THE KNOWLEDGE - II

THE VALLEY

The rain stopped, the clouds parted and the sun showed us exactly what riding in Valhalla would be like.

The Baron shows off his new white tail-light, and prepares to take advantage of increased left side ground clearance

Sun drenched mountains amidst a purple black backdrop. Vibrant, undulating fields were bisected by a simple two lane road, glistening and black from the new rains, which stretched off as far as human sight could follow.

It was a magical sight to see the boys bolstered with the energy that was practically seeping up from the landscape. A poetic reward for the shit storm they had been riding through all morning. For the first time this trip I was actually pained to be in the car. There and then I vowed to return to this place on two wheels.

The Party soon vanished into the distance and we settled in for the meandering trip to Bright.

Rzcrew, forgetting that we ride on the left hand side of the road in Australia, gets his Speed Triple on.

THE LOSTENING

Daz, Bly and Richard decided that the best way to your destination is in the opposite direction. Road closures! HA! They spit on your road closures. Fuel! BAH! Their bikes can run on the hopes and dreams of the foolish and young! Maps! Well, actually that last one probably would have been a winner.

It was some two hours after us that the trio arrived in Bright. Apparently they had only made it because of the generosity of a shopkeeper who took pity on their sodden, shivering carcasses and gave them fuel, food and directions. If Daz was not happy when he eventually arrived at Bright then James Hardie is famous for a minor OH&S mishap.

BRIGHT

We arrived at the motel to meet the always amicable J'aime and his Ducati Fueleaterupsa. Piping hot showers were the name of the game, and the riding party had first dibs while we conducted a stock take of the Tactical Response Vehicle's supplies, drank Jamie’s piss and talked and laughed until it was our turn for a hose down.

We went to dinner, cleared out a restaurant of all its patrons and honoured the waitresses with our various witty quips. Daz made contact partway through dinner and advised Bowen that he had arrived by way of normal brotherly communication. Have you ever heard two ranga’s yelling at each other over the phone? It’s a violent and passionate business, much like seeing two circular saws have sex. Fantastic.

We became too drunk, loud and humorous for the eatery, so we left My Mate Jeff and Brad to a chocolatey demise and headed back to the motel where we carried on trying to bake ourselves into the world’s funniest human pie.

I eventually went to bed. The others left but were turned away from a pub. My last memory is Bowen pouring Canadian Club down my throat.

THE MONSTERING

The next day only really started for me when we began playing footy in the main street of Bright. I was charged on whisky and some of the worst coffee I had ever tasted and ready for business. Our game was cut short and we departed.

Jamie led the way out of Bright, promising fabulous roads, bright sunshine and maidens of virtue true. I was dubious, but reckoned should he fall short I would have a chance with any one of the wide eyed virgins on motorcycles we rounded up along the way.

Did I mention Bowen could drive? He slid and jammed that Territory into corners and around hapless riders in a way I would have thought impossible. The Party were taking no prisoners and therefore neither were we. Bikes wobbled, fists shook and matching helmets were covered with mud as we belted past group after group. Our fun didn’t stop in the twisties either. Dawdlers, posers and slow pokes were passed with extreme prejudice or monstered viciously until they either pulled over or we were able to get by. Every stop we would hear tales of a ghastly green blur coming around the outside of brand new Ducatis and R1s.

I was sure we were going to kill someone and it amused me greatly.

THE FUELENING

We arrived in Bairsndale to a see Quolly’s great form lumbering across the road. Young Duffer arrived soon after with his mates. Tim Tams were passed. Ribs were elbowed. Spirits were high. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

So an hour out of Bairsndale, there was Richard, surrounded by Ducatis, lamenting the absence of fuel in his tank. It hadn’t been the greatest of trips for poor Rich so far, but to his credit he brushed off all the trials and tribulations with his trademark smile and contagious laugh.

Didn’t stop us from taking the piss out of him though.

For the first time this trip the Support Vehicle was able to actually able to provide more than Tim Tams, car window insults and nightmares for slow riders. We travelled the 1 km into town, bought some fuel and returned to Rich.

The Baron was concerned that the petrol fumes would deprive the tape which held The Wardrobe together of its adhesive properties.

"Did you have to buy the jerry can as well?"

"I tried to carry the fuel out in my hands but they said it was a health risk."

It had been a long trip, so I guess some level of brain fog is to be expected.

Eventually, we fuelled Rich, had lunch and embarked on the last leg of our journey.

THE ISLAND

We arrived without the riding party, having lost them amongst the tangled web of back roads that litter the area east of Melbourne.

I was tired and all I had done was drink, smoke and tell everyone how to solve the world’s problems. I couldn’t imagine the kind of fatigue the others would be feeling. We found them all at the top of the Cowes main street, thankfully, all parties accounted for.

You can’t help but draw on the excitement of the Island. A constant stream of growling, whining bikes flowed into the tiny street, the sun kept threatening to emerge from behind the clouds, groups of riders slapped the back of their mates whilst others talked of nightmarish vision of green Territorys. Beer bottles began to chink and stories began to flow. You can actually feel the mood upswing like one of The Island's numerous weather changes.

I wrapped myself in the relieved energy of the place and looking down over the swarm of activity, braced myself for a ripping weekend.

END

Thus ends my story. I won’t reminisce on what transpired over the weekend other than saying it was a blast. Being free from the responsibility of operating a motor vehicle for the first time I made it my business to be the most horrid motherfucker I could be, a task I believe was accomplished. We eventually left the Island, or so it would seem as I don’t actually remember leaving, but I’ve just spent several hours sitting in the crawl space of a Mazda with Janice and am quite possibly insane.

So here I am. Standing in Yass McDonalds, trying to remember who I met, who I insulted and what my name is. Nothing is certain in my mind, except for this:

I haven’t laughed so hard, smiled so much or been so sparked up with life for a long time.