There and Back Again - Part II

by The Baron von Tiki

I had never ridden the Way before.

It is a glorious stretch of road with little signage, requiring those who ride it with any spirit at all to focus hard on the task at hand. It is a collection of sweepers, pot-holes, road-kill, tightening radius bends and blistering high-speed sections. How fast? Fucking fast. Go to gaol, go directly to gaol, learn to control your gag-reflex for Mr Big fast.

As is the norm, the venerated BIKE ME! old school of Boris and Bly gapped the rest of us and displayed the proper and correct regard for the art of motorcycle riding. It is truly wondrous to watch – and it would seem that the Road Gods were pleased. The sun was out and shining brightly, the worst of the chill had gone, and broad grins were the order of the day. After a brief stop at Sandy Hollow for elevenses, we rode on, descending upon Muswellbrook like men reborn.

Bly and Al wait for stragglers at the top of the Bylong Valley Way

Fuel economy is not a strong point on BIKE ME! rides, but I must say I was surprised at just how much fuel I went through on this ride. The Wardrobe's fuel gauge is pessimistic to the point of uselessness, so there were times when the gauge said "refill me now" when there were a couple of litres, and other times when there were less than 800 millilitres left. Still, it could be worse – Bly's Ducati uses gas like a supermodel uses cocaine. I guess that's understandable considering he punts it along at velocities that can pull the limbs off nearby trees.

Ducatisti in flannel: BigIain enjoys a quiet beer after five hours wrestling a Monster

Filling up in the Muscly Chook servo when we pulled in was none other than 12666. Now we were eight. Bike-thirsts quenched, we pointed the 'bars at Scone and points north.

After the high-sped shenanigans of the Bylong Valley Way it felt odd to observe nanny-state speed limits again. It's never a good idea to blast through country towns at hyper-speed – the local constabulary take a dim view (and license points) and the RTA revenue-raising squads have seen fit to place the odd speed-camera around. There is also Quoll's peace to consider. His local pub's licensee is a cop and the last thing we would wish to bring upon Quoll is the approbation of his publican. At any rate, doodling along at 50 kilometres an hour feels absurd after a protracted blast at speeds involving three digits and white knuckles.

The Wingen pub rests next to the New England Highway around 17 kilometres North of Scone, and it's a little ripper. ATM and all the mod-cons except perhaps wireless laptop connection but I could be wrong, and a decent (if not spectacular) meal can be had here.

We rode into the gravel-strewn car park, where we were greeted with shouts of greeting and laughter. Quoll had assembled the BIKE ME! vanguard and it was this motley crew of reprobates and gentlemen (and gentleman reprobates) that were responsible for the raucous welcome. With Quoll were The Death Ninja (Wayne), Big Dog (whose real name I've forgotten – sorry mate!), Big Dogs' young fella, BigIain and Pistonbroke (Ed). Steak was ordered, empty hands were filled with schooners of ale, and the serious businesses of merchandise selling and slagging-off were begun.

Just as it seemed that it couldn't get any better Thommo and Whale arrived. I was stoked to meet these men for the first time, and to have an opportunity to cast my eyes over The Road Train, which is an unpretentious engineering marvel. I look forward to meeting them both again, and sharing more than one beer in their company.

Thommo's Road Train - all the way from Rockhampton

The sun had not yet stretched over the yardarm when it was time for some of us to return to Sydney – but not before we had a chance to visit the Lodge and be given the guided tour by the Prime Minister of Quollstralia himself. It is a great place – and it has two sheds, making it 50 percent more manly than those poofy one-shed dwellings. I congratulate the PM on his new digs – a shrewd purchase and a fitting home. Kudos!

BIKE ME! member spottedquoll: always prepared for the groin kick

With an air of regret, we made our goodbyes, donned our gear and set out for the Putty.

Sometimes the smallest decisions can have the biggest effect. I do not know why exactly I thought it a good idea to remove my jumper before setting out for the Putty, but remove it I did. It went into the topbox, and there it would stay until much later.

We were streaming down the Golden Highway, the silhouettes of the riders in front of me limned in silver and the shadows slowly stretching behind as the sun fell from the sky. It was at this time that the temperature started to drop, and, as we joined The Putty Road, my mojo quickly followed.

What followed was not pretty. In the twisties before the Halfway House I rode horrendously. I was cold and shaking, the light was all but gone and an almost overcooked corner saw me in the grips of The Fear. The Putty is not the place for this. In no time at all I had been passed by everyone else. Then, just as I was gathering my wits for a determined attempt at some pace, a bloody macropod appeared, hopped out onto the road and then hopped back into the bush.

Fucking kangaroo done made my blood run cold.

By the time a got to the Halfway House I was mentally done in. I was greeted by a collection of grins, and, amazingly, very little ribbing. I think they could see my embarrassment. It is a measure of these men that they left my ego intact, and I swore to myself that I would prove myself worthy of this company. Then I dropped my helmet, separating the visor from the helmet. Oh great. We had tarried long enough – it was time to go. I refitted the visor, mounted up and fired the engine. It was only after we had taken off that it dawned on me. I had left my jumper in the topbox.

The Halfway House, Putty Road, just before sunset

The fury came on slowly, a creeping anger that stole into my mind, replacing The Fear with something else. Something different.

I tucked in behind Scrambles, Tim and Lee, focused my gaze on their red tail-lights, and got to work. Pushing cold, anxiety and everything else from my mind, I rode. Each time the group would pull away, I would yell “Carn Motherfucker!” into my helmet and twist the throttle hard – the headstock of the bike shaking as I gave it the berries, the Foran pipes bellowing defiance.

I kept up. I was inordinately pleased with myself, but tried not to show it. As we approached Windsor we found the usual suspects of Boris, Bly, Al and RZ standing by the road, taking refreshment. My nipples were like two points of ice, and my flesh had the hue and feel of the Undead. Didn't matter. I had dug deep and found something worthwhile. I was content. I opened the topbox, extracted my jumper and put it on.

We parted ways, peeling off into the night and making bee-lines for home. Boris and I shared the road for a time, and then he was gone, leaving me to the delights of Old Windsor Road and the M4.

Happy days.