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BORIS' CHRISTMAS RIDE

MEN AND BEASTS - 2006 XMAS RIDE

 Pics: Minoz, Mick, Klink

BORIS' STORY: BLACK BEAST BOOGIE

I was very concerned about my Annual Xmas Road Party. In fact, in the whole 25 years I've been having it, this, the 26th year, was the one I was most worried about.

I had good reason to be. I was about to ride some very demanding roads on a Suzuki Boulevarde M109R; bike so large and powerful it could swat me like a cockroach and leave me spritzing my life's blood into some godforsaken table drain in a nanosecond of lost concentration.

And I'd been having a few of those nanoseconds lately, as you all probably know.

Then there was the motley assortment of riding companions. Everyone of whom I had never ridden any distance with before. Except Mick. I knew he could ride, but he'd never ridden the Oxley, which has this habit of surprising even the most devilishly skilled rider. He was also on a Goldwing and the only plus I could see there was that I could probably keep him in sight for most of the trip.

As for the rest of them - all unknown quantities. I didn't know if they could ride, I had no idea if they turned into yodelling retards after one too many shandies, I didn't know if they would cry if it got too hot/fast/crazy... it was all a series of great unknown factors.

Counterpointing my spasming sphincter was my sheer feral joy at getting away on a serious blast after such a long time off-line. So I was a bit fey and tetchy pulling into the abandoned servo I picked as the rendezvous point.

As departure time approached, I could tell this was gonna be an interesting ride.

Mick, as you know, was on the GoldWing. Our Director of Photography, the Son of Elvis, was on Mick's hotted-up Gixxer Thou (he races mountain bikes downhill, so I knew he was a brave and crazy man), the rest were members off the website --and unknown factors, as I've said.

Minoz and Sandy - a delightful couple, riding a crippled Bandit 1200 and a stickered-up SV650 respectively.

Big TimM, on a clapped-out Kwaka 250 he'd borrowed 'cos he so wanted to go for a ride.

Busababe and Logana - her on her strife-plagued Hayabusa and him on a multicoloured GSX bitsa he'd thrown together in his garage the night before.

Al - our sensationally devilish web grandmaster, astride Yamaha's flagship touring beast, looking like an old school bikie complete with Brando jacket and Aviator shades. He needed Rossi touring boots with footy socks to tuck his jeans into to be in a complete time warp.

Spotted Quoll was meeting us in Walcha tomorrow and Madart was somewhere between somewhere and Tamworth. The immaculate Klink had yet to materialise on his gorgeously turned out Buell, but when I say I leave at 7am, I do.

So I did.

Mick and I quickly adopted the standard touring speed, and before three corners were done, our mirrors were empty. Until about 20km into the trip when Klink manifested in them. I waved and turned the throttle to the stop to see if the Boulevarde was all I really thought it may be.

It so bloody was. It not only left the big 'Wing for dead out of corners, it left the poor Buell gasping to keep up on long straights and very fast sweepers. Anything that is signposted 55km/h and up is a delight of stability and overwhelming torque. I learned very quickly that like all long wheel-based shaft-drives, staying on the throttle is the secret to smooth lines. Back off too sharp and it will try and stand up on you. Lesson learned and hardwired, I carried on, and the further and harder I rode it, the more impressed I became.

Here is a bike that can take it to the only other two true power cruisers on earth. It'll match the Rocket III with acceleration so eye-searingly brutal, you'll have to catch your breath before you can say SHIT!" out loud. And it will crush a V-Rod with absolute contempt.

This crushing ability does come at a cost - the 19-litre fuel tank will provide close to 320 klicks if you toddle along like a civilised gentleman. Ride it in anger and you'll be grateful to get 195 out of a tank.

Handling was surprisingly accurate, despite its massive rear tyre and long wheelbase, and I found the gearbox to be a bit clunky from first to second, no matter how many different approaches to clutch and throttle I tried. It clunks from first to second, so be it.

