(This post continues on from 2-day tour (part 1))

I’ve recently been reading my way through the superb accounts of Ixion, one so lucky to be there when it all began…

Reminiscenses of MC – IXION (First published 1920-1927)
XI. ROADS.
IN spite of the huge sums which are expended on roads nowadays, they are certainly worse-probably much worse-than they were twenty years ago. The impressions of oldtimers like myself cannot, of course, be wholly trustworthy. The prehistoric motor demanded one’s entire attention, and no surplus faculties were available to criticize the road surface. Moreover, a youthful body is composed of fencing wire and indiarubber, so that it sustains lightly tribulations which would be torture to a forty-year-old. Again, the primitive machines were decidedly slow, nor did they grant us such long spells in the saddle that there was time to get cramped, for we were perennially hopping off to effect some small repair or to run alongside the labouring engine up some mild hill. Nevertheless, when all these allowances have been scrupulously made, I am convinced that the national road system has steadily deteriorated since 1900 or thereabouts.

There are two types of country road in Australia. Those that go ‘nowhere’, and those that just take a little longer to get there.

Our chosen route turned out to be the former, but in the meantime I was determined to experience this particular road through my bike which, after not even a year of being it’s proud owner, was increasingly becoming an extension of my body and senses.

No wider than a single car in places, and with a surface that had undergone continual spot-patching since the time of Ixion, his assessment of modern road conditions was certainly ringing true... Ringing through my palms and elbows, and resonating in my posterior, which was suffering from my ill-informed decision to wind up the rear-suspension stiffness for ‘improved handling’ in more favourable conditions.

Despite the numerous downsides to motorcycling that any rider will recount ad-nauseum to their ‘driver’ acquaintances, these quibbles certainly reinforce the joy of the exercise.  In fact, the more drenching the rain, numerous the intercepted bugs,  frigid the air,  numb the fingers, dusty and rutted the road – the better, as this all provides the adventurous rider a sense of ‘being alive’. Certainly a resounding joy will be soaked up like a hearty soup on a freshly baked bun when those obstacles have passed, but in the meantime they make a good story on later telling. I’m sure these tales of hardiness contribute to the mysticism of the motorcyclist, but also serve to paint as being a bit strange.

Our road at this stage was heading along the base of a long gully between adjacent eucalypt forested ranges. Prosperous-looking farmland occupied much of the gully-flat and on occasion a thoroughbred, pleasantly enjoying some lush hay, would perk up and race us along their fence line. At close to 4-o’clock the air was becoming crisp, punctuated by the sweet lingering smell of burnt iron bark expelled by the occasional brick-chimney of grandiose farmsteads and claptrap hovels alike. This, was turning out to be one of those ‘hearty soup days’ and I was attempting to soak up every last tasty drop – If it wasn’t for the inconsiderate pompous suburbanite occupying the entire width of the road in his 4-wheel behemoth.

Suddenly my ears hurt, my vision became blurry and my previously relaxed torso tensed in anticipation. What was this? My bike was steady, the ‘cager’ still occupied my forward view?.. A flying-Blatty, travelling at unprecedented velocity, mere millimetres from my right-hand boot hastily answered my query.  His move would have been supreme in grace, but for his bike, which was no-doubt straining at the excessively open throttle. He did however, manage to triumph over our nemesis, who now split us on the road – a seeming eternity passed before I felt it appropriate to pass on the treacherous surface and join the gang once more.

Many narrow wooden-sleeper’d bridges on the verge of rotting, tumbling down or both, hinted that this particular road was not high on the priorities of local council or regional motoring authorities, regardless  this was now our road and we pressed on. One town we happened upon (by the name of Yarramalong), which consisted in it’s entirety of a church, a petrol bowser and a pub/mealhouse (all in one establishment), was judiciously occupied by a small crowd of friendly adventurers and their mechanical steeds of all shapes and sizes, a grin, tip of the head and a ‘thumbs up’ was all that was required to become a member of their exclusive club as we passed.

