G'Day all.
Well I made it
home alive. I have written a spiel about my adventures and appreciate that it would be better suited as a blog but unfortunatley, not being a member, I can't create a blog. If it's removed, then so be it. No ill feelings towards the admins if the decision is made to do so, however, there is something in this for all of us. Enjoy.
Fab.
I used to be scared of bikies.
As a
child growing up, the sight and sound of men (and sometimes ladies) rolling into town on their loud Harley Davidson motorcycles, wearing bug splattered clothes, with their unshaven sun toughened faces and carrying what looked like their only possessions rolled up on the back of their bikes, was enough for me to tighten the grip on my mother’s hand and cower behind her until the noise passed and those bad people passed too.
As time went on, I learnt to appreciate the freedom and sense of achievement that comes from owning a Harley Davidson. It’s not only about the sound. It’s also about the uninterrupted view that only a motorcycle can offer and the notion that riding a Harley enables you to fit into that stereotype of cruising the roads rather than racing them. Despite owning two Harleys in my lifetime over a period of 14 years, I still couldn’t fathom what the attraction was of giving up an air conditioned car and a comfortable bed, to embark on motorcycle road trip. Sure, I had clocked up plenty of
miles on the bike, but never had I had the urge to go on a road trip. That was about to change.
I was having a typical stressful day at work when a text message came through from my brother in law, Darren. It was short and simple. “Doing a road trip. Wanna come?” Before my head had a chance to digest what this actually entailed, my fingers had responded with a bold “YUP”. What was I thinking? What would my wife say? Could I get the time off work? How could I pack all my possessions onto the bike? How long for? And where the hell were we going? As the time drew closer, I realized that the significance of most of these questions was unimportant. Especially the last one – Where were we going? Unlike family holidays with schedules, timetables, agendas etc, going on a road trip enabled us to proverbially speaking leave our watches, maps and agendas at
home and go where the road takes us. OK, so we had a bucket list which was as crude as a departure date and time, a basic destination and an approximate return date. Other than that, we were at the mercy of the road, the weather, and our tolerance to extended hours in the saddle.
So here we were. Four blokes, four bikes, and five days. Darren, a used car sales manager (and also my brother in law) on his 04 Softail. Ray, a RAAF technician on his 2010 Softail. Clint, a butcher on his Yamaha Royal Star. And of course myself, a Quality and Environmental Co-ordinator on my 07 Softail. It was early light on Saturday morning when we saddled up with our freshly shaven faces, clean leathers and shiny bikes. Leaving our comfortable homes we rolled through the quiet suburban streets of
Adelaide and headed East on our trip into the great unknown.
Our first stop was relatively close. We stopped at
Tailem Bend for coffee and fuel. A convoy of cars rolled into the service station, all towing “drift” cars. We all wondered what was the big attraction of racing around a circuit, shredding tyres and creating copious amounts of tyre smoke? They probably had their opinions of us too, but neither them, nor us discussed those opinions as we politely exchanged greetings. Then just as we were about to leave, there they were. A group of bikies rolled in on their loud bikes wearing bug splattered clothes and looking rather road weary. I was still wondering what would drive a person into doing that when I realized that I was doing the exact same thing.
Later that afternoon, we rolled into the town of
Stawell. After 500kms of riding, my backside was glad to see our first stop over point. What this meant was a cool shower and a rest for my red irritated eyes, which through poorly fitting sunglasses and a bought of hayfever gave me the appearance of being stoned and unrested. Only the later was true. Strangely enough, within the hour, we were back on the bikes for a short ride to the town of
Halls Gap for some sightseeing. The 40km round trip to
Halls Gap and back was more the kind of ride that I was accustomed too. The preceding 500kms was still unfathomable.
The next morning we all woke early. We were keen to hit the road and beat some of the forecasted heat. I looked at my leather jacket and helmet and was somewhat put off by the number of dead insects that adorned them. Taking a damp cloth, I wiped them clean,
well, cleaner any way. We mounted our iron horses and rode towards a rising sun, bound for
Ballarat and breakfast with some clown called Ronald MacDonald.
