonwealth, Sir. Some say it’s the highest in the world!”
“Is there a name for it?”
“Yes Sir. The locals call it Chomolungma”
“Chomp a Lung what? What does it mean anyway?”
“Mother Goddess of the Earth, Sir. It’s a sacred mountain for them”
“How absurd! Bloody natives. They should stick to carrying loads up the mountain and leave the naming to us. The heathens don’t even know the Queen’s language. Send Watson a wire immediately and tell him we’re naming the mountain Everest, after that George guy, what’s his surname?”
“Everest, Sir. Yes Sir, right away Sir.”

​Lake Burragorang, created by the Warragamba dam, is the primary source of Sydney’s water supply. From McMahon’s lookout it looks absolutely stunning. A deep blue gleaming jewel framed by the hazy green background of virgin native forests. McMahons lookout is little known and at the end of a rough, 25KM long dead-end track, it’s pretty isolated. I sat with my legs dangling over the 200Metre cliff and ate my sandwich while listening to the sounds of the jungle below me. The kool kidz might’ve called it “peaceful as”. 

​I smashed it back on the dirt back to the Great Western Hwy and reached Mt Victoria where I saw the speed limit was 40 down the hill due to road works. I shouted “Fuck That” in my helmet so loudly that a cockatoo shat itself as it flew over me at that exact moment. This was, of course, much worse for me than it was for the cockatoo but I took it as a good omen anyway. I decided there must be some alternative way to descend the escarpment so I took a punt and headed down the road to Bell. Sure enough, after a couple of false starts, I stumbled onto the Hartley Vale Road (or something like that), a rough and narrow track descending sharply to the little hamlet of Hartley Vale. There were more pleasant surprises in store for me as I thoroughly enjoyed the short but fantastically twisty Browns Gap road and then took the turnoff to Hassans Walls up a speedy dirt track. Who dares, fucken wins folks and Hassans Walls was a massive Win! 

​I can’t believe I’d passed under this fantastic lookout hundreds of times and never knew of its existence. It has panoramic 270 degree views of the Blue Mountains and the southern valleys around Hampton and beyond. For a while, I just sat up there in a little cave carved out of the cliffs and gaped. I’d bypassed the shit fight of the roadworks on the highway, found a couple of fantastic alternative roads and an epic lookout along the way. I took it as a sign from the gods to keep up this exploration shit!

​I refuelled at Lithgow and hit the dirt heading up the GlowWorm road. Not too far into it, I went up a side track marked as the “Maiyingu Marragu Trail”. I laughed. I was sure this was the trail that the map said was the “Blackfellows Hands Trail”. So now, in this politically correct world, “Blackfellows Hands” was obviously not a very cool sign to have. The forestry authority, wanting to be seen doing the right thing had changed the name to an aboriginal one. Problem solved eh. We love aboriginal culture now and we like dem blackfella names too, “dey iz kool”. Now that there’s hardly a culture left anymore, it’s OK to rename and promote aboriginality. It’s a crazy world I tell ya. Doesn’t matter what you actually DO as long you’re seen to do the right thing. The forests in here have been logged to fuck. The trail is in appalling condition with massive potholes due to extensive use by heavy logging trucks. But hey, it’s the “Maiyingu Marragu Trail”. Very aboriginal eh. Everybody’s happy.

​It was hot, the road was bumpy and the fucking forestry fucks had conspired to suck all the enjoyment out of my ride. It was the low point of my day. But then the “real” gods intervened and confirmed that no matter how powerful man may think he has become, the Gods will always run the show. They revealed to me the real Maiyingu Marragu, totally unexpectedly. I was immediately struck by the spiritual aura of this place and my frustrations evaporated as I walked around in a daze of awe and wonder. 

I can easily see how this place would’ve been sacred for aboriginals. Anyone who feels a connection to this earth would unquestionably be moved by this place. It was also easy to imagine ceremonial aboriginal gatherings under the vast caves while a thunderous sky roared overhead and waterfalls poured off the cliffs around them. I will not try to describe Maiyingu Marragu but encourage you to make the effort to find and explore it yourself. Try not to be a dickhead when you’re there but. You wouldn’t want an idiot spraying graffiti inside your church or ancestral home would you? 

​While that was the unexpected highlight of my day, the Wolgan Valley that came next was a pretty close second.

​The Wolgan Valley reminds one of the age of dinosaurs. Its grand scale and primeval landscape of forests and cliffs seem much more plausible in imagination than reality. 

​A newly sealed road goes all the way to the ultra-luxurious Emirates Resort, where you can get a 2000$ a night room. Or you could continue on the dirt road to Newnes and camp under the cliffs and stars for sweet fuck all. 

​It’s reassuring that despite rampant commercialisation, there are still amazing experiences to be had in this grand country, for free. Long may it stay that way! Newnes was once a bustling mining town and it has an interesting history that is worth looking up on the internet. It’s now an isolated and dusty end of road shack, with a population of 2. The proprietor of the Newnes Hotel and his dog. It’s an ideal place to hide from the world, or your wife. The Newnes Hotel proprieter, lounging on the front verandah, asked me to get my own drink out of the fridge behind the counter because it was “too fucking hot to move”. 

I asked him if there was a pool in the river where I could cool off but he was pessimistic on my chances of finding one in the shallow river. Undeterred, I crossed the river and poked around the ruins of Newnes for a bit and then stalked the river till I found some rapids and a little pool, just deep enough to lay in. The water was crystal clear and I let the river wash over me.

That dip set me up nicely for the run back home, which I accomplished in record time and glowing spirits, bypassing the roadworks after Lithgow again. I re-fuelled the Husky at Penrith after 280KM on a single tank. It only has a 12L tank. I love this bike more everytime I ride it! Might have to do a full on review. It deserves one.

I have recently returned from a 5 week overseas holiday with the family. We went home to India and spent a week in Malaysia en route. “Home, Harry?” I hear you ask. Well, I still call Australia home of course. But I do have a non-girt-by-sea home too and I suspect a trip to India will always be “going home” for me. It is the migrant’s enigma. Australia appeals to me with its obvious attractions of natural & wild beauty, laid back lifestyle and the rule of law.
While India tugs at my heart, with reasons that are much less obvious and harder to explain. 

