Travels with The Door - III

The Grand Terminus Hotel, Bairnsdale

The Grand Terminus is a grand old country pub where you can get a room for $55 a night. The Door and I are greeted in the car park by Roger, an avuncular septuagenarian on a BMW K1200. He insists on buying us a beer.

We stow our bags and have a beer with Roger. We have a shower and change, and come down and have more beer with Roger. Roger is retired, but his hobby is buying repairable write-offs from insurance companies, fixing them up and selling them. Roger makes good money doing this, and has so many bikes in his shed up in northern NSW that he is seeing a real estate agent tomorrow about buying a new house in the Bairnsdale area. One with a bigger shed. Then he's riding to Tasmania for the BMW rally.

Roger knows lots about bikes, especially BMWs. The Door is interested in a GS. Roger talks him out of it. "For what you want, you'd be better off with a DR650", he says.

We decide to go to dinner at the Lake of China.

Eating with men is good. Efficient. Within three minutes of sitting down we have ordered three meals and a bottle of red to share. Roger tells old army stories and explains why The Door needs a DR650. He and The Door exchange business cards. We eat well, and then go back to the pub and drink beer and bourbon.

The Door loads his Rocket at the Grand Terminus

We roll out at 0700. The Door pops a celebratory wheelie.

We turn off the highway and blast along scenic country roads, pausing to trickle through pretty country towns. We have breakfast and gas up at Traralgon. The Door approves. "At first I thought 'Where the fuck is he taking me?', but after a while I really started to enjoy those roads, and I didn't care."

I have cocked up. I meant to stop at Moe, further along, but I missed a turn. We get out on the A1 motorway. I cock up again and miss a turn. We go maybe 100km too far west. We eventually work it out and turn south through Pakenham and back east.

We finally arrive at Phillip Island. Just before the track we are pulled over by the police. There are a lot of them, all Highway Patrol with their bikes parked nearby. They are pulling over every motorcycle. They are not pulling over any cars.

"This is a licence check", says my one. "Licence please."

I give him my licence. He spends a minute or two writing my details down on a clipboard, then returns it. He gives me a pamphlet as well. "You can go."

"Why are you recording licence details?" I ask.

"Because", he replies, "I am a member of the Victorian police force and you are obliged to comply with my reasonable requests. And to give you a pamphlet on motorcycle safety. Alrighty?"

I am not sure I follow his logic, but I decide not to pursue it further.

Ten minutes later we are pulling up at Turn 12. There is a sea of BIKE ME! t-shirts.