As we turned off the highway and rode down the Avenue of Honors, I quietly reflected at all the lost soles that had fallen fighting for my freedom, our freedom. Every tree is marked by a small commemorative
plaque with the name of a fallen soldier. I love the beauty of roadside trees and the shade they offer from the scorching Australian sun, but I wanted this line of trees to end. Why should I be allowed to be out enjoying myself when
young men, half my age had died fighting wars which more often than not were not ours? Why? I swallowed hard but pressed on.
Upon leaving
Ballarat, I took a wrong turn which entailed performing an illegal U turn. I can only imagine what the other road users were thinking. Not only was I a “Bloody tourist” but I was also one of those undesirable people in society that ride a Harley. Whilst I got myself back on track, Clint was waiting on the side of the road. Our group rode together, and we stayed together. I’m not sure how, but somehow a car managed to reverse into Clint’s bike while he was parked. Although only minor damage was sustained, of which Clint really wasn’t concerned, I’m sure the car driver was expecting the worse as they quickly sped off. The bent gear lever wasn’t what worried Clint, it was the fact that the driver failed to stop to see if Clint, who was sitting on his bike at the time, was alright and perhaps offer an apology.
Arriving in Geelong I felt a strange sense of familiarity. Geelong is not that much different than Elizabeth in South Australia. An area which survives on automotive manufacturing and its supplier base. The socio-economic structure of the area means that it’s not uncommon to see a Mercedes SLK next to a beat up Falcon sharing pole position at the traffic lights. Although only metres separated the cars, the two very different drivers will never share a beer or be seen at the same social function together. While one person worries about how they will pay their utility bills, the other worries about how they will afford their lifestyle if fortunes were to change. Prejudices aside, and with all things equal, the battler with his minimalist lifestyle would have a better chance of survival. Does this make the battler a stronger, smarter person? Unfortunately society doesn’t think so. I too am guilty of making prejudicial judgments of people. Remembering back to my childhood days where I harbored a fear for those bad men on their Harleys.
Torquay, a beautiful seaside town just minutes from Geelong yet a world away in other aspects. The town was vibrant, the houses were fresh looking and filled with smiling people who all appeared to be in holiday mode and many of them were. The main street was adorned with Eateries, Ice Creameries and surf shops. The town was alive with hundreds of people enjoying the first warm days of the year. Almost immediately, the town became deserted as the masses packed up and left for the drive back to Geelong,
Melbourne or some other town and back to their 9 to 5 lives.
Later that evening after dinner, Ray and I left Darren and Clint at the pub playing snooker while we walked the streets eating ice cream and talking. Ray spoke briefly about his work life, always a good ice breaker between two people that really don’t know each other. Then the conversation turned more personal. Ray started to talk about his daughter. Right from the get-go, it was obvious that Ray was incredibly proud of his daughter’s academic and sporting achievements. The minutes turned into hours yet at no stage was I disinterested in what Ray had to say. It became evident at this stage that Ray was showing the signs of missing his family and perhaps this was the catalyst for Ray’s decision to leave the group the next morning and ride back to
Adelaide, some 900kms away. I later found out that Ray was being deployed overseas the following week. My memory returned to the Avenue of Honors in
Ballarat and hoped to God that a tree bearing Ray’s name would never be planted. Ever.
The mood was good as we fuelled up and pointed our trustworthy bikes west for the start of The Great Ocean Road. This is what we had come to do, and now we were doing it. We rode through scenic picturesque seaside towns and witnessed some of the most breathtaking coastline Australia has to offer. After a brief stop for a quick bite to eat we continued on. The plan was to ride to the Twelve Apostles for a quick photo opportunity and then press on to Warrnambool for lunch. None of us could have foreseen the drama that lay ahead.
