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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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