'Our Road' along the valley floor.

The sun had been hidden behind the adjacent wooded-hills for some time now, so it was fitting that we shortly came to the end of the road. Well, it did continue for some way ahead, but 2-wheel tracks through long grass and saplings isn’t well suited to the slick-soft tyres of today’s sports-bikes, or vice-versa. I had noted back at the holy pub, a side-road heading north-west and potentially over the now familiar left-side range.  A group meeting was called and following the unanimous decision – we disbanded. Blatty headed home the way we had come with an exuberant display of noise and, well, just noise (and a flash of yellow L-plates) to impress the lingering church-bar patrons.

Fading light flickering through the gumleaves,  the aforementioned side-road beckoned (which my GPS had confirmed would eventually link up with other more substantial tracks to me on to Sydney). “You’re mad to ride at dusk”, any fellow rider would say, for evening-commuting wombats are a serious hazard that can collapse a bike’s front wheel at will, likely sending you off into the bushes with the single swift flick of a trebuchet. I was eager to push-on, there was no turning back (unless this road also turned out to be a dead-end).

will be continued… (Still on day 1. Gosh.)

I was greeted by a clear sky on Saturday morning. A notably crisp (but dry) chill originated from the south-west – not very common on the coast, which immediately brought back memories of camping on ridges and mountains in NZ and closer to home  alpine regions in Vic and NSW.

Having recently purchased a set of  the best all-weather-touring motorcycling boots money can buy and proud owner of a sense of adventure, I decided it was a fine day to explore some new roads.

I had promised my youngest cousin (reluctant owner of a Kawasaki Ninja 250) , who will actually complete his restrictions 6 months before me despite being more than 5 years my junior, to take him on a ride along some of the roads I’ve often ridden. Apparently morning-of-a-ride notice isn’t early enough for someone who is ’seen missing’ from  a party the night before, but his older brother (still much my junior) was keen, ready, eager and raring to go!

similar in looks (but not as shiny)

The available party (lets call him Blatty for sake of anonymity) is the recent  owner of an ex-race used Honda CBR250RR crotch destroying, ear banging, 19krpm redlining rocket – full of rattles, cracks and loose bolts. With 80+ thousand too many abusive k’s on the clock it deserves to be ridden straight to the tip, off a cliff, or not ridden at all but placed on display in a museum with a large drip-tray underneath. Needless to say, this particular example came complete with big attention grabbing L-plates.

While passing the time waiting for the arrival of my ‘possee’, preparations were made for the journey including a rinse and smell test of my camelbak, fitment of jacket liner, spray and wipe of clear visor/sunglasses, then donning of kevlar-lined-jeans, touring boots, winter-hoodie and leather armoured jacket. No sooner had my bag been elastically strapped to my CB400 Super Four Revo ‘08 pillion seat, than I could hear the startling cacophony of a rattling, redlining sportspiped Blatty. Sure enough, while looking for the visitor parking he had frightened a dog and my poor old neighbour who was attached to the dog by leash.

Eager to cover as much distance as possible before dusk (by now it was near 2pm) we filled our bikes and other supplies at the nearest friendly service centre, then began the journey south along the eastern side of Lake Macquarie. Much of the trip (so far) was uneventful for the most part, spotted with staccato-conversation at traffic lights, the odd weave through traffic, and the obligatory motorcycle stop at Catherine Hill Bay to absorb some fresh sea air.

My biggest concern was that the possee wasn’t going to be keen to cover as many k’s as was intended (Sydney was the final stop for me, but sundown was the limiting factor for Blatty as his light wasn’t reliable and when it managed to remain lit, the beam wasn’t straight). Rather than end up dissapointed due to excessive time spent in traffic rather than new & exciting roads, we veered off our planned route and once across the freeway, headed straight into ‘the country’.