​It’s always made sense for me to have an Australian passport but for many years I wasn’t ready to witness the tearing up of my Indian passport. So I clutched it tightly to my chest, refusing to sever that symbolic connection. After a decade of residence (and going through painful visa application processes for a few countries while my wife, with her Australian passport, just rocked up at the airport!), I finally reconciled myself to doing the deed and took the oath of allegiance to Australia (not the Queen mind you, the monarchy can go get fucked). And I’m proud of it too.

​To motorcycles then....I didn’t ride a motorcycle for 5 weeks while on holiday. Not so much as touch one actually. I didn’t think it was possible but I did all right. Seeing bikes all around me in India certainly made me want to jump on one and sample the chaotic Delhi traffic from behind handle-bars. That’s a whole different story in itself, riding a motorcycle through Delhi traffic. I hope to write about it someday. The day I feel I can do the subject some justice. But there are so many aspects to that story that it boggles my mind every time I try to write about it and I fail spectacularly in harnessing the thoughts flying around in my head like supernova debris.

Over the past few years a lot of my riding has been very fast and exciting but mostly to familiar places, with familiar people, on familiar roads. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been bloody fantastic and I wouldn’t change a thing but I've had the sense for a while, that something’s missing. On holiday, while I had the time and inclination to stare into space and think about stuff, I looked up the word “adventure” in the dictionary. “a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome” it said. I scratched my head. This defined pretty much all my riding over the past few years but a lot of it didn’t feel particularly adventurous. Bold? Sure. Risky? Sure. Hazardous? Sure. With the time, space and catalysts for introspection that India invariably provides me, I realized that the missing ingredient in my riding adventures was the “uncertain outcome” bit. And suddenly it clicked. I needed to return to my roots. Exploration! Motorcycling for me had always been about exploration and discovery of the physical, psychological and spiritual aspects of myself and the world around me. It was time to put the adventure back into my riding and “uncertainty” back into my rides!
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On my return, I couldn’t wait to get on my bikes and start exploring afresh, the wide open spaces of this wonderful, girt-by-sea home of mine.

​My Husqvarna TE610 is a true adventure bike. It can go anywhere in the right hands. My hands are not the right ones but I’m learning everytime I get out in the bush. The first trip back on the husky was definitely “adventure riding” though unexpectedly it was heavy on the adventure and light on the riding!

​I headed south out of Sydney with no particular plan, vaguely hoping to meander down to MacPass at some point. After a pleasant, unhurried run through the nasho, I stopped for a quick look at Kellys falls in the Garrawarra State Conservation Area near Helensburgh. I didn’t know it then but that was pretty much the end of the day’s riding for me but the adventure was just beginning! A short walking path took me to the top of Kellys falls, which was a trickle of water dribbling off a sheer cliff about 50M high. 

​At the bottom of the falls lay a beautiful pool that looked incredibly inviting for a dip. Intrigued, I started looking for ways to get down to the pool but there was no walking path heading down the cliffs. So close to Sydney, it was impossible that some hillbilly hadn’t invented a path down to such a beautiful swimming hole. So undeterred, I started bush bashing my way through the wilderness, hoping to find a way to get down the cliffs. I didn’t find a path but what I found only egged me on further. I stumbled onto another beautiful waterfall. This one was so well hidden that I doubt many people would even know about it. Crawling on all fours and peering over the ledge of the falls, I discovered another beautiful pool at the base of this waterfall too! 

Now I was determined to find a way down and explore the pools.
I felt like Livingstone hacking through Africa as I cut and forced my way through thick bush, shimmying down rock ledges and climbing down trees to try and reach the canyon floor. Eventually, after about half an hour of sweaty and abrasive work, I spied the second (secret) waterfall through the rainforest. 

​It was wild and pristine. There was nothing to indicate that any human had ever been here before (I’m sure plenty had but it was good to see they hadn’t left behind petty reminders of their visit). 

​I wasted no time in tearing off my sweaty clothes and plunging into the cool waters of the pool. The water from the skies fell around me in a gentle, misty shower, carried by the wind while the sun made random flying rainbows. It was sheer magic, that spot, that moment. In that instant, as I closed my eyes and submerged myself under the waterfall, I felt validated in not chasing the same twisty roads and corners today like I had done a thousand times before, heading south out of Sydney. I didn’t care if I went up MacPass today or not. I’d discovered something truly special and it was moments of pure “being” like this that I’d been missing in my increasingly planned and structured life.

After a rejuvenating couple of hours at the pool, I explored the rainforest some more and found the pool at the bottom of Kelly’s falls. 

​This was again a most enchanting spot, though a little less “secret”, as humans had clearly walked here before! 

​Now I set my mind to finding a way out of here, back to the top of the cliffs. I was sure that everyone who’d been here before wouldn’t have hacked their way through the jungle like me. There must be a shortcut somewhere. A chink in the armour of the fortress. I walked up to the base of the cliffs and started making my way around. I saw some small clearings at the base of some of the cliffs. This could only mean 1 thing. Rock Climbers! Having been an active rock climber for many years, I know how rock climbers operate. They will clear out the shrubbery at the base of cliffs to be able to get holds on the rocks to get off the ground. This was encouraging! Sure enough, after a little probing, I found a steep “path” hidden in the folds of the cliffs. It was exposed and a bit airy but with a little rock scrambling, I was at the top in a few minutes. 

​I took my boots off and discovered a couple of engorged leeches wiggling inside. They'd obviously been enjoying the taste of my spicy Indian blood!

 ​I sat at the top of the cliffs with my feet dangling over the abyss and reflected on the definition of adventure again – “a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome”. The day hadn't turned out at all ​like I'd expected. Hmmm, ​I reckon I might've had an adventure today!

