CLASSIC WEEKEND RIDE

by Klink

The trouble with BIKE ME! is that it's chock full of experienced motorcyclists. This is not a problem; indeed it's highly desirable when you want to have a chat about motorcycling. But it did make it difficult to justify an interesting yarn about my trip to Tamworth via the Oxley Highway and back via Thunderbolts Way in August 2007. Most of you have probably already done the ride. But as you can see, my self-confidence re-asserted itself. I figured there'd be stuff in my story that might be of interest to all but the most experienced Oxley highwaymen.

So here goes.

Long ago I used to go riding with a couple of mates. I will protect their anonymity for reasons that will become apparent. Both of them are horribly wealthy by the standards of normal men. One of them, let's call him Tarquin, spent his wealth on exotic motorcycles: an MV Agusta Ago, a Ducati 999S, and a Ducati S4R to name but three. Then he would punt them into the scenery with such enthusiasm that his insurance company practically had him audited.

The other, let's call him Rupert, used to be a somewhat dodgy dispatch rider in London, shortly after motorbikes replaced pigeons in the job. Despite a motorcycling history that included some enduro competition and a trip from London to Cape Town on an XR600, Rupert has allowed his motorcycling passion to run tepid in recent years. He rode a GS1150 to work, but spent irreplaceable weekends in solitude, building wooden boats in his backyard.

Tarquin, Rupert and I used to do all the local rides, the Sydney show etc. But stuff happened. Tarquin threw his 999S so far into rural Australia I had to visit him in hospital, where his wife would have given me the hairy eyeball if (a) she had been in the ward at the time; and (b) if she weren't the sweetheart she is. And Rupert announced he was unable to go riding as he had a particularly intriguing dinghy to build.

Wankers.

So, I found Mark Stenberg's Bad Boys. Mark will be known to most Sydney motorcyclists, for the simple reason that he's the guy you call if you want to fight a speeding ticket or an insurance company. Mark has a law practice called Lawstop (a fine sentiment) in Hornsby. Mark also arranges annual rides, with a dozen or so of his mates -- the Bad Boys -- to Walcha in the winter and Phillip Island for the MotoGP. Through Mark's generosity I not only met some great new riding mates, but I also learned some fabulous back roads, both near and far.

This year I was unable to join Mark's winter ride to Walcha as I was busy trying to get a new job, so I thought I'd do it a few weeks later with Rupert and Tarquin. Amazingly, Tarquin had not only healed, he'd also just bought an MV Brutale. Rupert had run out of wood, or something, and just acquired a new GS1200. The ride was on.

Unfortunately, my intended overnight stop, the Commercial Hotel in Walcha, was full. So much for the supposed de-population of rural areas. The Commercial is a great place to stay. Friendly hosts, great food in the restaurant and a log fire. Nice rooms and plenty of hot water.

But it was full.

Fortunately there is the Powerhouse Motor Inn in Tamworth. I had passed this by in my original planning because I'd stayed there on Boris' Christmas ride eight months earlier and because it added about 90 km to the first day. Nevertheless, it is a stonking joint. It is owned by a motorcycling nutcase of about my vintage, judging from the collection in the attached motorcycle museum, which has at least one of every desirable bike made since 1970.

The route I'd planned was a small variation on Mark's classic path north. Make yourself comfortable and I'll tell you of wondrous roads.

We left the Mobil servo in Berowra at 0730 it was a chilly 6 deg C according to the temperature gauge on Rupert's new GS1200. Mt White then Central Mangrove. As we descended the hill to Bucketty a freezing fog cloaked us in dew and the temperature fell to 1 deg C until we got past Wollombi. Then Broke and Singleton. The road around East Gresford is special. Despite an extremely "rustic" surface, it offers an amazing switchback track along ridges, diving into ravines and swooping back out. Nice views too.

We stopped for brunch in Dungog, a nice rural Aussie town. The high street descends either side of a small rise. At the top of that rise is a beaut café called The Poets' Table that has a wood-fired stove and serves cooked breakfasts and good coffee.

With toasted arses and full bellies we set off to Stroud, then Krambach and Wingham as we headed east-north-east towards the start of the Oxley Highway. We took the most direct route via Comboyne and Byabarra, even though it has 18km of dirt. Although I am "a screaming moll" on dirt, as Boris will tell you, I don't mind it if it's well surfaced, as this road is. I did regret leaving my tyre repair kit at home, because on dirt, a puncture is only one sharp rock away.

We filled up in Long Flat, as you do. Then it was the Ox. I'm not going to describe it because you've heard it all before. Read Boris's and my story here, if you haven't. Suffice to say we all had big grins by Gingers Creek. From there to Walcha was fast. One of the nice things about that road from Ginger's to Walcha is that you can see a very long way ahead. There were no police. The R1200R was happy to run at an obviously fictitious pace of 200km/h. There was more, but the little flyscreen became insufficient for the wind blast and my neck muscles started to cramp.

We stopped at the Commercial for a cup of tea, then cruised to Tamworth, 700km all up.

We got to the Powerhouse at about 1730. This was just in time to visit the museum, where a nice old boy showed us round. The latest addition was an MV Agusta Oro, which appeared to have been carved from a single ingot of golden magnesium alloy. I'd been there a couple times before, but Rupert and Tarquin were most impressed, and started competing to tell the dullest "I had one of those back in 1981" stories.

We cannot show Rupert's face, because he is a dentist or the Minister for Overseas Development or something. But we included this shot to show how good he is at catching Ducatis

A quick shower and we hit the bar. I am devastated to report that the Powerhouse no longer stocks Hoegaarten. In fact it has very few beers of any consequence at all. I found a couple of bottles of Becks, but I think it was the domestic rubbish with where it is necessary to read the small print on the label. Despite their wealth, Rupert and Tarquin lacked the necessary discrimination and would have drunk the slops out of the bar grates.

In the restaurant I picked a couple of bottles of wine. Rupert and Tarquin's lack of taste did not prevent them from drinking their share.

Sunday dawned cold. We scraped the frost off our bike seats and took our time over breakfast. By 0830 it was up to about 5 deg C and we set off for Nowendoc and Thunderbolt's Way. Again we took the most direct route, which included about 5km of dirt before hitting Thunderbolts.

Klink, however, is not the Minister for Overseas Development nor a dentist, and his face can be shown. By contrast, it makes the scenery look good, too.

It's always further than I expect to Thunderbolt's Way, so I was confident that any shady corner had lost its frost by the time we swooped southwards, stopping for the obligatory photo at the lookout. After waiting for so long, Thunderbolts was over all too soon and Gloucester appeared over the horizon. From Gloucester we retraced Saturday's path to Dungog, where we stopped in the same café for lunch, before Rupert turned off for the freeway. Then on to Singleton, before Tarquin and I forked off to the Putty road.

After the relative freedom of unpoliced rural roads we were prepared to be quite circumspect riding the Putty on a Sunday. However we came across Fireblade after Fireblade. After passing a bunch of them I realised it must be some kind of owners' club outing. I can report that, to join the Fireblade club, you not only need a 'Blade, you also need a highly coloured leather jacket covered in faux sponsorship patches, Draggin' cargos in desert camo, and an AGV or Shoei lid. The ability to ride fast is not a requirement. Tarquin and I overtook several on our 750 Brutale and R1200R. Of course several others overtook us, so it was with a relaxed conscience we were able to ride the Putty confident that any police attention would be absorbed by the bikes in front.

After cutting through Sackville to avoid the heavily policed road into Windsor we were home by 1530. It's a good weekend run of about 1,300km and I'd recommend it to anyone.