Engine braking is massive, but virtually unnecessary given its magical GSX-R braking heritage and upside-down front-end. The back brake was one of the best I have ever stomped on - especially on a feet-forward cruiser like this.

The suspension struggled at times, but only over very uncertain or roughly corrugated surfaces. But then most things do. It didn't do anything bizarre, it just struggled a touch at the pace we were doing. I can't say I blame it, actually.

But the very best thing about the Boulevarde, and what sets it apart from all other cruisers is its ability to be punted at speed without the rider having to hang on for grim death against the wind blast. The sloped headlight cowl and tacho seem to be positioned perfectly to deflect the wind blast over your head, so even with your feet forward, arms-apart stance, there is actually very little wind pressure slamming you backwards. Great stuff, Suzuki. Somebody finally realised that not all cruiser riders toddle around like pooves on parade.

By the time we got to the Putty's Halfway House, I was gurning and hooting like a mongoloid gibbon. But then I realised that only Mick, Klink and I were present.

"The others must be dead!" I said to myself. "I'm doomed. I took these bastards out for a ride and killed them!"

Then Al pulled in, followed in rapid succession by the rest.

"I can't believe how fast you guys ride!" Logana puffed. He kept saying that all weekend, but each time Mick just looked blankly at him. I didn't get it either. I thought everyone rode more or less like I did. Mick rides faster than anyone I know, but me? I doubt it.

And it also didn't make a great deal of sense given I was on a cruiser (but what a bloody cruiser!), Mick was on the superb 'Wing and Logana was on a GSX-R 750, but then I was just grateful the man was alive.

Coffee, fuel and back up the road we went. Another brief fuel stop at Muswellbrook as the temperature climbed into the 30s and then as fast a dash as we dared to the Willow Tree hotel for a bracing ice cold beer. Yes, of course I drink beer when I go away on rides. I have one every two hours or so. Why wouldn't I?

Nundle was our lunch stop (and the usual place I eat when doing this loop for AMCN or my own amusement), but Klink almost made sure we all went to visit him in Tamworth Base Hospital.

Mick had spooked a mangy looking 'roo out of the table drain 20 klicks outta Nundle and it ran straight at me. I kicked and pulled on every braking device the Boulevard had fitted, and was astounded at how fast it came down from 220. So was Klink, 'cos he went sailing past me and straight at the bouncing rat, only to miss it by about half a metre.

Pants freshly filled with shit, we pulled up at Nundle and ate like shipwrecked sailors. 

I then went to deal with my fuel issue. I'd last filled up at the Halfway House and the fuel light started blinking just outside Willow Tree. It stopped blinking and just glared at me from the Nundle turn-off. Like all people employed to write the odd yarn about bikes, I figured I'd see how far a tank took me. I discovered how far this was when I put 18.86 litres into the tank at Nundle.

"Is that a 24-litre tank?" Mick asked.

"Um, it looks like it," I shrugged, utterly unaware at the time that it was in fact a 19-litre fuel tank.

After lunch, we camera-ed up Mick and Klink and I led them at a respectable pace to Tamworth, simultaneously obtaining some rather, um, exciting footage of the Boulevarde bringing on its beast boogie, and marvelling at just how fast and hard a GoldWing can go when one knows what one's doing on it.

I was also relieved to see that Klink has some rather zesty bike-riding kung-fu at his disposal as well. He certainly isn't scared to let the Buell have a gallop and looks very measured and calm in my rear view mirrors.

I told him so as we floated in the Powerhouse's marvellous pool. I think he must have been flattered cos he went to get beer for me.

The others had also arrived safely, and were in the pool fighting off the 40-degree heat and drinking beer. Is there a better way to finish off a long, hard ride? Perhaps. But I'll be buggered if I've ever been able to get the right assortment of Thai prostitutes delivered on time into small country towns.

Dinner, as is usual at the Powerhouse, was an orgy of great service and sensational tucker. It ain't cheap, but then what price can a man put on his enjoyment?