​I am extremely fortunate to have a great bunch of mates. Some of them ride motorcycles. The relationship I share with my riding mates is qualitatively different from the one I have with the non-riding ones. When you ride a motorcycle hard and fast on a twisty mountain road, peeling into corners at over twice the speed the government says you should, inches behind your mate who, like you, is trusting his life to 4 square inches of black rubber on the very edge of his tyre, it is inevitable that there develops a deep trust, a mutual respect, an unspoken bond, an acknowledgement that you both know and it doesn’t need to be said.

Such a friendship is not automatically granted to you as soon as you ride out of a motorcycle dealership, basking in the glory of your reflection in the shop window. Buying a motorcycle does not bestow upon you any special status in a brotherhood. Friendly motorcyclists may nod at you as they pass, people on the internet may welcome you into their club, you may even ride through the city streets with your “mob”, terrorising citizens and high fiving your “mates” at traffic lights. But a motorcycle friendship is formed not in the passive anonymity of the internet or the sterility of city streets. It cultivates over time, out on country roads battling forces of nature, testing the limits of adhesion while pitting science against faith and sitting in lonely pubs at the end of a hard day sharing war stories over pints. And sometimes they develop from keeping each other entertained as you wait for the Westpac rescue helicopter to deliver you from the mess you’ve got yourselves into.

​Ben Akhurst was the first guy from BikeMe I rode with. With a beguiling gentleness and a respectful reservedness, he struck me as a thorough gentleman from the first time I met him. Over the years I have got to know him better and he has never proved my first impression wrong. 

​I have known Ben’s brother, Pete, for only a short while. Pete’s hate for humans is only redeemed by his love of animals.

​A big unit with size 17 feet, his best physical feature is likely hidden under clothes. But the birds know…. 

I’d been itching to do a trip in the dirt for a while so when Ben & Pete came up with the idea of basing ourselves at their family holiday house at Bendalong on the south coast and riding around the plentiful bush around it, I said yes faster than Mary, Princess of Denmark.
I was pumped for the weekend and was looking forward to bush bashing on the Husky but at the last minute it’s fickle Italian nature surfaced and while it didn’t break down, it gave me enough of a scare that I didn’t trust it to carry me through a thousand KMs, some of it in remote bushland. It went to the shop and wasn’t ready in time for the trip but I was throbbing and wasn’t going to let the lack of lube deter me. I went in dry, on my Honda CBR600RR.

​Ben & Pete were on their DR650s and Dan from BikeMe also joined the 3 of us on Friday morning on his Super Tenere. We took the scenic route to MacPass with the obligatory river crossing.
Ben was leading us into MacPass but that only lasted a couple of corners as his ambition quickly outweighed the talent of his DR. Dan went screaming past with me in hot pursuit. I followed Dan for a bit and was highly entertained and impressed by the way he was chucking that Super-Tenere around the tight bends of Mac-Pass. I could see him physically man handle the big bike around and was happy to enjoy the spectacle but he must’ve been feeling the pressure of me on his tail so he kicked me through and we both proceeded to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. 

​We came down Jamberoo Mountain road, which is probably one of the most technical stretches of road I’ve ever ridden. Tightening corners, steep gradient, debris on the road, no run-off, bad visibility through thick rainforest, this one’s got everything. I always keep plenty in reserve on this road.
We filled up at Kiama where a pretty young lady complained to me about the heat. I wanted to point out that her tight black leather skirt probably wasnt helping the ventilation situation but she didn’t look she’d understand the physics of it.

Coming into Nowra, Dan and I were stopped at a traffic light when Pete came screaming in and did a squeaky stoppie on the loaded DR. It was so funny that we all, including the young couple in the car next to us, burst out laughing. And Dan took matters forward by wheelieeing away from the lights on the Super Ten! What can I say, my mates are hoons. 
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From Nowra, Ben and Pete went straight ahead towards Bendalong while Dan and I headed up the Nerriga road. Or more appropriately, the Nerriga Racetrack. Its 60KM from Nowra to Nerriga consisting of long sweepers and short straights. If your average speed is below 150KMPH in this section, you’re doing it wrong. Dan had never been down this road and I knew exactly how he was feeling as we pulled into Nerriga pub. He was drained, relieved and ecstatic all at once. This road is just relentless speed. For half an hour, you’re in 6th gear with the throttle pinned. Corners come and go but you don’t back off, you just lean into them. The concentration required to run those speeds for that long on a twisty road is intense and for a few minutes after arriving at Nerriga pub, you just stare into your beer and relive that ride in your mind. Just decompressing, like a diver coming up from the depths.

 After an excellent lunch and beers, we continued over the dirt to Braidwood and then had an absolutely rollicking time down the Kings highway to Batemans Bay. The Kings Hwy is a sensational road. The surface is racetrack smooth, well cambered and the bends are varied but carved out with impeccable precision. Dan and I were in the zone and weren’t going to let anything get in the way of our zen. At one point we came upon a long line of cars stuck behind a truck creeping down the tightest part of the road, that crosses a range. We raced each other past the cars, me overtaking from the left, him down the right. He blew past me just as I was coming out onto the right lane but I got him soon after. Was an epic run!
​
Down on the coast it was hot and humid and combined with having to go painfully slow on the Princes Hwy, we both faded badly. At Milton we pulled in, drank litres of Gatorade and sat in the shade of the Tenere. It was 4:30PM and Dan was supposed to go home but he decided, wisely, to spend the night with us at Bendalong. The road into Bendlong was Bendy and long, which I assume is how the place gets its name. Ben & Pete were hosts par excellence and had already organised a great Barbie and plenty of beer for us. That first beer went down quicker than Karel Abraham at the Czech GP. Then we all went for a nice romantic walk on the beach. We didn’t hold hands but the homo was strong. 

