PILGRIMAGE '08
MOUNTAIN'S DUE
THE ANNUAL PILGRIMAGE TO BATHURST IN THIS YEAR OF OUR LORD 2008
By Boris Mihailovic
Pictures by Wiccad, Martin, Leigh and everybody else
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After shouting and screaming bad language, Boris loiters for a pre-pilgrimage photo |
My Pilgrimage started in Boon's garage when Donkey gave me explosives.
"Here," he said handing me what looked to be a small stick of gelignite. "I have a present for you."
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The enormous galloping and efficient monster |
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Boon packs for the Pilgrimage |
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Packed bikes filled up the Ettamogah car park |
I was in Boon's garage drinking beer and being gifted explosives 'cos Boon agreed with everyone that he should have a party the night before we were to leave for Sofala and Bathurst. At first, only Tim and I were there, but over the next hour Darren, Ktulu, Donkey, NickB and Scrambles appeared and I was starting to feel a little nostalgic.
Once upon a time -- not long after dinosaurs had roamed the earth, I would have also been in my garage the night before the Bathurst Easter race weekend, strapping luggage to my bike and putting bungers in my jacket.
Thirty-plus years later, the Bathurst bike races have been consigned to the dustbin of history, but The Mountain still calls and I go every year to hear the ghosts that sing to me on that glorious hill top.
And in 2008, I was in a garage watching young blokes do what I once did. I felt the age rasping in my joints and hoped I wasn't intruding on their preparations. I felt a little out of place -- like a washed-up carnivore too old to catch his own food, and too dumb to know that advice is only welcome when it's asked for. I kept my silence, sipped my can and grinned gently at the youth, vigour and promise buzzing in Boon's small bike-strewn garage.
Boon had already strapped his luggage (basically a training bag full of Bundy and Coke cans) onto his R6, and was busily drinking what hadn't fit.
Young Nick, L-plate flapping in the breeze, had arrived weighted down by an immense rucksack on his back, and angst in his eyes. This was his first big ride -- and by "big" I mean out of Sydney. And by "out of Sydney", I mean just out of Liverpool.
Earlier that day he had asked me if I thought he'd be okay without a sleeping bag.
"Sure," I said. "You'll be cold, but you'll probably live. Why don't you take some blankets?"
"Good idea," he agreed.
As I helped strap his rucksack onto his bike, I didn't notice any soft blanky-type stuff inside it. But since I wasn't his mother, I could only feel a vague emptiness near my heart, which I later imagined might have been sympathy.
Scrambles arrived and carefully taped up the tailpiece of his Kwaka, before affixing a big bag onto the back, while affixing instructions were being offered and more cans of evil piss hissed open.
I left them to their youth, and returned home where the BMW HP2 I had loaded earlier awaited my pleasure like the enormous galloping and efficient monster that it was.
At 7.15am I was at the Ettamogah.
Cameron was already there and within the next half-hour another 16 bikes pulled in, loaded and ready to roll. Two cars joined us -- one brimful of the priceless Marty and Suzii, chauffeuring the rather wounded-looking Cricky around (him I felt genuinely sorry for. I know how much he wanted to ride this, but his legs betrayed him and he was gonna pull out altogether until the howls of protest from his mates overwhelmed him and he flew up) -- and a remarkable dachshund called Roger.
Roger was the only creature who managed to look even more angst-ridden than Nick, but then Nick only crashed into some Armco. Roger had to drag his doggy cock along the unforgiving ground all weekend while bellowing giants trod on him from time to time.
The other car was Wiccad's ute, which proved to be a very handy vehicle as far as Youngduffer was concerned when his Aprilia gave up the ghost and cooked its battery in Capertee -- but I'm getting ahead of myself.
As more and more bikes pulled in to the carpark, I was quite nonplussed.