There was some cheesecloth-wearing bird banging away on a guitar, but after I spoke to her about playing any more Cranberry covers, she must have turned it down a touch and left us to our drinking.

I even managed to go swimming at about 10pm. It helped sober me up a touch, but then we started arguing religion and politics over a bottle of average Scotch, so I didn't stay that way for very long.

The next morning the Ox was waiting just up the road - and all my feelings of trepidation and worry started surfacing again. The Putty didn't kill them, but the Ox probably would. It was longer, faster and far more technically demanding than the Putty. Constant concentration was a must.

I was feeling much better about my own riding, but I was concerned that everyone else was concerned about how fast Mick, Klink and I were allegedly travelling.

"Please pay attention to the road," I burped at them all as we suited up. "The Ox is not a friendly bit of bitumen and if you get it wrong, it could get very, very ugly. Ride at your own pace or I will kick your steaming remains all through the forest if I find them." Then I realised I sounded like a twat and shut up.

If they died, they died.

We picked up Spotted Quoll in Walcha. He was riding a veritable history lesson of a BMW and looking like one would imagine an old school, life-long rider would look. I loved him instantly. I was soon in awe of his bike riding skills.

Mick and I led the way up until it became very tight, when we waved Madart and Klink on, before setting off in hot pursuit... or at least Mick did. I was wallowing around on the seat so much, trying to heave the Boulevarde from 45km/h corner to 45km/h corner, that the sheepskin cover bunched up under my arse and left me sitting on a wadded up lump of lamb hide and unable to ride. So I stopped, waved Mick on and struggled to fix it.

A savage buzzing noise filled my helmet and Quoll went hurtling by, probably wondering why I was sitting in the middle of the road playing with my groin.

I set off in pursuit, but it was pointless. Not all the power in the world makes any difference if there is not enough ground clearance. Still, I wasn't all that far behind - maybe three corners - but when I got to Ginger's Creek, there was no Mick.

"Where's Mick?" I asked.

"He went past here like he was on a mission," Madart shrugged. "I think he's chasing us."

"Oh God," I said. "He'll stop when he runs you down, but since you're here, he'll stop when he hits the Pacific Ocean."

The rest arrived unscathed and buzzing like a swarm of bees. The Ox has that effect. If it doesn't kill you, it makes you the happiest person on earth.

We decided against lunch, having eaten a monstrous breakfast and opted for cold beer at Long Flat instead. And after entertaining Madart and Quoll with my cornering antics aboard the Boulevard, we finally came off the range and I gave the big Zook its head. Nothing came close. 85 and 95 kay sweepers were devoured at speeds so obscenely vile I was ashamed of myself. Rock solid stability was my reward and a grin the size of the Great Australian Bight.

Long Flat beer welcomed me with icy kisses of happiness and I rode into Port Macquarie a happy and contented man.

We ensconced ourselves at The Pier cos it had Hoegaarden on tap, and apart from a brief trip to our motel to dump our bikes and get a lift back in the courtesy bus, we didn't much move all night.

But we did go to one other place after the couples went home to have grunty hog sex with each other, leaving me, Mick, Quoll, Tim and Madart to stare at the never-ending parade of delightful young babes out on a hot Saturday night. Then The Pier closed and Monique, the barmaid who'd been Quoll's special love-interest all evening said we should go to the Beach House up on the water. They had good beer there and lots of things to look at, she said.

So we went.

Interestingly, even though most of us were old enough to have fathered the perfumed hordes who were in there, none of us had. So it was quite moral and proper and right that we admired them for the stunning examples of barely-dressed babe that they were.

The bouncers were friendly, and smaller than us. And every young male in the joint quickly realised that old leathery buffaloes like us were not to be trifled with. I even heard one bouncer (who had been working at the other place we were drinking in) nervously whispering to another one: "They've been sucking booze since 2pm but they don't even look pissed!"

We were, but I wasn't about to tell him that. Old leathery buffaloes have to keep some things secret from the young 'uns.

