GAY MOLL SUNDAY

by Boris

I ONLY called a standard Sunday blast a "Gay Moll" ride 'cos I didn't want to scare any trembling beginners from attending -- and thus developed the marketing strategy by naming it what they all acknowledge they are in their heart of hearts.

As it turned out, the only beginner in the Ettamogah pub carpark that morning was Biffa, and he hasn't trembled since his extensive war training beat it out of him years ago.

Gay molls in order of height. Almost

Those who had ridden with me before knew that when I state I leave at 9am, I leave at 9am. The others must have figured I was serious, so everybody turned up well in time for the slated departure.

I was mounted upon a very sweetly sorted K7 Gixxer and I provided Al with the Blackbird I'm currently minding for Honda, cos neither he nor I felt like picking up bits of XJ900 Yamaha all day and telling each other to get fucked.

The rest of the group was righteously eclectic -- and there ain't nothing like going for a ride with a vastly differing range of bikes and riders.

MrE's hard-ridden R1, Speedy's purdy blue Bandit, Marty's venerable red Bandit, Suzii's zippy yellow SV, XR400's insane XR400, Biffa's black SV, and TimM's new old ZX9 made up the pack that set off at a sedate and law-abiding pace up the Windsor Road and headed for Singleton. The Singleton-Wollombi loop is a relatively well-known blat for Sydney day-trippers and it's as fast or as cruisey a ride as you choose to make it. The vast bulk of the trip is the legendary Putty Road, which kills people with frightening regularity, but since I had no plans to die that day, I was beautifully relaxed and at one with the world. It was unseasonably warm, so race gloves and leathers were all that was needed.

We stopped for a few pics the other side of the Colo River Bridge, then hit the beginning of the mountains -- arguably the most joyful 10-mile stretch of motorcycling bitumen on earth.

Watching the traffic at Colo River

The plan was simple -- ride to the Halfway House, drink coffee, ride to a corner and shoot some pics of the GSX for the website, ride to Singleton for lunch, then ride to Wollombi for beer, and then go home.

Oddly enough, that was exactly what happened. I had broken my Putty Road jinx some years back, so I was no longer concerned that everyone I took there ended up as organ-paste.

But it was still unsettling when absolutely nothing goes pear-shaped. I believe very strongly in the law of averages.

I was nonplussed by the halfway house. Perhaps they will die on the next stretch, I wondered, strolling around the carpark full of bikes.

One in particular caught my eye. It was a yellow Buell with 1500 decaled on it.

"You used to like Harleys," a voice called. It belonged to the Buell owner, an enormous investment-banker-looking kinda bloke.

"I still do," I replied. "Especially one's that tell lies. They do not make 1500cc Buells. What's going on here?"

"I put a kit in it and made it an automatic," the big fella grinned.

Turns out he was one of the blokes who got nailed by an oncoming bike in that infamous bike-on-bike collision on the Old Pacific Highway last year. His injuries made changing gears hard, so he installed a tricky air-shifter thingo (he told me how it worked, but it didn't make any sense and thus disappeared from my mind) to make his life easier.

Buell powershift

After a leisurely coffee, we made for a 35km/h corner every bike mag uses for its cornering shots in that part of the world. The pace picked up, and though I allowed MrE to scream past me on the long straights leading to the Halfway House (only cause it made me feel good to then pass him at some outrageous speed consisting of 8s and 2s and 6s), I owned the corners. Astride that Gixxer, it would have been mortally embarrassing not to.

I don't normally ride that fast (yes, I'm lying) and on road tests with AMCN, I'm ordinarily the bumbling fool way behind the fast boys. But the bike was so well sorted (surgically precise and sickeningly powerful would not be overstating it) and the Road Gods were grinning their fool heads off that day, so I went riding. Hell, the only difference between getting nailed at 280 as opposed to 180 is the expression on the judge's face when he sentences you to death.

We found the corner and Marty and XR400 made short work of the photos -- producing some very pleasing results. The photographer who promised me he'd come that day piked it, but, as it turned out, Marty and XR shot better stuff anyway.

Snaps done, the technical section of the Putty lay before us and in a relatively short period of time we were parked up 10kms out of Singleton waiting for Biffa.

"Excellent," I mumbled to myself. "It's happened again. The jinx is back. The road has eaten my mate."

I told everyone to wait and headed back the way I'd come, my fuel light blinking tediously at me. I figured I had about 40klms left in the tank, so if I didn't find Biffa's smashed corpse in 15kms, the remains would have more time to cool before my subsequent return.

I found him at 13kms. He had stopped for fuel.

Much relieved, we descended on a pub I know in Singleton. I don't know its name, so I cannot tell you. Brother Silverback and I found it a few years back when a local told us it made the best steaks in town.

This day, the steaks were good, but the freaky face-painty kids party in the beer garden was playing havoc with my digestion. Still, we laughed, broke bread and got acquainted some more. It was good and right to sit with like-minded men and bellow. It always is.

I was concerned about Suzii, who had just spent a lengthy time in hospital and was bizarrely grinning through the obvious discomfort she was in.

I didn't know what her ailment was. I didn't ask 'cos it was none of my business and if she'd wanted me to know she would have told me. That aside, I could see the woman was doing it hard... and smiling in its face.

"It's just so good to be out for a ride," she said.

She was right, of course. Women always are. That is why we let them rule the world.

Lunch done, beers burped (relax, homo wowsers, we only had two), we hit the road to Wollombi.

If ya don't know this stretch, it's narrow, blind and of an uncertain surface. It's not bad, it just requires one to ride with a little more élan.

Once again, nothing happened, and we arrived at what looked like the Wollombi Car and Bike Show. Bulk beautiful Yank tanks and one dickhead on a yellow Monster who should give up this motorcycling caper and wear women's clothing in railway station toilets instead. This knobber was having all kinds of issues trying to park his bike -- a task he felt was best performed by rocking the Monster back and forth. And back and forth. Over and over. In the same spot.

He was boring to watch, so we figured a shunt to the Road warriors was in order to round out the day.

I only agreed to this 'cos I love this series of super-wide sweepers the other side of Central Mangrove. These are corners that can be done at 12,000km/h. I'm convinced of this.

Carved up an MV on the way into Max's café and that is always a nice way to finish up a ride.

Biffa headed off, and as the sun went down, the remainder made their way to Mick's house for a cordial and a brief viewing of the ever-developing BIKE ME! BlingaBusa, which now boasts two television sets recessed into the fairing.

A decent, almost Christian way to finish off a Sunday.

I thank the Road Gods for such days.