​Tall tales were told over a roaring fire and many beers. And Pete offered me his DR to go exploring the bush the next day. For this, I will be eternally grateful to BrotherPete as the next day was one of the best days I’ve had on a motorcycle.
Adam had joined us at some point in the night having ridden down from Sydney in the dark and the next morning he made his intentions for the day clear by cracking open a beer at 7:30AM.
Dan had left quietly at 5AM after receiving death threats from his wife the previous night. After a hearty non-alcoholic breakfast, Ben and I headed out to explore with a rough plan and a strong will.
That will was severely tested 5 minutes into the ride as we came across a creek crossing that looked packed with hazards. ​

​We ummmmed and aahed for about 20 minutes and then crossed over in 20 seconds! When we crossed this same creek on the way back, we laughed at ourselves for taking it so seriously! But we were different people by then. We were to grow much as dirt riders over the next few hours. Ben’s insatiable curiosity took us down tracks that weren’t even tracks. We got stuck in mud, fell over in puddles, jumped the jumps, whupped the whupps and had the time of our lives. 

​We came out at Sussex Inlet, had a beer and a laugh with some old ladies who were selling raffle tickets and then disappeared back into the bush. We didn’t leave any trail in Conjola National Park unmolested. If there was a trail, we went down it. Powerline trails, rocky trails, sandy trails, bushy trails, muddy trails, thorny trails and even NO trails, none was spared.

​On the way back we were hanging the back out like pros, jumping off humps and generally having way more fun than the government would approve of. If having too much fun was a crime, we’d be given the death penalty.

​The DR? what a surprise! It just does everything. This 30 year old design is rock solid and though the weight works against it in tight stuff, it got us through everything we threw at it and without any drama. I had low expectations of it but was very impressed. I can only imagine how much better the Husky might've been with its lower weight and better suspension.
We got back to Bendalong covered in mud and grins, washed the bikes and proceeded to tell Pete all about our adventures over beers. I could see he was jealous but also took a pride in his contribution to my happiness!

​Another day, another bonfire, more beers, more sausages, more stories. When it started raining on us, in a weird unspoken pact we all took it upon ourselves to keep the fire going despite the rain. In the end we built such a monster fire that it burnt through the night and was still warm in the morning! In Ben & Pete I found fellow connoisseurs of fire. We stared into it, talked about it, shuffled and adjusted it like baby’s clothing, getting it just right. It’s weird I know, but it’s just addictive, working on a fire.

​Ben & Pete stayed on but I headed home the next day. I didn’t stop anywhere and had a smooth and relaxing run through Kangaroo Valley and MacPass. I was home well in time to watch the most exciting MotoGP race in recent history. It was a fitting finale to an epic weekend!

The annual BikeMe Lunatic Run was held in the picturesque hillbilly country of Northern NSW recently. 

Just to clarify, The Lunatic Run is not a charity event raising money for mental illness. The inspiration behind the name is the Lunatic Hotel located in the tiny hamlet of Drake in the hills of far north New South Wales (FNNSW). This is the ancient and sacred home of hillbilly people, the traditional loaners of the land. 

For centuries, Motorcycle riders of the BikeMe tribe have been converging on this powerful place from all corners of Gondwanaland and the hillbillies have been excellent hosts. This year was no different. There were plenty of hills, a few spills and more than a little lunacy. 

It was the first time I rode the Gwydir Highway and was very impressed. My mate Lindsay and I had a ball chasing each other up the Gibraltar Range. The video below is unedited footage of Lindsay on his KTM 950SM following me on my Aprilia Tuono 1000R.

I also took some pics

The origins of the BikeMe Pilgrimage are lost in the anus of time, where, obscured by the milky fog of generational changes, they recede ever closer to the womb of myth.
The origins may not be immediately apparent but the spirit of this event is clear as day. A journey to pay homage, to give thanks or to ask for the favour of the gods. A pilgrimage can be undertaken for many reasons but above all, it is a journey made with devotion. As an Indian, I’m no stranger to pilgrimages and back where these journeys are regular occurrences for millions of people, it is said that the harder your journey, the more merit you attain from it.
Well, I didn’t do it as tough as the people who measure the distance of their pilgrimage journey with the length of their bodies, prostrating themselves at every step of a thousand mile journey. 
Nor did I join the largest pilgrimage in the world where a 100 million people converge from all parts of the world to take a dip in a river that is holy to them, to rid themselves of sin and request benevolence from the gods.

Sure, I didn’t do it very tough but it was still very much a pilgrimage for me and in keeping with the spirit, I wanted to ensure I didn’t do it too easy! And even if I did lose my way amongst all the debauchery for a bit, the ride home in freezing rain, sans faggy fairings, screens and heated accessories certainly put the suffering back into the journey and would surely have gained me some merit! That fucken TVKraut would’ve taken the most merit out of the trip though, riding back to Melbourne without wets of any kind! He gets it.

Others didn’t and had to be helped to extract merit from their pilgrimages. Partymore for example. On the Sunday morning, as I stood shivering in my vented leather jacket and summer gloves, hopping to keep myself warm at the Bathurst servo, Julie calmly plugged in her heated Rukka jacket, switched on the heated gloves and with a nod of goodbye, flicked on her heated grips. That’s when it dawned on me. Till then I’d been feeling guilty about hassling this wonderful lady at the campfire on Friday night. I had given her a hard time over her failure, as a molecular biologist, to control the cane toad menace that Australian fauna face. Apparently I was quite passionate about my support for the natives and disdainful of the snooty scientific community. Of course, it was not Julie’s fault that the Bureau of Sugar Experiment Stations introduced the cane toad to Australia in 1935 and that first cane toad fucked himself a family so large that it is now threatening extinction for native species that have been around for thousands of years. Those of you that have witnessed me in full flow might understand that I can get a bit..umm..persuasive with my arguments as the night goes on and I’d been feeling guilty that I’d railroaded such a fine lady as Julie. But, after seeing her comfortable motorcycling existence, it dawned on me that I was a mere pawn that night. Her pilgrimage was progressing much too comfortably and the gods had moved me into place to provoke. For without provocation, there is no growth. And without growth, there is no merit. She may not appreciate it now of course, and rightly think of me as a cunt but I suspect when she’s receiving her dame-ship from the prime minister at Australia Day 2028, for ridding Australia of the dreaded Cane Toad menace, she may remember that night at the Pilgrimage 2014, where it all began. Good luck Julie!