The next morning, we set off for home. No-one was in any shape to ride back up the Ox and do Thunderbolt's Way. We all just wanted to go home. It was hot, we were tired and we drifted home at our own pace. Except for Mick, who saw a police car coming the other way, went down two gears and disappeared into the distance.

I would like to thank my companions for their company over the weekend and for making my 26th Annual Xmas Road Party a wild and worthy weekend to remember.

Now, how many of you have ever been on a real Mystery Run?

---

   KLINK'S STORY

Borrie doesn't bullshit.  When he said he'd be leaving Colo Roadhouse at 7am, I believed him.  I set the alarm for 5.30am. I'd packed everything the night before.  So at 6am I woke up the neighbours with the Buell XB12SS' bark and thundered off to meet the BIKEME! gang on the Putty. I miscalculated slightly. After navigating Galston Gorge, Cattai Ridge Road, Sackville Ferry and the lower Putty, it was 7.01am when I rode up to Colo River. It was deserted of course. Well, not quite. There were two guys with bikes sitting there. When they saw me they grinned, pointed and waved up the hill.

I twisted the right grip as far as it would go. The Buell blared and gallopeds off in pursuit of the rest of the group.

I've declared a state of fatalism for this trip. The cops know of our coming. They will either be out in military, first strike, Iraq-invading force, or they'll give us a bye. Either way, I'm not going to worry about it.  

So, I'm riding the Buell in its private storm of noise just about as fast as it will go, trying to catch up. A few kays up the road I come across a group of riders. Seems probable they're our lot, but I'm not going to stop and ask. I blitz past and keep going. Next up is a brand new, schmick-looking Yamaha FJ1300, ridden by Al. Al is wearing a ChiPs jacket and aviator shades. Good thing he hasn't got a Zapata moustache and a leather cap. Onwards. It takes longer to catch Mick and Boris. Mick is easy to spot, riding the GoldWing BIKE ME! is testing. Boris is on some kind of cruiser BEAST. He's leaning back, in proper, feet-forward chopper stylee, but this is not a hog. He's moving er, very quickly, but this is not a Street Rod. He's rolling on a rear tyre that is unmanning in its width. It smacks you in the face with its contempt for anything you thought you knew about motorcycle dynamics.

 

Mick spots me first. In his usual overly-demonstrative style, I get a quick head dip via the 'Wing's rear view mirrors. I'm weaving in the slipstreams off these two behemoths, and soon Boris spots me. I get a cheery wave that gets rapidly smaller as Boris opens the taps and adds 20kph to the devil-beast's speed.

 

It's not long before we're at the Halfway House, filling up with PULP. Big grins all round, as there always are at the beginning of a long ride. We've finished filling and are ordering breakfast by the time Al turns up, and then the group arrive not long after, and the tables fill up with laughing, happy people. Drink coffee and take pictures. Boris' bike is a Suzuki Boulevarde, the new king of a new motorcycling sub-category: the Power Cruiser. With 1800ccs of water-cooled, V-twin mumbo, the Boulevarde is the fastest accelerating bike in our group, except for Mick's Touring Bike, ridden by Andrew McScotty, BIKE ME!'s photography dude.

We finish our coffees, put our cameras away and we're off again. It seems no one else wants to ride at the speeds Boris, Mick and I prefer. Very sensible. I admit to a certain admiration for Boris' utter disregard for the safety of his new licence.

Because we're honking along, down the straights of the Putty, north of the Halfway House. The Buell is having trouble keeping up, and I have to cane the beast unmercifully. Until we reach the twisties south of Ten Mile. Then they belong to me. It's actually so funny I'm guffawing into my helmet like an idiot. Boris is trying to keep the big Boulevarde up to a respectable pace, and he just can't. When your boot heels are being knocked off the forward style 'pegs, there just ain't no more ground clearance, and you have to slow down, or risk dancing with the big suzook down a long, tree-studded hill to a boulder-filled river. Mick is likewise handicapped, with sparks flying off the 'Wing's footpegs and bellypan as he drives the 800lb beast on.

