Is that thing diesel?

by Paul Carter

  We had however remained close over the years, in an oilfield kind of a way, and by that I mean he’d be on a rig in Norway and I’d be on a rig in Africa and never did the twain meet, unless they happened to crew change from different sides of the planet through the same airport on the same day at the same time in the same departure lounge. Yes, you’d be surprised how often that happened. And once we’d rebooked our flights after missing our connections, sobered up and paid for any damages, we would go back to our different corners of the world until the next time the universe wanted a laugh. Much to my amazement, the last time we bumped into each other was one year ago right here in Perth, the most isolated city on the planet. I walked out of a lunch meeting at a Japanese restaurant with Westy, full of sake and with no memory of the business we’d sorted out in the first five minutes, and bumped straight into Donald. He had just arrived in town, and was working as a rig manager of a new build jack-up drilling in the northwest of the state. I was so happy to see his face, right there where I lived, and not in a blank airport in some shit hole. I knew that if there was anyone who would be fun to hit the road with, it would be Donald.

  When I called him he said yes, and to his credit he did everything he could to get the time off. But through a chain of events that was beyond Donald’s control, while I was on the road he had to push the button a man in his position never wants to push. The rig was evacuated as the well lost control and a sub-sea blowout crippled his operation.

  My brother-in-law jumped in at the last minute to drive for Donald on stage four, Brisbane to Darwin. I’ve already told you about Clare’s older brother Mathew—musician, band manager, music lover and filmmaker. He’s not at all what you’re thinking: he’s much, much worse. That’s all I’m going to say about Matt for now.

  Stage five—Darwin to Broome—Gavin Kelly. ‘Fuckin Pauli, it’s a bit fuckin late, mate.’ He coughed for a full minute; Gav could smoke for Scotland. ‘You better be on fuckin fire or some shit, mate, eh. What’s gan on?’ I ran my spiel past him, asked him the question. There was a pause. ‘You want me te fuckin what?’ I repeated my request, and there was another pause. ‘Eh, what fuckin truck?’ I told him again. ‘Aye, OK, ne bother, mate. Hey I’ve got a fuckin truck licence as well, man.’ I was happy. Even though he works in oil and is away a lot, if Gavin said yes, I just knew he was going to be there.

  Southwell was a yes for stage six, Broome to Perth, but had to pull out because of—you guessed it—the oilfield. Again Clare’s family jumped in to help; this time it was Clare’s younger sister, Carrie, who’s in the navy. She’s a physical training instructor—still very much a lady but hard as fuck, and not what you’re thinking—much, much better.

  Last but not least was my old mate, Erwin Herczeg. I wanted him for stage seven, Perth back to Adelaide. Of course he said yes. Erwin’s a company man now, a drilling manager; of course he was still offshore when his turn came.

  By daybreak, the seven stages were marked out on the map, complete with dates, distances, places to overnight and get the truck serviced, and each of my seven support drivers. With Oswald making the odd visit, I had been in the garage all night, and now the morning sun cracked through the gaps between the door and the floor. I had worked it all out, or as much as I could.

  I stood up, stretched, and drank a mouthful of cold coffee. I had to be at the office in two hours.

  Clare came down the stairs carrying Lola and looking bemused. ‘All night, honey, you need to rest.’ She set Lola down and walked around the mess of paper and maps on the floor, my scribbles on everything; she could see I’d had some kind of breakthrough.

  It had already been decided that Clare and Lola would come with me on the next trip to Adelaide as I wanted them to see what I had been doing. I’m truly blessed, my Clare is supportive and infinitely patient with me. I also love how she doesn’t skirt around the edges of anything, she just dives right in. I often ask myself how I got so lucky.

  ‘So we’re going to Adelaide so you can practise on the bike,’ she said now.

  ‘Yup, the boys will walk me through everything, and I’ll also get a good look at the HPDM project.’

  She looked thoughtful. ‘That’s the speed bike for the salt flats, right baby? I don’t like the speed project, it’s too dangerous.’ She looked over at Lola, who was busy fitting her dummy into the cat’s ear.