Then there’s young Andrew, the artist formerly known as ATEP. Though well-endowed with merit from previous exploits, the gods had not taken lightly to his “flying in to the pilgrimage” copout this time round. I was once again the instrument of the gods in deriding the “entitlement complex” that afflicts his generation and though he brave heartedly stood up for his fellow generationists, over the course of a couple of hours and several cups of rum-laced tea, he had seen the light and was wishing he too, was born in the seventies, or at least eighties.
Of course, it was not all sermons and derision, there was some downright bizzare stuff. At one point I shouted across the campfire to Res, “Oi RES! Rape, fucken!” 5 seconds of stunned silence later I followed it up with, “Cunt!” I still can’t remember what the fuck I was trying to say but I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time.

Friday night was mucho hilarious and as the punters fell off the wagon (some like wood-duck literally fell off the wagon, and stayed down too), it was Stacey, Andrew, Syd, myself and a very drug fucked ChrisACT who called it a night at 3AM.
The non-camping fags had steadily wobbled off on their steeds with varying degrees of competence. The worst being Curse who later recounted his 15 minutes of paranoia riding at 30 kilometres an hour in 6th gear from the campsite to the hotel convinced that the cops were chasing him and had sabotaged his bike, which was why it was jerking so much. While Ross got on the gas thinking a monster was running behind him, appearing as a soft red glow in his mirrors (which he later realized, was his own tail light).
There were many such hilarious stories, too many to recount. 

Saturday morning started way too early for me but surprisingly the rum of my people did not give me a hangover and I was feeling way better than I had any right to. I had to get a new rear tyre due to over enthusiastic throttle use the day before so I headed to Bathurst and got that done. Then, due to a strange turn of events that I still don’t completely fathom, I found myself riding to a far-off place, alone, with no maps or phone, negotiating 40 kilometers of dirt, which sometimes turned to wet clay. It was great fun and as I didn’t know were the fuck I was going or how I was going to get there, it involved lots of stopping and asking local people for directions. Anyway, I ended up at this place called Wingdang or something with a population of 2, one of which was a cat. The non-cat inhabitant ran a pub and cooked a mighty fine steak sandwich for me, which I ate with relish.

Then I stumbled my way onto the Hill End road and thoroughly enjoyed it as my new tyres were well and truly scrubbed in by now. Meanwhile I had missed out on the slow race and bungee castle shenanigans, which were apparently hilarious. But I did climb the hill and attend the memorial ceremony conducted by the Padre, who though distracted by lust tainted thoughts of himself on an 1190R Adventure, managed to keep focus for long enough to impart the required gravity to the task at hand. While Res and Daz heckled shamelessly from the sidelines.

Saturday night was a consciously quiet one for me as I gently encouraged others to take centre stage and provide the nightly entertainment. No-one really stepped up though Daz was well on his way when he non-camp-fagged himself away. Bubba was also going the full Bubba when he reeled it in and failed to take the night to its logical conclusion (in the gutter).

The inevitable sombre Sunday morning mood was tainted further by the foul weather but I still made sure I said a proper goodbye to everyone I could find.

It was fucken great to catch up with so many people I haven’t seen for much too long.

And now I’m back feeling cleansed and recharged, smug in the knowledge that I’m part of something special, something real and something worth journeying for.

This ride was done sometime in winter 2012. First run on the Dorsoduro I think it was!

It was a good day, actually scratch that, it was a bloody good day!
5 of us left McGraths Hill at the base of the Blue Mountains around 8:30, was a bright and crisp morning with not a cloud in the sky. Pete and I run a similar pace through the twisties and have ridden many miles together. Pete is a giant of a man, is on his Ps and rides a LAMS SV650 (which he may or may not have accidentally derestricted) but don’t let that fool you, he’s bloody quick and demolished the field in yellow group at his last track day at Eastern Creek. He’s just bloody talented, the bastard! 
That is Pete in the background. Yes, that’s a full size motorcycle, yes the seat only reaches his knees

Tony calls himself “redmistracer” in cyberspace. He is an accomplished racer and took out a race win on his ZXR400 at his last outing at Wakefield Park. He doesn’t ride on the road much but it’s always a pleasure to ride with him. He just hangs back with us and takes it easy while we’re huffing and puffing and hanging off like poofs.
That’s Tony near Hampton later in the day

Jeff is a recovering carfag and a VFR800 is helping his rehabilitation. He's a good guy and fun to have along on a ride but he did not make it to the podium on this ride. Therefore, there are no pikchurs of him.

Prez is a crazy Czechman who counts possum fighting (this involves him fighting with a possum, not 2 possums fighting each other) as one of his hobbies. He reckons that a pole dancing class is a metrosexual man’s best chance at scoring with the opposite sex. I reckon it’s a pretty safe bet to score with the same sex as well. He rides a CBR954.

Here we are all at the halfway house on the Putty

I had a cracking run through the 10mile, with Tony following. Pete was struggling a bit as his shock had had enough of his considerable weight crashing onto it at regular intervals and was refusing to co-operate with his demands. Got to Bulga at 10 and waited till 10:30 in case OldGriffo turned up which he didn’t. I used the time to reduce the tyre pressures and soften the suspension as it was too harsh and the bike was skipping about on bumps over 150.

Jeff turned back at Bulga cos he’s still got a bit of fag in him and we continued onto the Golden Hwy, Sandy Hollow and turned onto the Bylong Valley Way. The BVW always puts me in 2 minds, the awesome road urges me to crack on through at breakneck speed while the beautiful scenery tempts me to slow down and take it all in. Today I did the former, I was just having too much fun to stop for pics.
This is us at Bylong, where we stopped to let Prez, who was riding like a girl today, catch up

A magnificent lunch was had at the Globe Hotel at Rylstone, while lounging around in the sunny lawns. Tony reminded me to take a pic of the food as that sort of stuff can really push up the ratings of your post on BikeMe (where this ride was posted).