Meanwhile, I'm dancing around them like a mongoose around a couple of pythons. But I'm not a cruel man, and after tormenting them for a few miles I piss off and leave them to wrestle their boats around Ten Mile. sp;

Once clear of the twists and turns, I slow down to a cruise and eventually stop and wait. Couple minutes later they're parked beside me, cursing like longshoremen. I try, and probably fail, not too look smug. Bastards have been railing on Buells for weeks! 

Once everyone has caught up we set off again. Muswellbrook for fuel, then Singleton and north on the New England Highway. Here the giant pythons are at home, blasting along at speeds that might attract unwanted attention. But we see no cops. Anywhere. It is as if the Great Swine in the Sky has waved his trotter and blessed us with invisibility. Nevertheless, I stick I behind Mick and Boris, and keep a close look in the mirror. We have a light beer in some obscure pub. Andrew takes a few last pictures and turns Mick's Touring Bike south.

 

After a blast down back roads known only to cattle thieves and outlaw motorcycle clubs, we end up in Nundle for lunch. The food is good. There is much joking and laughter. Strange Serbian stories are told. But very little alcohol is drunk, for there is still riding to be done. Back in the saddle, the temperature is 40deg C. Mick is fully camera'd up, and I've got my little camcorder mounted on the 'bars of the Buell. In the interests of safety and avoiding dehydration, we make a sprint for Tamworth. It is quite a memorable ride. The countryside is beautiful. The road is a mix of bumpy straights and bumpier corners. It is empty. Wagner is blaring out of the GoldWing's hi-fi. It is possible we became a little excited. We cover the 40+ kms to Tamworth in 22 minutes. As we slow down into Tamworth, Mick is conducting his hi-fi, where some bint with a high voice and a helmet with horns is well away. Again it take a while for everyone to catch up. Then it's off to the utterly splendid Powerhouse Hotel and Museum.

We dump our sweaty gear in our rooms, stretch cossies over sweaty white man-flesh and sprint to the pool. Once in the water, we eye each other like hippos in the Zambezi.

Boris speaks: "We need beer!"

There is a silence, while we contemplate the horror of crossing the hot car park to the bar. A dozen pairs of ears twitch above the glass-like surface of the water.

"Bugger it, I'll go."

Surprisingly, it is I who has spoken.

Boris and Mick nod majestically at the soundness of my proposition.

"We'll pay you back," says Boris.

"No, we'll pay you back, I reply. "I'm putting it on your room."

I return with Hoegaarten, and a Shirley Temple for Mick. Sucking on ice-cold bottles of beer in a black swimming pool, after a 450km ride, we consider the beauty of life. I find myself looking at the huge tattoos on Boris' chest. A dragon covers his right pec, while a sabre-toothed tiger roars from his left.

"So it's a gecko and a pussy cat, is that right?" says Mick.

***

Mark (aka Madart) joins us for dinner, having ridden down from Queensland on his Buell XB12S. Apart from his talent we have much in common, including a bedroom.    

Dinner is a fine affair. We are all dressed, one way or another. Mark has removed his singlet and dressed up in a full T shirt. Boris is wearing his Joe Rocket leather riding pants and JR boots. He mutters some excuse about forgetting his shoes, and his jeans not fitting over the boots. I think it's bollocks. We're all eyeing up the pretty young girl with the guitar playing Dido and Cranberries covers (hey, it's Tamworth!), and I think Borrie believes he's in with a shot. As if. Sweet, innocent girls like that prefer clean cut corporate types on Buells. Not tattooed ex-Outlaws on Boulevardes. Meanwhile, Mick is making obscene gestures at the poor girl. No doubt that kind of thing is fine in Thailand Mick, but not I don't think it's going to get you laid in Tamworth. I hope her view is blocked by a pot plant.  

The food is excellent. Mick demonstrates a taste in wine to which I can only aspire. We breath in the fumes of aged cabernet sauvignon as if it were manna from Asgard.