  ‘That bike is nothing like Betty,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s very well engineered. I trust Colin, he’s not going to hand over a machine that’s not up to the task. Don’t worry, everything will work out fine.’ That’s what I thought she needed to hear.

  ‘I don’t like it: you don’t have any salt-flat riding experience and that bike is experimental.’ She had that look in her eye.

  ‘Look baby, it’s going to be perfectly organised and as safe as we can make it.’

  Safer than what? I thought privately. Putting on roller skates and strapping an Acme rocket to my back? Which reminded me, after our trip I had to fly from Adelaide to Sydney to sit down with Diggers and draft a will that would cover all scenarios.

  Fortunately, Clare switched her attention back to my other crazy project. ‘So you’ll be going with the bike from here to Adelaide once you’re ready?’ She sat down on a box of oil filters.

  I nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Lola, having successfully inserted her dummy into the cat’s mouth, now picked up an axle bolt and stared beadily at poor Oswald’s anus.

  ‘Can we come with you in the truck instead of flying to Adelaide?’

  I was pumped. ‘That would be great, honey—are you sure?’

  She laughed. ‘Yeah, it’ll be fun, our first family roadie.’

  At that point Oswald let out a howl and then shot past us, Lola with the axle bolt in pursuit.

  The flight to Adelaide was soon upon us. Clare loves the place, and spent the two days we were there exploring with Lola. I liked Adelaide too. I could live there, even if for no other reason than it’s closer to Sydney than Perth.

  If I add up all the years on the rigs, I’ve spent two-thirds of my life somewhere else other than Australia. Staying in one place is a treat for me now, because for too many years I was just another expatriate, living in a country that wasn’t mine. Living in the oilfield means living on the no-man’s land of the rig and moving to a new country with every job. It does broaden the mind and your perception of life, and it puts a great deal into perspective. But after the crew has scattered it can leave you feeling alone and a little out of place at the ten-year oilfield family Christmas dinner.

  Wherever I was, I would miss home, perhaps because of the way the oilfield and some cities just hem you in. I miss the open spaces and rich colour of Australia, and the vastness that you know is only a two-hour drive away if you need it. That empty space is there, it’s big enough to swallow up all of Europe. That longing to be home would come into my mind and run on the hamster wheel for hours, I think because I spent so much of my life in the boxed-up world of life on a rig, where space is a valuable commodity.

  In Adelaide, while Clare and Lola were sightseeing, I was back at the university. I was happy with the preparations for the ride. Thanks to Rob from the workshop, I had fuel filters, CVT drive belts, and a new battery.

  Steve then walked me through his fabrication process on the HPDM. The bike was going to be a monster. Its frame weight was 75 kilos, the wheel base was 2.4 metres, with a Holden Astra turbo diesel engine plumed into a Harley Dyna gearbox. The frame was—in a word—perfect; the engine sat balanced with only a few millimetres of clearance. I had already joined the DLRA—the Dry Lakes Racing Association. ‘You’re going to need proper leathers for the salt, mate.’ Steve smiled.

  The DLRA scrutinisers would have to make several trips to the uni, making sure the bike conformed to their rule book. The plan was that the bike would go to Speed Week in March 2011 and
start speed trials at Lake Gairdner, South Australia.

  I was captivated by the amount of enthusiasm and skill behind this motorcycle. The students were as fascinating to talk to as the staff. They sat me down in a huge room filled with computers and showed me the computational fluid dynamics software that produced the fairing design. I couldn’t wait to ride this thing one day.