From there we proceeded onto the Sofala road. Prez proved his homosexual tendencies by forsaking the manly pleasures of the Sofala road to slab it back and watch a footy game, bloody footyfag! Tony, Pete and I flew in formation along the incredible twists, turns, dips and rises of the Sofala road but it was all too short as we hit Kelso before climaxing. The climax came on the Oberon to Lithgow road, which we annihilated ferociously, before stopping near Hampton for a rest and some scenic shots.

All up we did about 700Ks, narrowly missed taking out a wallaby (on the Putty road) and a wombat (near Hampton), had a great feed and went home to hot showers (not together) with huge grins. Yeah, was a bloody good day!

This trip was done with my mates Paul and Tony in Jan 2013

9:30AM at the BP on General Holmes Drive near the Sydney Airport, Tony (Redmistracer), Paul (ConRod) and I mount our steeds and I ask “Are we the three musketeers or the 3 amigos?”. Paul, in his typically dry and irreverent Irish drawl says “The 3 stooges” and I thought “yeah, sounds about right.” Now 9:30AM might strike you as a bit of a late start if you’re planning to ride over 800 ks with plenty of twisties thrown in but the 3 of us are unfashionably laid back in rush-rush Sydney. In fact, if we laid back any more, we’d be queenslanders. You can’t beat those fuckers in the special Olympics for laid back people, they’re an hour behind everyone before they even wake up! But as my friend and world famous in Australia author Boris Mihailovic would say, “I’m getting ahead of myself here”.

The run upto Long Flat via Gloucester was uneventful except for getting stuck behind Highway Patrol Car number 202 for a large part of the run down from Gloucester to Taree. Luckily some grey nomad in an ancient caravan crossed the center line a few too many times ahead of us and distracted plod enough for us to sneak past. Long Flat was hot and quiet, with its saving grace being a single motorcycle parked outside, a beautiful black Multistrada 1100, which, in typical ducati tradition, was held together with duct tape. Well at least the left mirror was anyway. Presently we saw the sweaty, singlet clad figure of Wood-Duck emerging from the dark recesses of the pub with a broad smile and an extended hand. I had feared the worst after making him wait for an hour but he was generous in his forgiveness and we headed off to Gingers Creek without faffing.

The run up to Gingers was eventful. ConRod and Tony took off and I’d just reeled in ConRod when coming round a tight left hander I saw Tony across the road in the dirt, enjoying the view from the edge. Apparently his left heated grip slipped down causing the clutch to lock and him unable to downshift just as he was about to hook into the corner. This forced him to go off straight across the other lane and into the dirt, hard on both brakes. He was very lucky there was no one coming the other way and that this was one of the few corners that actually had a bit of runoff. He still did amazingly well to wash off enough speed before reaching the edge, it was a long way down! Anyway, he took it in his stride and shot off to the front again. 

Here’s a video of me watching Tony disappear into the shadows:

It was hot at Gingers and Paul’s face was alternating between beetroot red and ghostly white at alarming intervals and was refusing to move. Just as we were about to call in for the Westpac rescue helicopter, he decided to man up and continue.

I followed Anthony out from Gingers and turned on the video, you can see it here: 

It was a nice, smooth run and I quite enjoyed chasing the wood_duck.

Anthony signed off at the Armidale roundabout on the New England Highway and we soldiered on to Glen Innes with thoughts of being handed cold beers by hot blondes as we lounged in the pool. We were granted 2 and a half out of our three wishes, the beers were not cold enough. Dinner was excellent though.

I was really looking forward to Day 2, not only were we gonna explore the beaut roads of northern NSW, we were also gonna ride with some BikeMe legends. MickR and LindsayMac were at our door at 8:30 sharp and we took off with minimal faffing. Unfortunately, the day was to be full of faff as it unfolded. At Tenterfield, we waited for the northerners at the world famous Masons Milk Bar

and waited...

Tony was not impressed

The queenslanders finally made it a full 1 hour late, at 11AM, minus 1. Apparently Klavdy’s alarm clock was cactus. We were expecting an apologetic and grovelling bunch but when confronted about their delayed arrival, the queenslanders shocked us by unbelievably claiming that they were on time. Redeye even showed me his watch, which said 10AM. It then struck all of us as one, the fucking time difference! None of us bright gentlemen had realized that NSW and QLD were on different times. With the state of origin debate declared a draw, we presented a united front to take on the Bruxner. I made Lindsay the road captain with Tony, redeye, reg, Cyper, MickR, Conrod and I making up the foot soldiers.
It’s a beaut road, the Bruxner. Not always the smoothest, while the melting tar made things even more interesting. Here’s a video of me following Cypher for most of the run. We bitched Reg and MickR along the way while catching up to the lead group of Lindsay, Tony and Redeye. It was amazing watching Cypher punt that Kat, right on the edge of his skinny tyres.

We pulled into Drake for a regroup and it was just as well coz I noticed ConRod’s speedo cable dangling under his front wheel. He was without a speedo for the rest of the trip, who needs a speedo anyway! I had a ball following Lindsay through some twisties before we hit Casino. Lindsay rolls into town, standing high on the pegs on the SM, surveying and intimidating all before him, like a fucken BOSS! He’s sexy and he knows it. In fact, he’s too sexy for his steed and she knows it too, coz she spat the dummy at Casino. Lindsay consulted Mick, who was unable to provide any help other than temporary comic relief:

Lindsay then called the help desk, which connected to a call center in India, where he was urged to switched it off and then on again

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, the inter-state bike builders convention was taking place:

Ultimately it was decided, on the advice of the call center experts that the Kato was cactus and Lindsay’s ride with us was over. He was gonna nurse it back home with Mick volunteering to escort him back. I think rather than any noble intentions guiding Mick’s generosity, it was the thought of getting out of the heat and knocking a few cold ones back at JAF’s place that motivated him.

