The Great MT-01 Road Trip Of ‘09
By J.D.
It all started a couple of weeks ago.
It was a Sunday morning. I was nursing the second hangover of the weekend while sitting at my computer, dicking around on BIKE ME! when something prompted me to have a look at what Yamaha MT-01s were currently listed on Bike Sales and Bike Point.
This was a pastime I had been assiduously avoiding in order to keep my lust for one of these machines under control. I have learned from experience that if I wasn't careful to keep a lid on my passion, the voices of the many monkeys who revel with barely constrained aggression on my back would be loosed and in no time my lustful desiring would be fuelled to a junkie's level of neediness by their incessant chattering.
"Your life is wasted, without an MT-01."
"You have achieved nothing without an MT-01."
"You are not a REAL man without an MT-01."
"Everybody knows these truths John, get one, get one, get one."
And so on, and so on. But on this morning, for some reason, I decided to risk it, and when the googlebot unlocked the page I had selected, my eyes widened with disbelief. Right there, at the top of the list was a shining example of beautiful MT-ism which the owner claimed was not only in pristine condition but crucially, had been fitted with the full stage three kit, a modification I had previously identified as a requisite for any MT-01 I seriously considered owning.
In twelve months of scanning the "bikes for sale" sites, this was the only Stage 3 kitted MT I had ever seen offered and I knew that to shut those back raping monkeys up and reclaim my manhood, I must have this bike. I reached for the phone without allowing my eyes to leave the computer screen lest this motorcycle be gone when I looked back, leaving me to wonder if the road gods themselves had snapped it up or if it had all just been an hallucination the result of too much beer, consumed too quickly, followed by a late night chicken vindaloo and only a couple of hours sleep. A rest made unnaturally deep by middle level alcohol poisoning, combined with oxygen deprivation due to asphyxiatingly high quantities curry fart gas...
Ring, ring. Ring, ring, "Hi, you've reached Tom and your call is important to me"...
But I gave a calm and reasonable reaction to the automated non response. "Ahh yeah, ahem, howdy Tom, my name is John and I am calling about the bike you advertised. Ring me back when it's convenient will you?" (The good manners which were painfully inserted deep within me by the Catholic Brothers during the terrifying years of my education, often save me from having to apologize for emotional over reactions.)
And that was it for the day. I had done all I could do to make this dream a reality. And just as well really. I needed time to consider some very important questions, such as: was I really prepared to purchase such an expensive motorcycle at the drop of a hat? I am in Adelaide, the bike is in Sale, Victoria, how would I arrange the logistics? What about my R1? Hell, what about my wife? She generally seems to like to be consulted on purchases valued at over about twenty dollars or so. I had many head miles to ride across on this unexpectedly exciting Sunday. I kept my desire for this beautiful artefact private. To do less may curse the whole thing and provide a chance for the road god anti Christ (the god of flat tyres, gravel strewn corners and double demerit weekends) to mock my craving by stymieing my efforts in one of a thousand possible ways before they even really got started. And with a hangover which suddenly felt much less severe, I closed the Bikepoint tab, pushed the office chair away from the desk, arose, and went in search of coffee.
Tom (the bikes owner) finally managed to ring me twenty eight hours and seventeen minutes later. Not that I was counting or anything. He sounded every bit as relaxed and casual as I was alert and tense. I searched every word or lack thereof, every vocal tone and inflection for clues regarding his trustworthiness in relation to the bike, its authenticity and its general condition. "Yeah mate, it's a top bike orright and I really don't wanna sell it. Hafta but, I'm getting divorced an' I need the cash to pay out my ex." This apparently passed as a good enough reason in Tom's mind to part with one fine motorcycle. It made absolutely no sense to me but it sure did suit.
"Umm, that's real sad, Tom" I said in my best marriage counsellor's voice, "now let's try staying focused on talking about the bike." And with that sort of occasional encouragement, I eventually got enough information to confirm that, yes indeed; I needed to do all within my power to make this MT-01 a permanent fixture in my shed. In my mind's eye it complimented the R1 beautifully. I could imagine them sitting there, like a pair of Yamaha bookends. Two completely different takes on the modern motorcycle: the light weight four cylinder screamer and the unfaired v-twin thumper. High horsepower versus high torque. Motorcycledom's version of Yin and Yang. What an indulgence it would be to open the shed door and be faced with the delicious dilemma of which phallus to rape the roads with today.