The evening ends in Mick, Boris and Al's room. We're drinking Angus' generously, if foolishly, offered whisky. Boris, unable to root Dido, is now trying to pick an argument. He throws out ever more inflammatory statements like so much chum and eventually Al take the bait. But Boris is magnificent in debate. Having doffed the Rocket strides, he's now wearing nothing but a hotel towel and some Heinrich Himmler glasses. Whenever Al summons an argument, Boris starts to stand up, leaving the towel on the chair. Cowed into silence, Al cedes the floor to Boris.

 

***

Saturday is cooler. It's clear and sunny, and the temperature can't be more than 22degC. Perfect. We're on the road by 9 a.m. In Walcha by 10, where we meet up with BIKE ME! member Spottedquoll on an R80 that looks like it's seen more miles than he has.

 

We pause at a spectacular view outside Walcha for a photo shoot: the Suzuki Boulevarde, the Yamaha FJ1300 and Mick and Boris' Joe Rocket gear.   After taking a few shots of the bikes, Mick hands me his camera to get some shots of him and Borrie. I get a few photographs of them looking determined.

  

"OK, I've got that, do something else."

"No worries." Mick picks up Boris and holds his bellowing, thrashing body over his head.

"Yeah, lovely. I want more. Throw him in that paddock!"

 

Photo shoot in the bag, we're on to the Oxley Highway. Pausing only for the group to re-gather, and to shoot a few pix of the Oxley Highway road sign, we ride onto one of the great motorcycling roads.
 
Mick and Boris are in front at first, with Mark's and my Buells snarling at their heels. Then the road starts twisting. Mark and I sit back and watch Mick and Boris wrestle with their bikes, but before long we are waved on with an impatient hand. Overtaking the bouncing space hoppers, Mark and I have a nice little dice down to Ginger's Creek. It's a shame we live so far apart, as I feel we would be a good match, riding together. As we close in on Ginger's, I hatch a little plan. We'll ride in, park and doff our riding gear as quickly as possible. With luck we can be sitting at a table reading a book before Boris and Mick turn up. The insult would be gratifying. But it is not to be. Barely have we got our helmets off when Mick and the 'Wing hurtle past Ginger's Creek and carry on down to Long Flat. I imagine Mick's furrowed brow as he smoothly scrapes the 'Wing around the tightening bends of the Oxley in our pursuit.  Spottedquoll is third, a creditable result on a bike that should have been cremated some time ago.
 
Boris arrives a few seconds later.
 
"I'd kill ten men to be on one of those bikes, back there!" he roars, pointing at the Buells.
 
He laughs when I tell him Mick has missed the pub. "He'll be back!"

 

Eventually, everyone assembles and it's camera time. Mark and I get a couple where we point out the superiority of the Buell to everyone present. Boris and the rest of the BikeMe crew stop for an early lunch. Unfortunately, I've run out of brownie points and have to be back in Sydney that night. So after a long drink of water I'm back on the road, chasing Mick into Long Flat. It's a pleasure doing the Ox on your own. With no one to catch up, one can settle into an easy rhythm, swinging from side to side. A special ride.

But no Mick. I get to Long Flat without seeing him, and wonder if he's piloted the GoldWing down through the rain forest like that Concorde outside Paris, leaving a long trail of flame and felled trees. No signal on the mobile, so I push on to Wauchope. There's the 'Wing, good as new -- well, nothing a new pair of footrests couldn't fix -- and there's Mick, coming out of a milk bar at the sound of the Buell's growl. He's going to wait for the others, and I have to make tracks. A quick handshake and I'm off.

All the way home I never see a cop, until the Old Road. After leaving the Road Warrior's café I am lucky when a police car pulls a maroon Subaru right in front of me. Like a shark, the cruiser leaps out of a side road and runs the wagon down in seconds. Too slow, pal. Better you than me.

---

 

This is a three minute video of the Nundle-Tamworth ride, taken by Klink on the Buell.  It's not meant to be a proper BIKE ME! video, just a little glimpse into the ride.

---

 

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