Anyway, we carried on and I realized redeye was missing. Apparently he was all faffed out and had decided to carry on to Kyogle and wait under a tree for us. Seriously mate, you found the company of a tree preferable to us? The road out from Kyogle to Uki is spectacularly scenic and bumpy in equal measure. I was out in front enjoying myself when the first of those horrendous bumps jarred the shit out of me but Reg, who was behind me, had reserved his A-game for this bit of road. He waited impatiently behind me for a bit and then totally bitched me going downhill on one of those bumpy corners. Don’t know if his substantially greater weight weighed the bike down or the cunt is just nuts but he didn’t even slow down as I was rocking around losing all kinds of traction. Those Kats have been seriously impressive this weekend. Anyway, after being bitched I pretended to take an interest in the scenery and stopped to admire Mt Warning:

Did I mention there were twisties?

The faffers convention finally reached Uki pub, where we were all pretty shagged and partook of various kinds of liquid reinforcement:

Mt Warning hotel (before it burnt down!)

Checking out the only bike worth checking out

The northerners took their leave from here. It was great catching up with you folks and good on you for making the effort. Tony, ConRod and I proceeded towards Mullumbimby enjoying scenic backroads along funnily named villages like MooBall and Billinudgel. We turned into Mullumbimby and then we got onto the road that was really the reason we were up here at all. In Oct 2011, when my wife was pregnant, we stayed in a resort up in the Koonyum range behind Mullmbimby and we’d driven along some of the back roads there. I was so impressed that I’d decided to come back on the bike. That backroad behind Mullumbimby was really what inspired the whole trip and finally I was on it, and man was I ON IT!

We came out at Lismore and then smashed the 100 odd kays to Grafton in 50 minutes. The speedway was on in Grafton as we pulled in around 6 but instead we took a photo of this. 

Thunder boomed and lightning cracked in our paths as we headed into the Armidale road. We remained dry but looking at the state of the road, we had missed out on a pretty awesome storm. It was a fucking sensational experience to ride in the thick jungle on a wet road with all sorts of shit littered round, including sticks fucken. We were victorious.

We popped into Dorrigo at dusk having seen at least 5 different mobs of wallabies on the side of the road. Luckily none of them jumped our way.
Paul and Tony had a classy bromantic dinner with candles and shit to celebrate our arrival

Day 3 dawned cool and glorious on Dorrigo and we were joined by MickR and JAF on his beautiful 1000 Sport.

We did a quick and highly enjoyable run down and back up the Waterfall Way to Thora. Here’s a couple of vids:

We pulled back into Juan’s café in Dorrigo and the Raiders motorcycles bloke pulled up with his trick looking umm…something..

Heading out of Dorrigo, JAF had warned us of the local copper who lurks in the shadows and pounces on mild offenders. I reckon he was just playing with us as it didn’t bloody slow him down! He set a cracking pace along the scenic rolling hills and it was a pleasure following him:

We rolled into Armidale to meet Tom (to see the SuperDuke really!) and caught him right in the middle of his favourite TV show, “The Love Boat”. I don’t think he appreciated us barging in like that coz he didn’t say a single word while we were there. His digital bitch on the other hand, couldn’t keep her mouth shut. 
Was good to meet Tom, what a bloody fighter! Carry on the good fight mate and I look forward to following you out on the SuperDuke one day very soon. 

Mick’s Bike

Tom’s Bike

JAF's Bike

Lindsay’s Bike

We headed on our merry way down the Oxley where just after entering the twisties, we met with the rather disturbing sight of a ZX14 sized hole in the bonnet of a grey Commodore. I stopped to survey the scene and was heartened to see the bloke talking to the paramedics. Later enquiry revealed that there didn’t appear to be any spinal or head injuries though the lower half of his body was a mess. The driver of the car was OK and was actually diverting traffic and I spoke to him. He told me the rider crossed onto his side of the road and hit him head-on at a decent pace, flown over the car and landed about 5 metres behind the car. We headed down to Gingers where we saw the Westpac rescue helicopter land in the paddock. Hope the guy makes it OK. Chatting to the paramedics there I baited them with “The speed kills message is just not getting across is it?” just to see their reaction. To my pleasant surprise, one of the blokes said ”Oh I don’t know, a lot of the guys just run out of talent”. We proceeded at a steady and enjoyable pace down the oxley, taking the Bago road to the highway and then slabbing it. We managed 1 final crack before the rain caught us when we took the Wootton Way exit and what a fucken cracker that is. For anyone that’s done it, you know what I’m talking about. For anyone who hasn’t, it’s a pretty special experience unlike any other you’re likely to have on any road.

I feel like I’ve written a lot, posted too many photos and videos and have still failed to convey much. JAF did it so much better. We pulled up at Mick’s place, he just looked at me, smiled broadly and said 
MOTORCYCLES, FUCKEN!

It’d been raining every day for god knows how long so I was overjoyed to see bright sunlight streaming in through the window as I woke up to a fine Sunday morning. Dean, my Dad and I made it to Eastern Creek raceway around 7:45AM. Though initially reluctant, I’d convinced my Dad to come along to witness a race track for the first time in his life with the assurance that if he didn’t enjoy it, there’s plenty of place to put your feet up and read the paper. I’m happy to report that he was so engaged with the action on track and in the pits that he forgot all about the outside world, though he did manage to snooze off at one stage with Mario warming up his bike in the background :rolleyes:. Thanks to Dean, SR had a double garage all to themselves and when the dust settled, there was 

JC (Dino) – Red group, R6 track bike
Dean – Green group, SuperDuke track bike
Mario – Yellow group, R6 track bike
HarryD – Yellow group, K1200R road bike
Sash (Dean’s mate) – Yellow group, KTM 690SM track bike
Con (Dean’s mate) – Yellow group, K1300R road bike
Pizza – First track day , White group, SV650 LAMS 

At 9AM, there was a loud roar in the garage as Dean’s beast, the SuperDuke, fired up with its trademark, glorious v-twin beat and Dean roared away to sample the new North circuit. Everyone in the garage was eagerly awaiting Dean’s return to quiz him on the new circuit. Soon enough Dean roared back in and you could make out that he’d had a ball. There’s an energy about Dean when he’s on the track, it’s electric and it’s infectious. His whole body gets animated, his grin gets wider and his jokes get funnier . Next out was JC in the fastest group (Red) and I took Dad to the roof to check out the action. It was funny watching his reaction as the first speed demon came screaming down the straight and then the next and the next. He had never seen anything like this in his life and he was speechless! It reminded me of the first time I came out to see a race out here, I’d been speechless for about 15minutes too!

