by Paul Carter
Right at the beginning of the worst global financial crisis since the Second World War, I was running around asking the oil industry for money. Yeah, I know, excellent timing. Our government was about to start handing out free money, calling it a ‘stimulus package’. I lay on the garage floor under the bike and listened to late night radio, stunned. When not on the drill floor, I’ve lived in this marvellous country for the last 25 years. Whether here or overseas Australians are doers, we get things done, we can deal with anything. Why was the Rudd government giving a nation famous for its adaptability and hardiness a giant cash dummy?
I’m not qualified to ramble on, but I also couldn’t believe the power brokers who head up the world’s banking systems had let it get to this. My cat could offer better guidance on the merits of lending money to people you know cannot repay it, but these people—who, I assume, hold MBAs, earn seven-figure salaries, and have a corner office—thought it was a great idea. We were all going to pay for it, one way or another, further down the line. But this particular financial pandemic was causing me problems right here and now. Suddenly, no one was interested in backing me. I thought about selling one of my bikes to help pay for the project, and my publisher offered to give me an advance on future book sales, but I was reluctant to go down those paths. I was despondent. All I had was an idea and the bike.
To do this trip I’d worked out I needed to raise $100,000. I had to find a support truck and rig it out with a cage, ramp, wheel brace, shelves, two 400-litre custom baffled fuel cells with proper electric fuel pumps, separate power, cover it with a good tarp, then get appropriate signs on it. Add to that bike-repair tools, a mountain of spares for Betty, including a spare donor bike, communications gear, insurance, accommodation, flights, food—the list went on and on.
Then to my complete surprise, during the week I spent in my garage pulling the bike apart each night, I landed seven sponsors totalling $85,000. The oil community in Western Australia got behind me—not the big players, but the smaller firms. I was amazed and humbled, especially since I knew giving that much was a big deal to them. To a big multi-national that’s not a great deal of money—their budget for paperclips would be bigger than that. But to these small service companies and third party firms it was a significant outlay.
Still, it was going to be tight; everything would be second-hand but it had to look decent. The donor bike was the hardest thing to find. Cagiva sold very few W16 Enduro bikes in Australia twelve years ago. Eventually I started looking overseas but had no luck. In desperation, I wrote to Cagiva asking for the landed cost of a frame, front forks, triple clamp, bars, controls, levers, swing arm, wheels, tank, seat and a partridge in a Cagiva tree; the sum they quoted me was horrendous.
I gave up and started looking for a truck, all the while organising agreement letters, accommodation bookings, flights, ordering spare parts plus patches for my jacket and stickers for the truck and bike with all the sponsors’ brands in the right size and format, and managing negotiations between my publisher and the production company. As well, late into the night I tinkered on Betty until she was completely disassembled. On occasion Lola helped by picking up a nut or bolt and eating it.
A support truck was proving tricky to find too; it had to be a dual cab to accommodate the driver, the cameraman and the large amount of filming gear he’d need to access from the cab. It also had to be over three tonnes but registered to drive on a car licence because only two of my seven support drivers had a truck licence. All in all, my requirements meant finding the right truck was as likely as finding a clean signed pair of Jeremy Clarkson’s favourite driving panties in the specials bin at Coles.
But I couldn’t let it bog me down, I couldn’t stop, because the minute I did it would all look too hard, especially with a full-time job, and a wife and child to spend time with. During this period, there was no time for anything other than work, family, trip. I missed everything else, especially sleep. My garage looked like someone had set off a bomb in a bike parts warehouse.
Lola was now eighteen months old, and already displaying character traits that I found so familiar. Her new doll, a present from her aunty Jools, was abandoned in the corner; she was more interested in how fast her pram would go. Lola would often join me in the garage, handing me spanners and bashing things while chattering to me. None of it made real sense yet, but it was her sweet voice and interest in what I was doing that cracked me up. ‘Daddy, Nemo, Wiggles, Dada, HEY, BIKE DADA BIKE, no, no cheeky . . .’ BANG, BANG, BANG. I’d look around and she’d be swinging a wrench down onto her mother’s new car. As soon as I turned around again she’d be off, her legs a blur as she races down the hall waving my wrench over her head. I’d come back later to discover sultanas, crayons and a dummy shoved up the car exhaust. I know she has my temper, but I hope as the years go by she also has my internal early-warning system and bullshit detector. I hope she takes life by the balls, and any boys that come around too.
Right when I needed it the most, it happened again: in one week I found both the perfect truck and a pristine Cagiva W16 garaged since new with only 3000 k’s on the clock. Even better, both were in Australia and both were available for the right price. The truck was ex-council, downgraded and registered to drive on a car licence, four-tonne capacity, dual cab, with a nice flat tray. I picked up the bike for half the cost of the spares quote from Cagiva. It arrived, again on the back of a truck, and again I wheeled it into the crowded garage next to its environmentally friendly Frankenstein counterpart.
I stood there with a cold beer looking at the two bikes. Just to know what it felt like I threw a new battery into the spare-parts bike, changed out the spark plug, flushed the lines and carby, cleaned the filters, siphoned out some fuel from one of my other bikes and started it up. The Ducati-built four-stroke 600 single thumped to life; I waited till early the following morning to take it out for a thrashing. It was a good bike—pity I had to pull it apart for parts.
