Ride Like Hell and You'll Get There (15 page)
As I watched Melbourne get smaller, I pulled a cigar from my backpack and found a quiet spot to sit. I was just starting to lean back ready to enjoy the warm millpond sunset behind the city skyline with my glass of whiskey and a nice fresh Montecristo in my hand when a nasally voice interrupted my daydreaming. ‘No weapons allowed, sir.’
I looked up at the middle-aged muppet in a 100 per cent rayon uniform which gave him some minor level of authority. ‘What? This little thing?’ I held up my tiny pocketknife between my thumb and index finger. ‘You don’t expect me to bite the end off this, do you?’ With my other hand I held up the cigar, which was probably more weapon-like than the 2-inch knife.
‘No weapons allowed, sir.’ He motioned towards the leather strap of my backpack where a large knife pouch was mounted.
‘Oh, that’s a flashlight not a knife,’ I said.
‘Stand up and show me, sir.’
Here we go, I thought. While every punter onboard that ship had been affable and easy-going, I get to discover the one who wasn’t, the one who was about to turn into a full-blown ocean-going thundercunt. ‘Help yourself.’ I slid the backpack across the floor and stayed prone, returning my knife to my pocket and my attention to the fine Melbourne-framed sunset.
He didn’t touch the backpack. ‘Sir, no weapons allowed.’
I lit the cigar and reached back into my pocket for my knife, got to my feet and looked him in the eye. ‘Sir, I understand you’re just doing your job.’ I handed over the pocketknife. ‘Can I get a receipt for that, please?’
Diego walked up to us, having left a trail of broken hearts at the bar. ‘Hi guys, wat cho doing?’
The muppet in uniform turned to Diego. ‘Do you have any knives on you, sir?’
Diego looked at him then me, pulling his wonderfully whimsical what-the-fuck face.
‘He is armed only with a vicious sense of humour and a cock you could hang a wet beach towel on, sir,’ I said and put my arm tightly around Diego’s shoulder, blowing acrid smoke in our new friend’s face.
He left quickly after that, leaving me with a puzzled Diego. ‘What ees happening, Pol?’
‘Well, the short version is, that security guy now thinks you and I are two gay knife-toting troublemakers.’
Diego looked worried. ‘We are not gay, why does he think we are gay?’
I nodded. ‘He thinks you are the lady and I am the man.’
At that he went wild, yelling, ‘No, no, no, no, eef we were gay, I would be the man gay and you would be the other one.’
‘Diego,’ I said calmly, turning him to face our reflections in the large glass windows. ‘Look at us. You’re ridiculously well groomed even by Melbourne standards, you’re holding a glass of white wine and wearing a cravat, for fuck’s sake.’ He gave himself an appraising nod. ‘Now look at me—I haven’t shaved or changed my undies in two days. I’m the man gay, mate.’ He frowned and recoiled a little at the mention of my unclean undies then smiled and waved to the window, having made eye contact with a happy stranger.
I reclaimed my spot in the sun on the deck as well as my almost romantic aspirations for a maritime journey across the great divide, like sailing between the pillars of Hercules with my motorcycle stowed in the belly of the ship. Then, as we stand in a non-gay way on the deck in the morning, egg-and-bacon pie in hand, I thought about how I would feel on seeing Tasmania for the first time.
An hour later I fell into that deep sleep you get on a boat, the last embers of sun glancing off a still sea, the cabin wonderfully quiet and comfortable. At 5.45 a.m. the PA speaker on the ceiling told me we had an hour to be ready to ride off the ferry. My phone beeped; Diego had texted from next door: ‘Paul, look out the window, you gay fool.’ I got up to the view of Devonport harbour, at least what I could see of it through the driving horizontal rain that lashed everything mercilessly.
An hour later all the stormtroopers rode off the ferry in completely dry comfort. Diego and I made it a few kilometres to a roadhouse and fell through the doors, soaking wet and in need of directions to the nearest motorcycle retail shop. Our wet weather gear was apparently ‘water resistant’, not ‘waterproof ’ as it had claimed.