Meanwhile, downstairs in the pits, Pizza had been scurrying around trying to organise a new rear tyre as his had gone flat just this morning. Out of the gloom stepped in Gene and suggested the unthinkable “You can have mine”. Pizza, who’s refused to look at a Hyosung his whole life, now keenly checked out the rear wheel on Gene’s 650 and sure enough, it was in good shape and the right size. But the moral question remained, would he taint the purity of his first track day experience with a part borrowed off a Hyoskunk? After a long think, with all other options exhausted and the prospect of missing out on a significant chunk of track time looming large, Pizza accepted Gene’s generous offer with a sigh and went out for his first ever lap around a race track. Everyone knows Pizza’s a good rider, much too good to be restricted by his Ps. We were all excited for his first outing on track and keen to see how he went, though there was never any doubt that he’d take to it like a fish in water or like Dean put it the other day, like a finger in a bum . He went pretty well on that first run but he was only warming up for the real assault later on.

Anyway, I was on next and the heart was pumping at a million beats per minute with the excitement, anticipation & fear all rolled into one. I went out in the middle of the pack and rode gingerly, feeling out the beemer and the track. Plenty of people passed me, some ducking in the inside and I was even passed by 600s on the straight . I came back in quite neutral, none of the euphoria I’d felt after my first track session but neither was I particularly worried. The beemer was hard to turn in the tight stuff, as expected, but was solid once on its side. The brakes pulled up nicely and I felt like the foundation for the day had been laid. In the next session, Mario lead me out and showed me some lines. I was getting more comfortable and following Mario’s smoother lines, I was getting more drive out of corners. I was going faster, leaning it over a bit more and fewer people passed me while I passed a couple of people as well. By the third session, it started coming together. I was getting the hang of the big beemer, throwing it on its side, scraping the peg or the boot and then picking it up nicely to get the required drive out of corners. I was picking people off who had been overtaking me previously and that was pretty satisfying ! My favourite place for overtaking was between Turn 5 & 10 but I was also getting good drive out of 12 and passing people on the straight. In the fourth session, Dean very generously allowed me a ride on his SuperDuke. I’d been lusting after the SuperDuke ever since a test ride it last year and was really pumped to give it a go on the track. Coming off the lumbering beemer, the SD is so easy to flick side to side that I almost fell off it in pit lane! Out of the starting block, I was taking it nice and easy but the whole thing was shaking like an epileptic tiger! Braking for turn 2, surprisingly there wasn’t much dive, which Dean attributed to the forks being setup for a 100kg body rather than a 75kg one :. It was so easy to lay on its side in turn 2, which is the hardest turn for me on the beemer. But as I went round and round, I realized its limitations as well. The power band was narrow and I was hitting the rev limiter constantly, which violently slowed down the bike. It took me some time to figure out which gear I was in and at one point, coming into turn 12, I managed to hit neutral and coasted into the turn under no power . Must’ve confused the fuck out of the guys behind me! The bike is an absolute blast because of its handling but I think it would take me a while to get used to it.

Pizza, in the meantime, was absolutely destroying the field in White group. The fuckers didn’t know what hit ‘em . Pizza hounded them in the corners, cutting up the inside, taking them on the outside, gunning it out of the corners. Of course, it all turned to shit on the straight as the boys on the big bikes screamed past, leaving him frustrated. Poor Pete! On the last session, he hit the front and had an open track for 4 laps before someone caught up to him, and he had the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on him after that! You did awesome Pete, it was great to see you out there . After the 3rd session Mario had tired of hooning around and running rings around the folks in yellow group and sensibly upgraded to Green. We witnessed some awesome moments with Dean leading and Mario hanging onto his back wheel as they cut through the field, while practicing Dean's Fuck'em method of riding. 

For the 5th session, I was back on the beemer and revving to go. I was 6th or 7th in the line to get out and went balls out from the word go this time, braking hard for turn 2. What the beemer lacks in agility, it makes up for in stability under braking and ball crushing power exiting corners. I went out wide to the left for turn 3 and then cut back to the right to setup for turn 4, just like Mario had showed me. Hard on the gas exiting 3, the front wheel gets air before I start setting up for turn 4, which had frustrated me all day. But this session, I got it right a couple of times, hard on the brakes going downhill, the beemer stable as a rock, I cut the apex on the left hander and setup for a fast, wide exit out of turn 5. With the beemer’s wide spread of torque, I’m able to maintain 3rd gear between exiting turn 5 and slowing down for turn 10 so there’s no chance for the guy behind me to make a move. I nail turn 12, taking a wide entry and gradually easing the giant back to vertical as I use all of the track entering the straight. Crouching under the meagre screen, I upshift to 3rd, 4th, 5th everything’s a blur, from the corner of my eye I spy the speedo at 230 as I’m still accelerating past the 300M mark. I sit up at 200M and dab the front brake gently while downshifting to 4th around 200M, shift my body weight left before hooking into the mega fun Turn 1. Hold the line trying not to look into the grass where a guy is pushing his red sportsbike to the wall. Turn 1 is fukking EPIC Fun if you carry decent speed through it! 
We still had 1 session to go but it had been a hot, tiring day and we were all ready to pack it in so our garage cleared out pretty quickly and we said our goodbyes knowing we’d all had a pretty special day.

That last session was just incredible for me and I was amazed at the beemer’s poise under some hard riding. Throughout the day, it didn’t miss a beat, no wobbles under braking, no front end pushing over bumps while leaned over, no “moments” anywhere really and it gave me limitless power and pull whenever I asked of it. Fuck, I gave it my all in that last session but couldn’t induce the slightest bit of temperamental handling. I came to the track to find out what the big lumbering beemer could do and its satisfying to know that it can do a lot more than I can .