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J.D. knows what c*rs are for. They're for bringing MT-01s home. |
Before I went much further I made some enquiries and discovered the cost of having the bike trucked over and ruled that out. Melbourne to Adelaide was reasonable but Sale to Melbourne was ridiculous. Another option was for me to fly over and ride it back but the fact that there were also spares to transport and the logistics of getting from the airport to Sale made that solution too problematic. This left one clear choice: get in the Hi-Ace van I use for work, drive to Sale, check the bike out and if all is well, load it up, turn around and drive back home. The van is equipped with a kick arse stereo, climate control and was somewhere to sleep if I needed to, so wasn't a bad alternative. Also it has a large BIKE ME! sticker on the rear window and is therefore somewhat righteous.
"Fuck it." I thought. "I'm gunna do it". I made two more phone calls. The first was to the Yamaha dealer who I was told fitted the stage three kit, to ensure that I wasn't being conned; and when that went even better than I could have hoped for, I made the all important call to Tom and verbally at least, the deal was done. The next hoop for me to jump through was to inform my wife that another motorcycle was coming to live with us. I looked for the perfect moment over the next few days. I have learned from years of experience that when breaking news of this magnitude, good timing is crucial. Bringing it up at the wrong moment could easily make things very sticky indeed.
As it turned out, I chose a sunny Saturday morning, and whilst the pretty one idly sipped a coffee and perused the daily paper, I casually dropped into the conversation (I didn't want to make it sound like any big deal) that I had decided to buy another bike. Now, this could have gone either way so I was more than a little relieved to find that she didn't anger up or laugh out loud (both signs of a difficult discussion to follow) and when, after I provided some brief details, she told me that she was considering getting some cosmetic surgery, I knew that I had the MT-01 in the bag. I also knew instinctively that I would have to come up with a few thousand dollars more now, because it would be me who would be required to pay for the eyebrow lift as a trade off for a clear run to purchasing the much desired Yamaha.
I agreed to her ransom and immediately made plans to drive to Sale. On the following Friday night I kept my relaxation down to a lonely six pack and went to bed at a reasonable hour in preparation for an early start. I managed to get on the road by four a.m. on the Saturday morning but lasted only two hours before I needed to pull up for a kip. My plan was to drive straight through, do the deal, load the bike up, turn around and do an express return run. I intended to stop only for fuel and a power nap whenever I felt the need. Resting at just two hundred and fifty kilometers into a one thousand, eight hundred and eighty kay trip however wasn't quite what I had in mind. Still, I was nodding off and left unattended, that had the potential to severely spoil my weekend. So I pulled up, got into the back of the van and slept for thirty minutes.
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J.D. leaves Adelaide... |
Back on the road, I noticed that the sun was throwing colours of deep red and brilliant orange into the sky on my left and I was feeling much more alert. Coffee and breakfast were on my mind and I intended to avail myself of them at my next planned stop which would be for fuel at a place called Bordertown. I still had a good half a tank left but this was the last chance to buy diesel in South Australia and that meant the last opportunity to book it to the company account, so stop I did.
I want it to be known that the Shell in Bordertown is my least favourite fuel outlet in the nation. It is in a run down, ugly building, staffed by humourless morons and the food in the grubby bain marie usually looks like it would give a rat dysentery. This has been my opinion every time I have stopped there but it is the only petrol station in town open at this hour so I pulled into the depressing driveway and hoped that this time things would be different. But they weren't. I looked at the food which was ready to go. Chips, dim sims allegedly, and some curious crumbed objects which may have been chicken... or maybe not. All three appeared to have been there for far too long. I wondered if they were the same ones I had seen sitting there last March, on my way to the Superbikes.
As hungry as I was, I decided to play it safe and opted for coffee only.
"Cappuccino, thanks", I smiled.
"The only coffee we have is in the machine over there. Two dollars," the trog grunted.
I rolled a coin in her general direction and grabbed the cardboard cup she poked at me. "Have yourself a lovely day, Petal", I said, without a hint of sarcasm, and turned on my heel. The machine itself was a relic from a past era. Surely, I figured, they must have procured it at a garage sale or from some rural bric-a-brac shop. Still, I needed what it promised to contain and ignoring the tacky condition of the buttons, I jabbed at them and made good my selection. Nothing happened at first then a thin grey liquid spurted out in starts and stops, looking alarmingly like dishwater. I convinced myself that it would be okay, wrestled the ill-fitting plastic cover onto the cup and left.