  Colin and I talked through the HPDM project, his office coffee helping my brain to keep pace with his stream of motorcycle consciousness. We slowly worked out a plan for our week on the salt in two years. Then he took me back to see the engine running on a dyno test setup operated by his students. The engine looked strange mounted in a steel jig in the test room. We were all wearing industrial hearing protection, staring at it from behind glass. ‘Increase rpm, more air.’ One of Colin’s students sat in front of a bank of computers turning dials, his eyes darting from one screen to another. ‘Max power,’ he said. The engine was screaming in its frame. Their calculations—encompassing the distance I had to get up to speed before the speed trap in the flying kilometre, versus the bike’s weight, drag, max power, acceleration, gearing—had me getting to 260 kilometres per hour at best, not enough to beat the American who currently held the land-speed record for a bio-diesel motorcycle at 267 kph. I thought about going on a diet.

  The class was unfazed by this, however; everyone simply focused on working through the problem, charging into conversations I couldn’t keep up with, so I nodded and smiled, fiddled with the change in my pocket and ended up thinking about naked cheerleaders cavorting in jello with a giant beach ball.

  Whatever the outcome would be, I was just happy to get the opportunity to spend time with the students and guys like Colin and the fellas in the workshop, especially Rob. He was a fount of knowledge and couldn’t do enough to help me with my preparations to ride Betty. On our last night we all had a beer together. The spares were boxed up and Betty was ready for her freight trip over to me in Perth. ‘See you in a month,’ I called as the cab pulled away that night.

  From Adelaide, we flew to Sydney, where Clare and Lola caught up with her family and I went to see my lawyer to draft my will.

  Diggers’ office was comfortable. Soft light from the warm sunset spread an orange glow over his bookshelves; I could smell the sea. He gathered up some paperwork and offered me a drink. ‘Just a coffee, thanks mate,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said.

  I had my eyes closed for a moment, tired from the week’s running around; a wind chime nearby made my lids heavier. When he came back in, the smell of fresh coffee filled the air. He sat down, crossed his legs and regarded me. ‘Let’s begin. I’m going to ask you some direct questions, Paul. I want honest, direct answers, is that OK?’

  The process took a few gruelling hours. His manner was relaxed but you could tell the wheels were turning. Designing a will is important for everyone, and I didn’t find any of it confronting, but it raised my buried worries about the element of risk in what I was planning to do. What if something did happen? I thought about the risks I was taking in riding Betty and leaving my girls alone for three months. I thought about the danger of the speed trials, the possibility of serious injury or death. The shadows in Diggers’ office filled up with doubt.

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘I’ll take that drink, mate, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, and poured me a whisky. ‘We’re almost finished.’ He went over the paperwork between the university and me, then closed his file and sat back. ‘You’re all set. If something goes wrong now, is there a plan B?’

  I laughed. ‘No mate, it’s plan A or back to work.’

  ‘Right. Well, good luck and be careful.’ Diggers raised his mug.

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ I finished my drink.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  He had brought up every possible scenario and we’d talked each one through. I was at ease now. I knew that no matter what, my girls would be OK.

  The next morning I had a few hours to myself, so I jumped on a bus and headed off to my mate Dare’s motorcycle shop. Well, shop is not the right word; ‘complete mecca for bike enthusiasts’ would be more appropriate.

  It’d been about five years since Dare went into partnership with his mate Rod and opened Deus Ex Machina (God From The Machine), two storeys of homage to all things motorcycle. I remember the day he first acquired the building, formerly a furniture store covering a whole corner block of Sydney’s busy Parramatta Road. Dare had also just purchased what would be the shop’s main countertop—an entire intact ten-pin bowling alley lane. It weighed a ton; a huge group of us staggered across Parramatta Road with this gigantic wooden thing, and getting it through the front door was a nightmare. But now it looks fantastic, sitting proudly in the middle of the shop.

  Between them Dare and Rod have carved out a nice niche in the bike world. Whenever I visit I always end up spending the whole day there. After a few years they opened an excellent instore café, so now you don’t even have to leave for lunch. One half of the main shop sells clothing; they’ve also got an extensive bookshop, and as far as the bikes go, well, they sell stock machines, full custom builds, classic bikes and bicycles as well. Like I said, it’s heaven on a stick for motorbike fanatics like me.

