FLIGHT OF THE WARDROBE

by The Baron von Tiki
Pics by Tim

Flight from the City

The alarm blares. I don’t know who invented 4 am, but it would be greatly improved by moving it forward a couple of hours.

The Wardrobe is packed and waiting in the pre-dawn black. I stand next to it while Goldwing-sized butterflies elbow each other in my stomach. My hands are shaking slightly. Fuck, I’m amped.

Big deep breath. Exhale - pull on gloves. Turn key, press starter button. The boom of the Foran pipes shatters the butterflies into a thousand pieces, and before I have even let out the clutch my face is split into a watermelon grin. I am away….

Three minutes later I roll around to the rear of Bly’s house, where his Ducati crouches like the serial killer it is. Squids, pretenders, pirates – all are victims to this air-cooled assassin in a red coat. We set controls for Pheasant’s Nest, and leave the city behind.

We arrive at the appointed servo, where we tarry a while. Tim, XR and his mate Jeff arrive, as do friends of rzcrew astride a Harley tourer of immense proportion. We tarry a while longer, anticipating the arrival of the others. Some time later, sick of all the fancy tarrying we have done we decide to wait instead. This is difficult if you’re an impatient narcissist like me. Bly understands this flaw in me, and so he plies me with Tim Tams until I cease pouting.

Baron and his friends at Pheasants Nest. Tarrying. FFS.

My mood immediately lifts as rzcrew arrives. And then falls when I find we are to wait for the support vehicle, its cargo (Scrambles and Some Jerk), and the driver, which for legal reasons I shall refer to as Mr Cunningham.

Mr Cunningham was "born" in a laboratory, where he was constructed out of equal parts amphetamine, red hair and Airwaves™ chewing gum. It is this last ingredient that is key to Mr Cunningham’s existence. Whilst blessed with an infinite supply of both amphetamines and red hair, Mr Cunningham must constantly replenish his body with Airwaves™ chewing gum or his life will end.

Mr Cunningham was programmed to drive cars and rile his elders.

He was programmed well.

Mr Cunningham, Scrambles and Some Jerk arrive in a cloud of minty freshness. I will only say this about the conveyance they arrived in – it was bulbous, had four wheels and was a hue of green only a Ritalin™-addled teen could love. It was to haunt the rear-vision mirrors of us all.

Over the Hills and Far Away

We drone in a mostly lawful manner to Gundagai, refuel, and point our noses toward the hills of the Snowy Mountains. As we climb, the weather cools and worsens. We pass roadside advisory signs that warn of snow. We ride on - on toward Tumut.

I do not feel the capricious Road-God alight my shoulder, nor am I aware of the fact that Tumut is an ancient aboriginal word meaning "shit-hole place with badly-surfaced, icy roads and diesel liberally splashed about". Nevertheless, my fate is sealed, and I ride on to meet it.

I am happy, tucked in behind Bly and rzcrew, watching them as they negotiate the ribbon of black wet tar that falls away under our wheels. They are two very different humans, physically. Bly is lanky, angular. 'Crew looks like he was birthed from a ginger boulder. I am in no way their equal as riders. It is the weather and road conditions that slow them, allowing me to observe, and take notes.

I watch their style. Bly is all flow, never hurried – his bike a true extension of his body, a natural economy of motion that attracts velocity to it like bees to honey. Fucking hippy.

'Crew is less subtle, but just as effective. Loosely hunched over the ’bars of his triple he is alternately smooth and brutal. Rzcrew has a heart of gold, but is an intimidating sight. Part of me suspects that a good twenty kilometres per hour of the pace rz carries is down to the fact that his bike is terrified, and trying to escape.

I have never heard either of them talk about how fast they are.

The road deteriorates, and with it the pace drops markedly. Bly, rzcrew and I are about a minute ahead of Tim, Jeff and XR, weaving our way through the highlands. We approach a left-hander, and I’m on a slightly tighter line through the corner than Bly and rz. I could not have been doing more than fifty clicks when the front end washes out, and a split-second later I’m sliding along behind The Wardrobe, which is sliding and spinning down the road on its left hand-side – straight towards a traffic island and signpost. Bly and rz, oblivious, ride on, and disappear as the road ahead bends to the right.

I slide for about eight metres. There is absolutely no purchase on the road-surface – I am wearing a thin dual-layer plastic rain-jacket over the top of my leathers and the only damage done to the rain jacket is a small tear at the left wrist and a couple of holes in the back of the jacket (which only pierced the first layer of plastic). My leathers are undamaged.

The Wardrobe slides further, slowing and slowing, until the rear end of the bike strikes the island, does a hop and bounces off the signpost.

This isn’t going to be good.

I walk over to my bike, which at least doesn’t seem to be spewing fluids from anywhere. I’m too freaked out to pick it up - my mind is awhirl. Will it start? Will I be waiting for a truck? Fuck, the GP! Does this mean I’ll miss the formal ball? Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!

Tim, Jeff and XR arrive, and in moments they are by my side. The Wardrobe is righted, and damage is assessed. No leaks. The clutch will be a two-finger jobbie from now on, and The Wardrobe can forget about glamour modelling. Engine case scratched. There are gaping holes in the fairing. The left hand Foran pipe now resembles a beer can that’s been trodden on by an angry giant toddler. The end of the centre stand has been ground to a sharp point. The top-box is scratched. The rear brake lens is broken, but not the globe. The tank is scratched, and a frame bolt and part of the frame are not as they were when they left the factory.

The Baron's sacrifice created a pleasing odour for the Road Gods.

