The Getting of Alpine Wisdom - 2
Canberra.
Canberra I have never grokked. There is something about the atmosphere of Canberra that is indefinably nasty, and even as a grown man, makes me feel like I have been touched by a once trusted relative each time I visit. The place exists purely as a support system for the country's politicians, and in much the same way as a camel is a racehorse designed by a committee, Canberra is a community designed by a random number generator.
Partly because I never grokked it, and partly because it is many, many years between visits, I believe Canberra had stored a special welcome for me that afternoon.
As I reached the airport turnoff, the downpour began. The rain was cold as ice and came in sideways. It stung as it hit my neck. Welcome to Canberra. For a full twenty minutes, the rain beat against the side of my helmet.
"Bugger off." it tapped over and over.
"Canberra hates you."
The situation was manageable until we reached the airport and the traffic stopped.
It was at this point the rain, which had been directed up and off my arms by the movement of the bike, now ran down into my gloves and boots, soaking the thermals. Moving again transformed my clothing into the world's most efficient evaporative cooler, and by the time I made Snowy's home, I was shivering like some pathetic creature abandoned in the snow.
Cooma – The Alpine Lesson
Day two and the dark clouds still hung over the nation's capital as a reminder. Snowy and I headed out of Chisholm and down the Monaro Highway for Cooma.
Was there magnificent alpine scenery? Did lambs frolic in the morning air? …Don't know.
My brain was locked in a primal scream as ice demons hacked at my fingers and hands under what I thought were winter weight gloves. By Cooma, I was a wild eyed berserker. Snowy later commented that when he was feeling a bit cold, he would move closer to the back of my bike to look at my face in the mirror – seeing me glaring hatred for everything in front of me made him feel better.
We stopped at a 24 hour ski shop in Cooma's main drag and approached the lovely lass manning the front desk.
I let Snowy do the talking. My hands were blue with raw looking fingertips – I was not ready to speak more than grunts of disapproval at the violation of my extremities. I needed thermal gloves and a pair of alpine-ready outer gloves.
"These thermals have a pocket that takes a heat pad" says the girl. "You put the heat pad in there, and they warm the back of your hands for up to six hours".
"If I give you another ten dollars, will you put pockets in the back of the fingers so I can go down to the café and fill them with hot chips?"
Snowy pipes in: "If you use heat packs, you're a poof."
The young attendant checked out Snowy's thermal gear and commented.
"Yeah, but if he goes heat pack, he's a poof."
The issue of thermals settled, we were away. It was the getting of wisdom for travelling through alpine regions. You never have too many layers. We set off for Bombala, and though it was still cold, the experience was nothing near what I had felt from Canberra to Cooma. +1 for thermals.
Bombala – It Welcomes Motorcyclists
On entering Bombala, you notice two fields with cows – not ordinary cows, but cut out, corrugated iron cows. I reasoned that this was because nothing survives in these regions. God love these poor bastards, they have to fabricate animal life.
The next object of note is a large banner strung across the main street "BOMBALA WELCOMES MOTORCYCLISTS".
We step into the café and children aren't being trundled out the emergency exits, the waitress has a huge smile and is eager to take out order. This is my first real taste of a bike friendly community, and it is refreshing.
Bonang
There are some places you don't need to find out your suspension is not up to scratch. The Bonang in the wet is one such place. During this 105km of twists and turns I fought over soft suspension, which resulted in infinitely variable steering geometry through every bend. It felt like the front end was constantly losing traction (it wasn't) and I lost all confidence firstly in the bike, then myself.
There were extended sections of dirt/mud that further added to the challenge of the Bonang. Though it was not my favourite section of the journey, it is one I would like to do again with properly tuned suspension. This over soft suspension was the reason I could previously do 9-12 hour days in the saddle with no consequence (this would be rectified by ride's end).
Snowy had a blast on his DR, informing me at length how he has the best of both worlds on and off road. I've known Snowy over thirty years. We were best mates through school – he knows how to press buttons. The fact that no other bikes passed us on the Bonang must mean we didn't keep a bad pace through there regardless.
Orbost
Southern gateway to the Bonang is Orbost – another motorcycle friendly town. The light rain would continue to Bairnsdale, from where it would alternate between teeming and not. The dry spells would last almost long enough to dry you out, then the downpour would start again.
Lakes Entrance
The one gleaming ray of hope for sunshine over the weekend came at Lakes Entrance. The skies opened long enough to take a few photos of the mud caked and already battle weary bikes.
 |
|
Snowy and the bikes at Lakes Entrance |
 |
|
...and the Sprint is no longer clean after trial by Bonang |
