Dinner with The Fixer

by Al

The NSW Police. Culpam Poena Premit Comes

I glanced at the picture on the front page of the Daily Telegraph on sale at the service station on Thunderbolts Way where I was paying for my petrol. It was of two NSW Police special forces officers in camouflage and ghillie suits, carrying M16s with telescopic sights. "The NSW Police force, in full battle-rattle", I said to the woman behind the counter. "Ain't it grand?"

"They're as thick as flies around here", she replied.

It had been in the news for a couple of days that police had found the camp of a suspected killer who had been evading arrest for seven or so years near Nowendoc. They raided the camp, but the suspected killer had shot one of the police in the shoulder and ran away.

"Any around Nowendoc?" I asked. My planned route took me past Nowendoc.

"Plenty around Nowendoc", she replied.

"Reckon they'll catch him?" I asked as she card-charged me.

"They don't want to", she replied. "He's shot a cop. They'll shoot him."

"People don't mind him", she continued. "He was camping in town for a while. No one gave him up."

I went outside, helmeted up, and hit Thunderbolts Way.

Thunderbolts Way is named after Frederick Ward, a.k.a. Captain Thunderbolt, a notorious bushranger who took a similar route north to rob towns on the Northern Slopes on the 1860s. The road was built fifty years later to get logs out of Nowendoc to market. I was on it because I'd promised to have dinner with The Fixer, who had recently moved to the Byron Bay area, and I figured that if I was going to ride that far I may as well cross the Great Dividing Range a couple of times. Thunderbolts Way was the first of these.

The first part of Thunderbolts Way is scenic and challenging. It is not well maintained, and the road was wet in patches. Nevertheless, I made good time to the Nowendoc turnoff. I saw no police. I guess that's the point of the camouflage.

Past the Nowendoc turnoff, the road straightens, and one can make even better time.

The Bavarian Money Waster prepares to leave the batcave.

BMW recommends that one not exceed 130km/h with the BMW System Cases fitted. I had all the bags on the Bavarian Money Waster. The weather forecast was for intermittent showers. I figured I'd probably get wet, and I figured I might stop overnight on the way back, so I had wet weather gear and changes of clothes.

BMW are full of crap. It's fine way past 130km/h.

A south bound rider on a Honda ST1300 waved at me. "Pussy", I thought. "If you can wave like that, you're going too slow."

I checked my phone for messages at the service station at Guyra. There was one from Boris, saying that if he was a man he would go riding like forty bastards today, but instead he went to work like a bitch.

At Glen Innes I turned east for my second crossing of the Great Dividing Range. I'd never ridden the Gwydir Highway before. It was dry. It climbs the western slopes of the range gently.

I settled in behind a line of traffic.

A brown snake with a broken back exploded writhing from under the wheels of the ute in front. It struck at me as I passed.

I decided life would be more predictable at the front of the line of traffic. There was a bit of space before the next turn. I applied the torque. A Highway Patrol car came around the turn. I pulled into the line of traffic and checked the mirrors. No brake lights: probably didn't get a radar fix. Excellent, I thought. Grafton probably only has one Highway Patrol car, that was it.

I carved up the sweepers across the top of the tablelands with elan. I blitzed a shorter line of traffic. Another Highway Patrol car came around the next turn. I revised my opinion of the size of the Grafton police department. I reviewed the road I had been riding. I figured he wouldn't have a place he could turn around for at least three kilometres.

The Gwydir Highway runs out of tableland at the end of the Gibraltar Range National Park, and drops down the side of the mountains.

I made haste. I had completed a right-hand hairpin turn posted at 25km/h and was setting up the following 45km/h left hand turn when the third Highway Patrol car appeared. I revised my opinion of the size of the Grafton police department again, and figured there must be some serious stuff happening behind me.

A worthy find, the Gwydir, I thought as I swept along the sweeping turns beside the Mann River. A guy on a Harley-Davidson waved at me. I nearly fell off. Honestly, some of the people buying those things these days.

I bought fuel at Grafton and headed north along the Summerland Way to Casino (a fast run), across to Lismore and thence to Bangalow. The last leg was green and winding and infested with too many cars, but it was only a few kilometres from there to The Fixer's lair.