  Sooner or later, I always end up in the workshop. The man then running the show was another mate of mine, Matt Bromley. He was a Perth boy, a doting father and a complete genius in front of a motorcycle. I’ve learned a lot from Matty; he’s patient and methodical, his machines are perfect in every way.

  This was a typically busy midweek day in Deus. I wandered in and ran straight into Dare and Ben, the store manager. We had coffee while I ran through my plans for the trip. They both jumped in with their usual enthusiasm for anything a bit different.

  ‘When you pass through Sydney, make sure you stop by. Matt will service the bike and Taka can organise any spares you need,’ said Ben, smiling.

  ‘Why don’t you have a chat to Taka and Matt now?’ added Dare. His relaxed aura is palpable. When Dare’s not messing about on bikes he’s all about surfing, and he’s got that surfer’s calm about him. He reminds me of Erwin; they both have that vibe of appearing to be completely relaxed and yet capable of anything at the same time.

  Following their suggestion, I made my way over to see Taka. Taka is Deus’s one-man parts encyclopedia. A Japanese national who made Sydney his home some years back, his English is faultless and his brain box goes at a million miles an hour. As soon as I started telling him about Betty he knew exactly what I was on about, and asked to look at my spares list. He pointed out several items I hadn’t thought of and was off like a shot to order them for me.

  Matty Bromley was exactly where I expected to find him, out the back with his head in a frame and a coffee perched on his workbench. He was full of good advice as well. I was very grateful to know if I did have any problems during the trip I could count on help from the Deus guys. Matt asked about Betty’s fuel and air filters; we talked about the oil, the tyres, and he gave me the number of a guy who sells these amazing air cushion seats. ‘Mate, you’re going to need to get one of these seats, that Cagiva will shred your arse before you get as far as Sydney.’ He paused and placed the end of the ratchet he was holding against his chin. ‘What’s the vibration like?’

  I laughed. ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ He walked back to his workbench, past the other mechanics zoned into their work. ‘I could go to town on it, mate, but it’s going to take some time; what’s your budget like?’

  I knew I didn’t have the time or the funds to get the bike over to Matty to play with before I set out, and I also knew he’d end up building a whole new bike once he started. ‘Nah mate, can’t do it.’

  ‘Well, no worries, Pauli, we’ll look after you when you come through.’

  I told him about the website
Quail TV had set up, and we tapped into the web; Matt laughed when he saw the picture of Betty on the laptop screen, then leaned in to get a look at her engine. ‘Jesus, Pauli, you’re keen, mate. Is this some sort of payback for all those years on the rigs or what?’ I smiled. ‘What’s the top end power like, lots of torque from that diesel?’

  ‘It sits on 70 at 3000 rpm on a flat road.’

  He was deep in thought. ‘How many teeth on the drive sprocket?’

  ‘Forty-four,’ I said.

  ‘OK, we’ll order you a 39-tooth rear sprocket—it’ll be here in an hour or so. Take it back to Perth and see if it gives you more speed.’ He explained that if we changed down a tooth on the drive sprocket the CVT drive might start to slip, but five teeth down on the rear drive sprocket should give me perhaps ten kilometres per hour more speed. We had some lunch and talked bikes, babies (he’s a new father too) and the HPDM project. I asked Matty if he was up for a trip to the salt to have a go on the speed bike. ‘Mate, I’m in,’ he said. ‘They’re all nutters at Speed Week.’

  We shook hands and I jumped in another cab to the airport, sprocket in hand, feeling good about everything. I’d put some fears to rest, faced down some internal dragons, been warmed by the generosity of old friends, and even better, had possibly gained another ten kph.

  A wise man once said: Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance.

  Two weeks after we got back from Sydney, Betty turned up at my house. I wheeled her off the back of a truck and into the middle of my garage. She sat there surrounded by motorcycles and shelves of bike gear. I prepared to disassemble her, and Clare’s car was relegated to the driveway. Each night after work was wholly devoted to this, while my weekends were spent drafting letters to potential sponsors. During the two weeks I’d been waiting for Betty to arrive I’d written reams of emails and letters.