The starter button is pressed. I hold my breath.

The sweet, sweet sound of an inline-four cracks through the still alpine air.

The bike is all set to go, but my head is still reeling. The little kid inside me screams to go home.

I am grateful for what happens next. Before despair has a chance to get a foothold in my soul, Tim, Jeff and XR talk quietly, and in their words and their smiles I find strength. I think of the Southern Clan, who I have not met. I am decided. Fuck this feeling sorry for myself malarky, I’m pushing on. I leap aboard The Wardrobe and take off, pushing doubt from my mind and the heaviness from my heart. Mexicans, here I come.

I set off from the scene of the crash at a decent clip, feeling settled. Then the back steps out, and the 'bars shake in an alarming manner. Goodbye, serenity. I roll off the gas, and let Tim past (I was probably only blocking him anyway).

There is snow on the sides of the road now.

We meet up with Bly and rzcrew on Mount Selwyn, where our laughter sends plumes of steam into the air, and despite everything - the dismal cold, the rain, crash damage, the fact that Mr Cunningham is somehow arriving within minutes (sometimes seconds) of us - we are in high spirits.

We descend to the warmer valleys, where my mojo happily reinstalls itself. We ride, we lunch, we ride.

The valleys of warmth, where the road was only slightly wet

Into The Night

The advent of GPS technology marked a period in the Australian Male Cultural Landscape now referred to as "The Neo-Ponce Age", and the impact of this invention sharply divided the country.

We could have done with it that afternoon.

We are 80 kilometres from Bright. This is our last fuel-stop, and soon there will be hot showers and beer and a proper meal. 'Crew is itching to leave. So am I, so is Bly. The three of us blast up the road, and come to an intersection.

'Crew is a fiercely intelligent man, and you could not wish for a finer bloke to have at your side when the zombies are climbing through the windows and you’re out of ammo. He is an exceptional rider and an outright gentleman.

Under no circumstances ever are you to let this man navigate.

"Do you know which way it is?" asks Bly.

"Yep" says 'Crew, and takes off.

We ride on, and I am surprised -Tim has not yet caught us up. Tim is not a slouch on a bike, but he steadfastly refuses to appear in my rear-view mirrors.

Some time and an excess of kilometres later it becomes apparent why we have not seen Tim. Tim has a GPS. We have NFI.

'Crew is all apologies. Bly attempts to summon something comprehensible from his mobile regarding our location. I stand around thieving oxygen.

We take a decision to keep riding in the direction we are going. A fifty-fifty gamble. One we lose.

Every now and then we pass clusters of houses. The houses are shut, and no-one is outside. As the afternoon closes and the evening bids the Sun farewell, these small islands of humanity become even more desolate-looking.

We pull up in one of those tiny towns with long names, and come to the attention of a local woman. When 'Crew asks if we are anywhere near Bright, her face beams and she says "Oh no, you’re miles away."

It begins to rain in earnest. After what seems like an aeon, we extract directions from Mrs Smalltown, and good directions they are. There is a small problem I am running out of fuel.

If I am running out of fuel, then Bly is running on fumes….. Into the deepening murk we ride, the rain so heavy I can barely see Bly’s tail-light. Fuck, I can barely see the road. There are very few straights, and many corners. No time to rest. No way to get warm. No fuel.

Bly is slowing at every house we pass, desperate for a fuel-rich Samaritan to appear bearing 98 octane.

We pass a place called Hell-Hole Creek, and I imagine a future where our whitened skeletons, still astride our rusted hulks of bikes, stand at the side of the road, bearing witness to the fate of The Young and The Mapless. Bly pulls over, outside a pub. The look on his face is grim. He has a couple of kilometres at most in the tank.

There is a local in the pub that comes out to see what the commotion is. He cannot help us, but tells of a store up the road about a kilometre away that might be willing to help us out.

The Dederang General Store

We roll into a darkened drive. The pumps are closed, the store is shut, and it would appear that we are Shit Out of Luck. We shamble around outside the store like gore-tex and leather mummies. 'Crew goes to knock on the door of the house attached to the store, but before he can the lights flicker on. A warm, cheery voice calls out – "No worries fellas, we’re just turning the pumps on. Come inside out of the rain – can we make you a warm meal?"

Let me attest that no two finer individuals exist in the Snowy Country than Sonya and Peter Baldwin, proprietors and operators of the Dederang General Store. We walk into the store, and for the next few minutes bask in the company of these fine people. A drink, a Mars bar, and the bikes are refuelled. As a parting gift, we are given clear concise directions on how to get to Bright. This is the final leg.

Tranquility Base, The Eagle Has Landed

Now I am riding purely by muscle memory, my movements automatic, my consciousness floating somewhere over my head. If only it would stop raining.

It stops raining.

It starts hailing.

We are completely alone, twisting higher and higher, carried by metal and rubber and gasoline and willpower. A logging truck blasts by and disappears in a halo of light and road-grime.

The rest is lost to me, I freely admit. We roll into the car-park near the Bright Tourist Centre, I am in a completely altered state.

I discover that I cannot feel anything. I discover that my gloves, when wet, make my hands smell like something that fell out of a dead manatee. And I discover that Mr Cunningham holds the secret to the location of our Motel, as well as the keys.

'Crew calls Mr Cunningham. A conversation follows. Mr Cunningham is being petulant and difficult. 'Crew threatens to disassemble Mr Cunningham.

Mr Cunningham arrives, duly chastened. Ten minutes later we are unpacking the bikes. It is 9 o’clock at night.

Time to go to the pub…..