Diego stood on the verandah, cursing in Spanish while pouring a litre of water from each boot.
AFTER ENOUGH COFFEE
to make me jittery, a hearty breakfast and a lengthy session trying to dry our shirts using the toilet hand-dryer, we tentatively stepped back out into the howling rain and rode to a nearby shop that stocked mountain-climbing equipment, again staggering through the doors like someone just flushed us down the toilet.
‘Didn’t pack well for the tour, guys,’ said the smartarse behind the counter.
‘Yeah, yeah, we’ve been getting laughed at since we got on the ferry.’
He smiled like he’d seen us coming. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.’ He bounced out from behind his counter and proceeded to flog us $500 worth of wet-weather gear.
Diego was shivering in the corner, his face frozen into a gargoyle smirk. ‘May I use your toilet, please?’
‘Yeah, mate, help yourself.’ In the end our friend was good, he even gave us cups of tea.
Properly tooled up we swaggered out into the street, stormtrooper-clad, warm, dry and ready to man up and take on anything Tassie threw at us. Diego, now 20 pounds heavier and unable to spread his legs as much as he needed to, spent a full five minutes humping his bike in an effort to get on.
We peeled off in the direction of Port Sorell. It was freezing cold; I hadn’t ridden in conditions like this since the last time I was in Russia. In fact, the only reminder that we were in Tasmania was the lone wombat we passed by the side of the road, a rather grumpy-looking fellow sitting on a rock with a comedy frosting of snow.
We crossed the Rubicon River as the snow turned into slush and Diego got his ride on. After crossing another river he suddenly turned off towards the national park; there was no traffic on the road so we flogged it. It was wet, but in my mind I justified the speed by telling myself there were no trees, just low scrub, and I’m a stormtrooper now so I’ll just bounce if I drop it. Diego finally pulled up when we ran out of blacktop. He killed the engine, flipped up his visor and pointed down the gravel road. ‘Let us go and ride on that beeech.’ A hundred questions popped into my mind but I just nodded at him, and we were off to ride on the beach while I thought about all the reasons why you shouldn’t take a Harley onto the sand.
Having said that, the bike had no issue with it. It was amazing; we blasted up the beach, completely alone. The sand was perfect, like a combination of loose gravel and snow but compacted and solid. My bike is only a Sportster, the lightest of the Harley line-up; this particular model called the ‘48’ has a low, snug riding position, a short rake on the front with huge fat tyres and masses of torque, ideal for riding fast up a beach. I didn’t buy this bike to sit in my garage and polish it: I intended to respect it, care for it, but ride the shit out of it. She didn’t let me down.
Diego really is a talented rider, if more than a little bonkers. I looked up from my beach-riding daydream, the tune from
Chariots Of Fire
now playing in my head, to see the mad Argy pulling a mono into the surf. Most impressively, he didn’t stack it. Wow, I thought, he’s equally intent on giving his new German a proper seeing to. What a great place to take your bike; the idea of pulling off the road to ride your bike on the beach would get you shot in Perth.
I was starting to get hungry so we headed for George Town, and even in the appalling weather the riding was sensational; the roads were practically deserted. We skirted the edge of the Narawntapu National Park; it used to be called the Asbestos Range National Park, go figure. Initially I found this extraordinary, but by the end of my first day I realised, that’s Tassie—the people are just so relaxed and accommodating that naming a national park after a poisonous material wouldn’t bother them in the least while anywhere else it would cause a riot. By the end of the first day I would have gladly pulled over to chat to a random local who just waved me down to the side of the road using a severed head.
George Town offered up a warm fire, awesome hospitality and contented stomachs. Fully fuelled we consulted our map and hit the bikes. We skimmed along empty roads in a state of bliss, stopping again at Bridport, hitting some unsealed road and getting it a bit sideways on the way round, then joining up to the main road, the A3, that plugged us into St Helens for lunch and a brief game of ‘Spot the Local’. Then it was back up in another big dogleg after Fingal towards the silly but fun part of the day called ‘Jacobs Ladder’. This involved a world-class blat through Ben Lomond National Park; some of it was blacktop and some of it was dirt, all of it was fun. The Ladder is a curious succession of six very steep switchback hairpin climbing turns that slither up the side of the formidably wet and Scottish-looking Ben Lomond. Going off the edge of the ladder was a frightening prospect; any mistake would result in a proper caber toss into a red stain at the bottom, so we took it nice and easy to the top. Sufficiently ready to call it a day, we headed to Launceston for the night having done just over 500 k’s since we landed.
