BLY AND AL'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE

by Al

It used to be just Persian Rug dealers who were always on the brink of insolvency

I had only been on the Bylong Valley Way for ten minutes, when a huge bird swooped low in front of me. It was chestnut brown, and must have had a wingspan of over a metre. It was in my lane, and heading in the same direction as I was. "Brown Falcon", I thought. "No, wingtips wrong. Little Eagle, maybe Wedgetailed Eagle but young if it's that colour."

I didn't time to think further, because I was going about 100km/h faster than it was. It was at about head height. I veered on to the right hand side of the road, and the eagle veered left, grabbed a metre or so of altitude, appeared briefly in my left mirror and then disappeared.

I'd found out about the Bylong Valley Way in the BIKE ME! forums. I'd ridden it once before with Bly, and when it came time for my monthly trip to Lithgow I emailed him asking if he wanted to repeat the trip.

Just like last time, he jumped at the chance. Just like last time, he asked a couple of his friends if they wanted to join us. Just like last time, they dropped out. Just like last time, I asked a couple of MY friends if they wanted to join us. Just like last time, they dropped out.

And so shortly after 0700 on a crisp winter Sunday, Bly and I headed for the F3 freeway and north out of Sydney. In the ride to the Calga turnoff I noticed that my bike was getting a weave on even the slightest of bends at speed. I'd adjusted the handlebars forward and down a few weeks ago, and because it put more of my weight on the front I'd backed off the rear shock preload.

At Peats Ridge we stopped at a service station that was just opening. Bly's Ducati has a chronically short range, so while Bly put the bowser spout in his fuel tank and waited, I jacked the preload on my shocks up a notch.

The Golden Highway: vineyards, horse studs, superphosphate, money

About ten other bikes arrived from the north. Their riders were charged up and loud and excited. One was wearing a leather waistcoat with a very clean white patch that said "Military Veterans" over an army greatcoat. He was on an old Honda CB900 Bol d'Or -- late '70s, early '80s, about the same vintage as my XJ. I remember they used to make a red and white one that we called the Coca Cola Rolla Door.

I put my tools away, put the seat back on my bike, and looked at Bly. The service station owner hadn't turned on the gas yet. "Stuff it" said Bly, as he replaced the bowser hose. "I reckon I'll make Broke."

The road through Kulnura and Wollombi to Broke is a bit bumpy. It turns a lot and has interesting features like potholes on exit lines, a couple of centimetres of running water just past a corner's apex, and a kilometre or so of dirt. But, it's good fast fun, the countryside is pretty, and I was delighted to find that my bike didn't weave any more. I'm stuffed if I know how a centimetre of preload can change things so dramatically, but it did and I wasn't complaining.

We were at Broke just before 0900. We had a coffee each. Bly put 14.8 litres in his 15 litre tank and I topped up the XJ.

Bly led north out of Broke, where we joined the Golden Highway, turning west just below Singleton. We crossed the Putty Road, and settled into the high speed run to Denman.

The Golden Highway has a lot of long downhill straights, a fair few high speed sweepers, and not a lot of traffic. It's quite scenic in parts. The agriculture scattered around it includes a lot of moneyed people's hobby farms: vineyards and horse studs. Those are the ones with lush green fields that advertise superphosphate so well. The other farms aren't so green, and I guess belong to people who are not monied.

Bly led me into Denman within the hour. We topped up our tanks. "So," I said to Bly, "About two ten?"

"Not quite", he replied. "I think it needs a tune-up".

West of Denman is the turnoff to the Bylong Valley Way. This road wastes no time in becoming a series of high speed sweepers with almost no other traffic, and it was here where I had my encounter with the eagle. After the settlement of Kerrabee the corners tighten up as the road crosses a small mountain range. We stopped. I took some photos of Bly riding his Ducati around one of the turns.

Bly straightens out the first mountain range crossing

Past the small mountain range comes about 15 kilometres of dirt. It was badly pot-holed, mostly hard-packed, but with a covering of loose gravel on a few of the corners. We rarely went below 80km/h, trying to miss the larger pot-holes and accelerate over the smaller ones and over the loose gravel while standing on the pegs.

The road ... provides spectacular views of the tall rocky crags on either side

Death stalks the unwary along the Bylong Valley Way...

...and potholes stalk the Ducatisti

The tar finally re-appeared, and we hit it at 120 km/h and resumed our celebration of macadam.

My front brake all of a sudden took up half way to the handlebar instead of a centimetre in. I looked at the fluid sight glass: it was OK. I knew what had happened. The adjusting screw had vibrated out on that rough dirt. I kept going.

The road sweeps along the valley floor, through the small town of Bylong, and provides spectacular views of the tall rocky crags on either side. Towards its end it climbs out of the valley and back into the Great Dividing Range, with more serious uphill corners to be conquered at speed.

Just before midday, we trickled through the twin towns of Rylstone and Kandos without stopping. A bit west of Kandos, there was a dead 'roo on the road. I stopped. "Your turn to take the photos, Bly", I said. "I've already got the caption written."

I looked down at the front of his Ducati. "Hey!" I said. "Check your front wheel!"

Bly dismounted and checked it. There was a huge ding on the left of his wire-laced rim. "That would be from that dirt bit", he said.

"Good thing you're not running tubeless tyres." There's the silver lining.

"I've ordered the rims for them. They haven't arrived yet." There's July's marital discord.

We needed another stop on the Mudgee-Lithgow road for gas. From there it was only 70 km to Lithgow, where we stopped for lunch.

None of the pubs in Lithgow sell food on a Sunday. We found this out by going to every pub in Lithgow and asking for food. We ended up in the Worker's Club. We ate some food, drank two beers and planned an even more creative way to go to Lithgow on the next trip.

Bly left for Sydney, and I went to spend a couple of hours with some of my family.

It had been a beautiful winter day everywhere, until we got to Lithgow. I left about 1630. It was grey, and cold. As I accelerated up Scenic Hill, the first drops of water hit my faceshield.

Chifley Road and the Bells Line of Road are old friends, though. I know the fast line on all the blind corners, and I didn't bother to stop and change into my rain suit. The rain stopped shortly after Mount Tomah.

I was really pleased with the brakes on my bike. I'd swapped the 16mm master cylinder for a 12.7mm one, which gave me more lever travel but much more feel and power. I was pleased with the new riding position, too: it made pushing it into corners a bit easier. And I was pleased with the mirrors. I'd replaced them because the last time I was on the Bylong Valley the right one would fold back at, er, a certain speed; and the ones I'd bought also stuck out further, so I could see more than just my elbows.

Night fell. I'd changed the twenty five year old headlight bulb for a brand new Xenon one, too. It didn't appear to make much difference.

I got more rain on the expressway back to Sydney. It didn't matter. The last bit is the opportunity to come back to earth. Bly and I had turned a 280 km round trip into a 600 km mini-odyssey over some of the best motorcycling roads I know. We'd conquered some rough tar and rougher dirt, hurtled along country roads at sixty metres a second, and raced with eagles.

I've had worse Sundays.