THE ISLAND OF DR BAYLISS

by Al

Pics by monquito, cricky, scrambles

S-Day -8:

Pick the XJ up from the shop: the front Lasertec was toast after 5500km, now replaced with a Battlax. Rear Lasertec is OK after 5500km - looks like it will make the Island and back. Go figure. Filter is changed, and the clutch cover window cleaned out so I can see the oil level.

S-Day -6:

Biffa is joining me. He wants to ride down the Hume, but I want to ride down via Cooma and Cann River. I promise him excitement, and he agrees to ride down via Cooma.

S-Day -4:

Biffa's got an extra day off and is leaving a day earlier than I am. But monquito is keen on company on his ride down. We arrange to meet at Williamsdale.

S-Day -3:

Pissing down. All day.

I pack. I include a bottle of Maker's Mark for datalok, who went a long distance out of his way to drive me to Melbourne's airport on the evening of the last day of the Wrong Way Down.

S-Day -2:

Awake 0302. Alarm set for 0330: no point in going back to sleep.

Change into leathers, bike is already packed. Fit tank bag, roll out at 0345. Harbour tunnel in five minutes. Rain has stopped. Night is a little cool: I guess it IS the last day of summer.

Actually, it's QUITE cool on the M5.

In fact, it's freezing bloody cold. Stop at Pheasants Nest and put the lining back in the jacket.

Stop at the servo 27km north of Goulburn 0545. Still cold. Put jumper on, fuel up, call monquito:

"Hello?"

"On yer bike."

"Coming."

The sun is starting to rise. 148km to Williamsdale. In Queanbeyan, a truckie gesticulates at the back of my bike and yells. I pull over. The sleeping bag is hanging down on the right hand side of the rear axle. No wonder. The straps are loose. I tighten the straps. Thanks, truckie.

Arrive Williamsdale 0655. Drink coffee. Monquito arrives in ten. We shake hands, chat.

"You're the webmaster guy?"

"Yes."

"I only just worked out that Boris from the forums was Boris from AMCN. How did you meet Boris?"

"It's a long story, monquito, involving lawyers, guns and money. I'll tell you over breakfast."

A big wedge-tailed eagle swoops low over our path as we leave.

We ride to Cooma. The M & M East End Cafe is open. There is a sign on the door: "The M & M East End Cafe supports motorcycle tourism." There are lots of pictures of motorcycles and riders on the walls. They get mugs of coffee happening pronto, bacon and scrambled eggs are not far behind. I tell monquito The Story. We eat breakfast. It's huge. I can't finish it.

The M & M East End Cafe in Cooma.

We fuel up. I'd planned next stop Orbost. Monquito's VTR will pass everything except a service station. Monquito doesn't think he will get to Orbost. I smile the smug smile of a man whose motorcycle has a 22 litre tank and gets 15 to the litre. We agree to stop at Bombala.

We do. My sleeping bag is trying to fall off again. No wonder. The mounting points are all wrong. I change the mounting points. Monquito gasses up. I smile that smug smile and don't gas up.

Heading for Cann River, monquito passes me bipping his horn and waving. I stop. My sleeping bag is falling off. No wonder. I should have crossed the straps over so they can't slide off. I cross them over.

The road into Cann River is seriously good, but wet from recent rain. Monquito is in front, and is doing a lot of hanging off to keep his bike upright. We stop at Cann River for gas.

Shortly after, monquito pulls over. I pull over. He's not moving. I get off and walk back to him. "You OK?"

"Your sleeping bag's falling off again."

No wonder. It's strapped sideways across the pillion seat instead of along the pillion seat. Monquito approaches. "Why don't you expand your pack and put in in there?"

I expand my pack and put it in there.

The road south from Cann River is more serious motorcycling goodness, best experienced at high velocity. It starts to rain. It's not enough to put on rain pants, but it's enough to make you go slow around corners.

Every time I tied my sleeping bag down monquito wanted to take a photo: somewhere near Orbost

Approaching Bairnsdale, the road straightens out. It stops raining. We gas up at Bairnsdale.

We get slower as we approach the Island and the towns get thicker. The weather approaches perfect. We arrive about 1715. 1015 km. We stop for monquito to find the map that Island Mick gave him. He's lost it. He tries to find Island Mick's house from memory. He fails.

I call Boris and get a text to meet at the Euphoria Cafe. We arrive about 1800. Boris is there, Busababe, Leigh, Tim, Biffa, others. I drink a beer. I decide to head out to Chateau BIKE ME! to shower and change. Monquito gets a settled look at the beginning of the second beer.

The view from Chateau BIKE ME! - Phillip Island can turn on a fabulous day

Shower is fabulous. Clean jeans and shirt and back to Euphoria. More beer arrives. Euphoria don't do steaks, but they do steak sandwiches. I order one. It's 15cm tall, toasted Italian bread, a steak, tomatos, lettuce, beetroot, bacon, cheese, pineapple, other stuff, another slab of toasted Italian bread. It weighs about a kilo. I ask the waitress if anyone's ever eaten it all. She says four people have to date.

A couple of beers later it's time to get an early night. The record for finishing a Euphoria Cafe steak sandwich remains at four. I head back to Chateau BIKE ME! There is more beer. There is whiskey. There are stories to be told.

We yarn with Boris's riding partner Ron, who's about 70 and has been riding most of his life. He talks of Vincents and Beemers and motorcycles past and present, including the R1200T he rode down on from Sydney.

Ron turns in. I help Boris, Ian and Biffa make a serious dent in a bottle of malt whisky. By 0100 Saturday, I am not making much sense.

Thank you, Scotland. I turn in, and sleep the sleep of those who have ridden the roads of the gods and supped their nectar.