2009: A Race Odyssey

The Getting of Alpine Wisdom

By Ramjet

One month ago I jumped in at the deep end by bringing a bike back to the NSW North Coast from Townsville in one weekend after fifteen years out of the saddle. Now I prepared to spend a week away from home at the MotoGP at Phillip Island. This represented the final chapter of my 'East Coast Tour', and a new journey of over 3,000km.

Preparation

The mental checklist was ticking over. I'd be staying at the Island for three days and nights, sleeping in a tent. It may get cool and it may rain…

Nothing I thought I remembered about packing for a long ride prepared me for the reality of the trip. I have lived on the north coast of New South Wales for two years, and have acclimatised very nicely, thank you. Winter is your average 'Spring' elsewhere on the planet, and an open shirt over your t-shirt is all that is needed on a 'cold' day.

That being said, I had the two man tent (I'd be meeting up with a mate in Canberra for the trip to the Island), the ground sheet, tarp and poles to pitch over it. Sleeping bag, summer and winter weight gloves, boots, weatherproof jacket and weatherproof overpants. All check.

The bike was a newly acquired 2001 Triumph Sprint RS 955i, in racing yellow. It had behaved itself beautifully on its 1700km maiden voyage, and I'd spent three days washing polishing and detailing it when I'd arrived home to bring it back to its former glory. It shone like a new button again and I was very happy with my first bike in fifteen years.

The Sprint RS - cleaned and ready to be loaded

Does my arse look big in this?

Thursday morning - sparrow fart: The pre-packed bike and I are out the driveway and heading south. The soft pannier system is extended to its full width and packed full of carefully and tightly rolled clothing. There were extra t-shirts to distribute at the Island, and I was loaded to the gunwhales. Across the top of the panniers was the roll with the groundsheets, tent and poles. I was ready to tour.

It was an uncharacteristically cool morning for these parts, and by Kempsey, the hands were freezing under the summer weight gloves, so I switched to the winter gloves. That helped, and I was fine all the way to Karuah, where I stopped to refuel and have a bite to eat.

The first fingers of warmth giving sunlight touched me about Port Macquarie, but full sun probably didn't begin to warm me until well south of Kew. I began to understand why the Europeans worshipped the great yellow ball. Life without it is bitter, and one could be forgiven for thinking they had been abandoned by a deity for its non appearance for extended periods.

I left 'The Rock' and found myself sitting with a Bavarian off-roader, who, as fate would have it was also heading to the Island, and we agreed to accompany each other as far as Canberra.

Expectations of radar sniping all the way to the Island were unfounded, and the trip was relatively uneventful for its remainder. A few were found hiding under overpasses, where you don't notice them until you're on them, but not before you've been pinged.

Roads and the Marulan Mirage

If all road signs were removed in this country, you could still tell when you entered or left the State of New South Wales. As you enter New South Wales, your bike starts to shudder and bounce. This stops when you leave. New South Wales does not 'do' roads. This is a fact. The worst roads anywhere else in the civilized world are the best roads in NSW. I would not bat an eye if I was told the local council filled potholes with road kill, shovelled cold mix over the evidence and called it a job done.

It is my theory that this is why the potholes reappear overnight. Council workers/contractors don't even check to see if the wildlife is actually dead before covering them in the hole, and they dig their way out overnight. It is the only possible explanation. This is why the most amazing piece of roadway just North of Marulan caused me great confusion and anxiety.

Without warning, the road became as smooth as silk. This took a moment to register – and the surface was a uniform grey. There were sparkly things like diamonds in the surface that shined, and welcomed me along what was clearly a mirage.

Had the heat got me? Did I take a strange mushroom in that sandwich at Picton? Did aliens drop this piece of magic bitumen on the nanny state, point and say “THIS. THIS… RIGHT… HERE. THIS IS HOW YOU MAKE A ROAD!” ?

Before its loveliness could be fully enjoyed it was over. The dream ended and I again shuddered and bounced with the Beemer towards Goulburn. The dream was short, and it was gone, but for a moment in time, I was flying.

Just outside Goulburn, the large black cloud that had been tracking us, stopped overhead and unleashed a fifteen minute torrent that saw us divert to a roadside rest area and partake of tea and biscuits under shelter until it passed.