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There and Back Again

by The Baron von Tiki

5.30 am. The clock alarm took my sleep and left it bleeding and confused in a carpark. A recent bout of the 'flu and a tough week at work had me at about 85 percent fitness. It was fucking cold. It would have been easy to pike out, except I had an incessant voice telling me to “Get out of bed ya fucking poofter and ride! What kind of man are you?”

My wife believes in tough love.

I gathered my cajones, paid obeisance to the Road Gods, mounted up and got the fuck out of Dodge.

'Twas a touch nippy on the transport stage, but I was adequately attired and before too long I arrived at the meeting point – 30 minutes early. I may have been a little enthusiastic with the throttle.

Seizing the opportunity to break my fast I made my way to the Shrine of the Clown, where I was rewarded with burnt coffee and a contrivance manufactured of bread, offal and unborn chicken. Thanks, Ronald. I noted the presence of a leather-clad ranga and sensed from the cut of his jib that he was one of ussssssss. Indeed it was – and it was in this fashion that I came to meet Lee. We completed violating our digestive tracts and retired to the Ettamogah Pub car park to meet the others.

Awaiting us in the car park were Boris and Scrambles – Boris was yelling something as we approached but the most I could discern was “faggots!” and the rest was lost in exhaust noise.

Man-greetings were exchanged, and it was with a palpable excitement in the air that we awaited the arrival of Al, Bly, b3nje909 and Some Jerk.

Al and Bly were delayed. Al's bike had thrown a chain or something and he was off to effect repairs whereupon he would rejoin the ride. This left an interesting dilemma, as Al was designated Road Lord for this ride, and his expertise would be needed. Not long after the news of Al's tribulations was delivered b3nje909 and Some Jerk arrived. Off we set for North Richmond, where we would slake our bikes' thirsts for octane and plan the next stage of the ride. It was a boring transport stage made challenging by the extreme cold and humidity – before too long my visor fogged on the inside and rivulets of water ran down the outside. This would continue until the sun rose higher, warming the cold bones of the Blue Mountains.

Fuel stop, North Richmond. Bly arrives, Termignonis singing. Minutes later, with the next waypoint agreed upon (Caltex servo in Lithgow) we were riding the Bell's Line of Road, and this is when things started to liven up. Boris and Scrambles were setting a spirited pace, and with Boris' mantra of "ride at your own pace" forefront in my mind I didn't chase when the pace was upped, concentrating on being smooth and relaxed. Boris and Scrambles stretched the gap between myself and themselves to the point where I lost sight of them in the bends. I was riding alone.

I was cresting a hill some kilometres later, speedo northward of legal and right hand poised over the front brake when I spot the oncoming Highway Patrol car. I grabbed a fistful of brake, and the ABS Nissin brakes rapidly retarded the velocity of The Wardrobe – and I prayed that the lidar did not get enough time to take a fixed speed reading.

My prayers were answered. The HWP car passed with no blue-light disco show to mess up my day.

Then a second HWP car passed. Way to fuck with my head, guys.

After a few kilometres of nanny-riding I upped the pace and arrived at the Caltex in Lithgow – with no sign of Boris or Scambles anywhere. What the? Thinking maybe I had misheard directions I rode around the streets of Lithgow – no BIKE ME! people anywhere. I returned to the Caltex, and was relieved to see Boris and Scrambles at the pumps. It was here that I heard of their adventures with excess speed and those who would oppose them.

Over the next few minutes the rest of the group arrived – sans b3nje909 and Some Jerk. Some Jerk had had a minor off running wide on a bend and had felt that her mojo wasn't happening. Wisely, she chose to return to Sydney and regather herself. Self-awareness is a good thing, and there will be other rides for SJ. b3nje909 was going to escort SJ back and then proceed to Quolls. A gentleman to the last is 'ol b3nje909 – a gentleman with the haircut of a psychopath, no job and two bikes. Someone employ him. He'd be great at customer service.

It was as we were refuelling that Al and Tim arrived, Al wearing a wry grin. A glimpse at the clear plastic window on the top of his tankbag revealed why – where Boris and Scrambles had managed to evade capture courtesy of jungle trails and sheer cunning, and where I had been saved by ABS and circumstance, Al had not been so fortunate. Booked. 10 kays over, although Mr. Plod asserts that it was actually higher. One lost point. Al had one point left. At least this will give him time to optimise meta tags and move servers... (don't shoot me Al, I'm joking!).

Something had to be done to exorcise the ride of bad ju-ju. The prescribed remedy requires the blood of a virgin woman, but we were in Lithgow. What to do? Al reached into his tankbag and extracted the Ancient Scrolls of the Road Gods, scanned them briefly, and pronounced that the only way to lift the curse off our ride was to please the Gods with feats of speed and derring-do.

Who were we to deny the Gods?

Al put away the scrolls, engines barked into life and we were away. Our salvation awaited us, and the Bylong Valley Way led to it.