ISLAND MICK'S 40TH - Part II

Saturday – A new dawn

The stuff that dreams are made of!

I awoke startled and lunged for my knife… which is exactly how I wake up every other morning, so there's nothing exciting about that. It was about 6:00 am and the sun had just thought about getting up for the morning. Stoof was still snoring her face off and I knew there was no chance of me returning to sleep so I got up, took some photos, had a most satisfying whiz up against a tree and wandered around the area. An hour or so later, she was awake and we slowly started packing everything back onto the bike.

I fired off a quick SMS to the Island's very own Michael asking if maybe a spare tent was floating around as mine was a charred lump in a servo bin a few hundred kays back up the road. Almost immediately my phone rang: "Ha ha ha… you're a fucken idiot aren't you?" Good morning to you, too, Mick! I dunno how IslandMel deals with that noise first thing in the morning, but good on her. We had a quick laugh over the phone before making the monstrous haul 200 metres up the road for a healthy breakfast at the Shrine of the Clown.

And it was here that I discovered an immutable fact of the universe: people are drawn to the MT-01. This sucks for me 'cos I tend to hate people, but that doesn't make it any less true. As I sat there inhaling my deluxe brekky roll and scoffing Powerade, I watched old men, young women, children and animals all stroll up the MT, cast their eye over it, point out bits to the folks next to them, nod or shake their head, then carry on their way. And as they walked back to their miserable, car-filled lives, every single one of them would have a sneaky final look over their shoulder, as if making sure they hadn't imagined it.

Seriously… do you blame her?

Back on the road. "Only 640km to go," I kept telling myself as the never-ending Doom just kept rolling under the MT's headlight. "Whatever you do, don't plough into a semi for laughs…" Up until Holbrook was a blur of boredom and bugs.

We stopped in the little town with a submarine in its park for a bit of an extended break. I had just moved my bike from the petrol pump to the shade when a spiky-haired young bloke came up to me. "What the hell is that?" he jizzed at me.

I went through the routine of explaining what the MT-01 is and how it goes, where we'd come from and the usual. He started yabbering and it turned out that he's a Pom with an R1. His missus hates it and can't be on the back for more than 20 minutes before her lower back spasms to the point of incontinence. I laughed, for she was quite attractive and the thought of his R1 causing her to squirt piss at him at 190km/h was quite an amusing image. sing image.As we joked about sportsbikes, a purple ute pulled up behind me. I paid it no notice, until I heard the power window wind down and a screeching noise: "My Harley is better than that thing."

I turned around to be presented with a most horrifying vision. The swamphog driving the purple monstrosity adorned with Bundy stickers and bulk aerials was a potato, if such vegetables could be fat and inbred and slobber when they talk. She was round like a spud, her odour was that of something that had been dug freshly from the dirt, and she had that chalky, filth-crusted skin that you wash off prior to cooking.

The Englishman and I recoiled in horror. I was afraid she was going to eat us both, load my bike into the back of her bogan-mobile and go sell it for crack and KFC. I knew the only way to stop such an assault was to show no fear. "How so?" I ventured, my voice wavering only a little.

"Harleys are better than any bike," she parried. "But my ute is better than anything. The air con is sooooo good." I couldn't stop thinking of Jabba the Hutt. The image was distracting me from a solid defence. I cast it from my mind.

"The faster you go the cooler you'll be," I told her with a smile, hoping to disarm the beast with my boyish charms. If that failed, I would deflect her first punch with my bronze chin covering and strike back with anger. with anger.Then she said something truly astounding. "Nah, my Harley had the best air-con ever."

I dunno what tumbled out of its half-toothed yapper after that… I laughed loudly, said goodbye to the Pom and walked away to the cool embrace of the shade, my missus and precious, precious Powerade.

The only other notable interjection in the otherwise long and tedious journey was meeting Precious.

He gets the bitches fizzing more than Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom in a tender, naked embrace.

Precious was a seven-week-old pug whose owners had brought him out for a romp and some tucker in Wangaratta. The little fucker stole my woman's heart instantly and rightfully so… he was adorable. He wouldn't have been more than five inches tall and I really think if Bob or Ruby had tried to step on him, he would have slipped between their toes.

Then we rode. And rode. And rode and rode and rode some fucken more.

And got lost in Melbourne. I knew it was going to happen, so I didn't go batshit. It was actually quite zen – something else going wrong on a hot, miserable, tiring day and me not having a ginger snap and murdering everyone in a 20-metre radius.

A friendly scooter shop owner gave us directions and we were on our way. I was nervous, fearing another cock-up, and I must admit I yodelled in happiness when I finally saw a big, green road sign with Phillip Island written on it. We were nearly there!

The road… I HAVE LIVED IT!

That last hundred kays before the Island roundabout really took it out of me, but I knew it would all be worth it in an hour or so. A single tear rolled from my cheek as the final hill gave way to the beauty that is the San Remo bridge, although I couldn't be sure if it was due to overwhelming happiness or because my right eye had finally given up after 1000km of wind abuse through my useless fucking goggles.

I could taste beer on my tongue. I could feel dead animal stuck between my teeth. I could hear Cricky's laughter, feel Swifty tapping me on the ankle trying to get my attention and see IslaMick being polite, quiet and well-mannered. And I hadn't even got to his house yet.

I refused to rock up empty-handed so made the heart-wrenching decision to bypass the house of party and head straight into Cowes. Hello, bottleshop. We meet again. Rum and bourbon was decided upon for the night and a vial of Sambucca for Mick to wash down his breakfast with.

Then, many kilometres later, Stoof and I rolled into Turn 13 - Island Mick's garage and tonight's venue. That first rum didn't even touch the sides.

And, just like every time Mick opens his house up to the company of BIKE ME!, we partied hard, fast and hilariously.

Here's a few of my favourite memories from the night.