Diego had it all worked out. ‘I’ve booked us a bakery,’ he said, beaming. I debated whether I should ask for an explanation then decided just to go with it.
Although I have not yet fallen at the altar of Apple and am able to say ‘There’s an app for that’ while someone is talking about hippo mud wrestling, I’m not too proud to admit I was glad Diego had an iPhone. When the sun is going down and you’re getting cold and tired on a bike rolling down a random street in a strange town with no information and no plan, that phone is a crackerjack piece of kit.
We pulled up at the rear car park, checked into the bakery (converted into a very nice hotel) and enjoyed another great meal; I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the tin roof and thoughts of home.
Daybreak welcomed us with warm sun, no wind and an urgent need to blat straight down the main freeway that cuts through the centre of Tasmania to Hobart. My friend Christiaan lives there, but he was leaving the next day on a business trip and catching up with him was important because he runs ‘Tasmanian Air Adventures’—and has in his possession a beautiful, totally restored 1964 DeHavilland Beaver sea plane.
Christiaan and his full-time pilot Jethro run this operation from the harbour at Sullivans Cove, with Salamanca Market across the street, bang in the middle of all the action Hobart has on the waterfront. Chris spent twenty-plus years as an FA-18 fighter pilot in the RAAF and Jethro flew Tornadoes for Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force; between them they have set up a marvellous business. They can take you fishing or camping or sightseeing or drop you off for dinner by a lake or just flat-out scare the piss out of you in a jet fighter that they also play with.
I had not seen Chris in over a year and knew he would have all kinds of good bullshit to swap over a cold one. Diego was equally elated as he had never been in a sea plane before.
We hit the Midland Highway and blasted straight down towards Hobart. I found myself being reminded of Scotland again, then France; Tassie is just a really nice part of the world to go and ride your bike. I guess most of us would have ridden our bikes into the ground as younger men; I’d just ride right through winter with a ‘fuck it, it’s just water’ attitude, but these days I’m driving my car through the colder wetter months and happy to put the heater on if necessary—hell even the heated seat and radio sometimes. Gone are the days when I would compromise comfort or safety to try to look cool.
My bike was superbly comfortable. This new model came with forward controls as standard, while the rear suspension was a bit too rigid so I fitted an aftermarket seat and combined that with an air-hawk cushion; the result was perfect. Harley decided to put a tiny peanut fuel tank on the ‘48’, but even with 8 litres I could get around Tasmania without worrying about running out of fuel. The front end on this bike was wide and had a short wheelbase for a Sportster; the new triple tree now needed to accommodate a 16-inch tyre up front, making the whole thing snug and very low slung. So low that there are ‘pavement feelers’ fitted to the end of the foot pegs. This is a stud that points down towards the road under your foot pegs, so when you decide to go hard into a corner and lean right over, they hit the deck first and let you know you’re about to take the chrome off your pipes. I really couldn’t ask for any more from a bike.
One thing that hasn’t changed with age is that I still travel light. All I had on me for this trip were the must-haves: a change of clothes and a few, I mean a few, items for personal hygiene like my toothbrush, tyre repair kit with compressed air cylinder, some basic hand tools, cable ties, a 1-litre fuel flask that was more of a mental security blanket than anything else and, of course, our new wet-weather gear.
I slotted in behind Diego and we slipstreamed each other down the Apple Isle, meandering at a comfortable pace, lost in the resonance of engines and wonderful landscapes unfolding over hilltops. Hobart soon came with the coast; we followed Diego’s GPS and pulled up at Macquarie Wharf. There in the middle of Kings Pier Marina tied up next to a small jetty was Chris’s sea plane.