After plenty of photos were taken, we kitted up and fired up our bikes for an 80km ride into Warrnambool. Just as Darren engaged first gear, his bike engine died. He tried to restart it but it was dead. Nothing lit up on the dash panel and the starter wouldn’t engage. That familiar thumping noise of the big V Twin engine was replaced by the sound of the proverbial crickets. An attempt by a tourist bus operator to jump start the bike worked but only for so long as the jumper leads were connected. As soon as the leads were removed, the sound of silence was again heard. This was a worry. A big worry.
After a quick diagnosis, it was agreed that the battery had failed, albeit in a fashion that neither Darren nor myself with our 30 plus years of combined automotive experience had ever encountered. The battery was removed and Clint and I waved Darren goodbye as we set off 12kms down the road to Port Campbell for a replacement battery. I was quietly confidant that based on the larger number of ride on mowers we had passed; we would soon find a battery. Arriving at a service station come workshop at Port Campbell the owner came out to greet us. He briefy shared his motorcycling history with us and also dismay when we mentioned it wasn’t a case of just kick starting the stranded motorcycle. It seems his motorcycling past preceded the advent of electric starters and furthermore he hadn’t sold a battery in years. With reliability of motor vehicles improving over the years, this one time talented mechanic was now left to see his working life out having to be content as driveway attendant pumping fuel. He was however, able to point us in the direction of a motorcycle garage in nearby Timboon, a short 17kms away.
With heightened expectations, we arrived at Timboon. No street map or directions were required. The Husqvarna dealer stood out like an oasis to a thirty desert traveler. Walking into the workshop, we were greeted by a
young lady at the counter. No sooner had we put the old battery on the counter and she said recited the part number for the battery. What the…? Another stereotype was shattered right there. She walked off to the parts rack and returned with a similar battery but unfortunately stated that although they usually stock the battery we required, the onset of the ride-on mower season also meant that they had sold out. The suggested battery wasn’t going to be suitable so we started making alternate plans. By this time the mechanic had appeared from the workshop and with phone in hand started ringing around to find us a battery.
Several phone calls later, one was found in Warrnambool, some 50kms further away. By now, he had also tested the battery and confirmed our suspicions that the battery had open circuited, the reason why the bike wouldn’t run once the jumper leads were removed. With no other alternative, and no mention of any payment for their help, we thanked the people and headed off to Warrnambool.
Having received the phone call from Timboon, the bloke at Battery World had the battery charged and ready for us upon our arrival. With no time to lose and the realization that Darren was now over 80kms away, we turned around to retrace the roads we had just traveled, but in the opposite direction. We passed back through Timboon just long enough to pick up the nuts and bolts we had left behind with the old battery just in case we needed them and just long enough for the mechanic to offer to
check the bike over if we passed back through once we got it running, again with no suggestion that any payment would be required. Had this have happened in
Adelaide,
Melbourne or any other major city, there is no doubt that every bit of help would have come at a price.
As it turned out, our decision to get the nuts and bolts was a good one. Within minutes of arriving back at the Twelve Apostles, Darren’s bike came to life. The loud sound of the V Twin was eclipsed by the sound of our sighs of relief. Again we hit the road. By this time Clint and I felt like locals along this familiar stretch of road. Passing through Port Campbell, we beeped our horns and waved as we passed the driveway attendant at the service station who was sitting out the front waiting for business to arrive, or perhaps for some other motorist who would also be subjected to his recollections of days gone by. Perhaps we too would find a place in history as those blokes form
Adelaide who broke down at the Twelve Apostles on their new fang dangled motor “sickles” that didn’t have kick starters. Who knows?
As fate would have it, the back roads had taken their toll on my front tyre and arriving at Warrnambool, my first priority became getting a replacement tyre for my bike. With two bike shops in town, I was quietly confidant. The first bike
shop I went to didn’t have a new one, but was able to supply me with a second hand one which upon inspection, was found to be almost new. With minutes to spare before closing time, the tyre was fitted and balanced and we were once again on our way. Our choice was to press on against the impending forecasted rain to place ourselves as close to the rain front as possible so that it would hopefully pass us over night. This was a strategy that paid off.
Port Fairy is where we stayed that night. Only some 30kms from Warrnambool, the rain started at 3am and lasted until 6am. After a brief follow on shower at about 9am, the decision was made to depart
Port Fairy at 9.30am once the rain had ceased and the roads had started to dry. The wet weather gear was slipped on just in case (for those that had it – not me) and we cautiously rode out of town towards
Portland. Thankfully that was the last of the rain we were to see.
Just short of the main street of
Portland Clint signaled for us to pull over. We did this. No sooner had our bikes come to rest and Clint was on the phone. He had felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. What could be so important? Surely the reason behind this road trip was to leave distractions behind. As it turned out, Clint’s Red Healer dog named Boof which he referred openly to as “his best mate” was not
well. It seems all the phone calls Clint had been making in the days prior were to
check on Boof’s wellbeing. Clint’s eyes started to
well up and turn red. I knew in an instant that this was not a symptom of the Hayfever I had been enduring. This was something more serious.
Boof had internal bleeding and was unable to eat or drink. The 14 year old veteran of many a camping trip was failing and no miracle could save him. With a few simple words the decision was made by Clint to put his best mate out of his misery. Silence fell amongst us. As the tears streamed down the face of this hardened bikie we tried to console him with suggestions that he did the right thing. Clint came to the realization that he had done everything he could, fate had come calling for Boof and it was his time to go. With a simple nod from Clint, we put our helmets back on and continued on.
We stopped at
Mount Gambier for lunch and after a quick lap of the town and a photo opportunity at the
Blue Lake, we pressed on towards
Robe which was destined to be our next overnight stop. Being on a bike where you don’t have the distractions of the radio or people to talk to, a rider has plenty of time to think. After the events of the day, my thoughts turned to my own family. My wife, my three kids and of course my two dogs at
home. Did they miss me? Who knows? Did I miss them? Absolutely. As every kilometer rolled past, my attention turned towards the distance to
Adelaide rather than the distance to
Robe. It was clear in my mind that
home is where I wanted to be.
Arriving at
Robe, I informed Darren and Clint that I had decided to push on through to
Adelaide. It was 2.30pm and by my calculations, I could be
home by dinner time. We said our goodbyes and I went solo. The kilometers ticked away while my mind replayed the events of the last few days. I laughed behind my skull printed face mask at the good times we had had. Darren’s drunken antics. The jokes and ribbing that we gave each other on a daily basis and at every opportunity. I recalled the hospitality we received everywhere we went, the help we received when we most needed it. The faces of the people we met and the stories they told us. I especially laughed when I remembered the old drunk guy in the caravan park at
Torquay who told us that he used to be a member of the Bell’s Angels. Yep…that’s what he said, Bell’s Angels. But I also shed a tear thinking back to the events earlier that day and what had happened between Clint and Boof. Above all, I reflected back on the last few days and realized that it’s road trips like ours that bring mates together.
With a sudden thud I was bought back to reality. A duck had flown across my path and had struck my handle bars. My bike was now not only blanketed with bugs but it was adorned in enough feathers to make the perfect entry into
Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. The impact had also extended to covering my jacket and the leg of my jeans with duck bits. It was not a pretty sight. I pushed on towards
Tailem Bend where I had planned to refuel.
After refueling at the same service station I had some 1800 kilometres before, I assessed the damage. The bike, although soiled was unscarred. My clothing had taken a battering but I was OK. I wiped away what I could along with a few dead bugs that had penetrated my now sun burnt face that showed the signs of a 700 kilometer day in the saddle. Just as I mounted the bike something caught my eye. A small boy, no older than 6 or 7 was walking past with his mum. I watched as the boy cowered behind his mum and squeezed her hand. What had caused this reaction? Then looking down at my Harley Davidson motorcycle, wearing bug splattered clothes, with my unshaven sun toughened face and carrying what looked like my only possessions rolled up on the back of my bike, it dawned upon me. I had become the person that as a
child I had feared.
I gave a smile which went unnoticed and rode off to into the sinking sun to cover the last 100 uneventful kilometres towards
home.