An old oilfield mate, Ross Luck, jumped in with an offer to fabricate the cage to cover the tray. I rolled up with the truck and sat down in his office. Ross doesn’t mince his words; he instantly knew what I wanted and began drawing out the finished unit on a pad before I could say, ‘Where should I put the fuel cells?’ He spaced everything out for optimum weight distribution, and included rubber-lined brackets to brace the fuel cells, and side-lockable ports to pull the bowser-style pump handle through, so I could fill up the bike without having to open up the back of the truck and turn on the pumps. All I would have to do is pull up on the left or right side of the truck, open the port, reach in, flick on the fuel pump, pull out the bowser handle and fill the bike up. ‘Don’t forget to alternate your sides, so the tanks drain at equal rates,’ Ross instructed. He included shelving, and even a special swivel seat that Dan the cameraman could install so he could film safely from the back of the truck. The doors lifted off and stowed down one side. The seat had a heavy welded shaft that slotted into what looked like 3½-inch tubing welded directly to the chassis; it had a safety chain and a four-point harness.
‘You could tow another truck from the back of this chair, mate,’ said the welder, another Paul. He did a remarkable job; every aspect of Ross’s design was faithfully reproduced down to the finest detail. I was overjoyed.
Next I rode Betty to Ross’s workshop, and we pushed her up the ramp into the wheel clamp. It was a perfect setup, custom made for the bike. Five minutes later Ross and Paul had pulled the brakes apart and remade them, boosting my angle on the pedal and beefing up the steel. Ross took her for a blat around the block. He came back laughing—he usually gets around on a Harley Night Train. It must have been like sitting on a lawn mower.
Practice makes perfect, provided of course you have the right parts. I drilled myself over and over again on changing tyres, chains, sprockets, filters, the whole lot. Betty and I went for ever longer rides from Perth. I was getting to know her, and discovering
that many of her character traits were—how can I put this?—less than ideal. Betty was loud, so loud people walking down the street 50 yards away would turn to see what was making that bizarre noise. This was often followed by an open-mouthed stare and the question: ‘Mate, is that thing a diesel?’ Riding Betty past a group of people waiting roadside for a bus was a cringe-making, loud, smelly and smoky experience; the combination of her rank green colour, noise and exhaust fumes was as repellent as you could imagine.
I also did my research on riding gear. I was going to encounter rain, wind and temperatures ranging from freezing up to 50 degrees Celsius, so I needed a good full-face helmet, gloves for the cold weather and the heat, fully armoured boots and riding pants. The choice out here is literally mind-numbing and shop assistants do my head in. In the end I settled for a combination of the gear I’ve always used and trusted and some new gear.
One evening I came home with the CB radio communications, a simple setup consisting of three hand-held CB units. One could be plumbed into the helmet via Velcro flat speakers with a mouthpiece and a small push-to-talk button that would go on the left handlebar grip. There was one unit for the truck driver and one for the cameraman to use when he was in the back of the truck or filming by the side of the road; that way we could all talk to each other all the time. I’m usually one of those guys who has to play with the new thing before examining the instructions. ‘RTFM,’ Erwin used to say after I’d complained about some new toy not working: Read The Fuckin Manual. This time I did. Standing on my front lawn in pyjama pants and a new white full-face helmet with carefully attached communication wiring, a shiny new CB radio in my hand, I pressed the push-to-talk button. ‘Honey, can you hear me?’ Clare was in the living room halfway through another classic episode of So You Think You’re Too Fat? and wasn’t replying. There was nothing, just static. I pressed the button again. ‘Hey babe, you hearing me, over?’
Nothing. A bus went past, full of people staring at me. ‘Hey love, baby, come in.’ I cranked the volume knob. ‘Hey baby, I’ve got my helmet on, can you hear me or what?’
‘I CAN HEAR YOU, MATE.’ A deep man’s voice came booming into my head. I doubled over in pain, fumbling for the volume knob. ‘SO WHERE’S YOUR HONEY?’
Clare came on: ‘Hi love, over, who was that, was that you?’
‘THE NAME’S EARL, SWEETHEART.’
I’d forgotten it was a regular open CB, so anyone on channel 44 or scanning would have heard me. No doubt he was some truckie, probably rolling down the freeway behind our house. ‘Arggh, make him go away,’ Clare groaned. She was standing at the window laughing at me.
The last few things came together quickly: the tarp to cover the cage, a two-tonne trolley jack, an extra spare wheel for the truck, plus a few small items like a GPS and a mini fridge for the cab. Mates from the oilfield started calling with offers to help, and thanks to them I was able to keep my costs down. Doing some experimental filming, we discovered that Betty’s rank lime-green colour was overpowering my sponsors’ stickers on screen, so my mate Goldie jumped in with an offer to re-spray her. I had stripped the spares bike by then so he did the whole lot, two black sets of everything, perfect job. Black Betty was reborn with a new diesel heart transplant, ready to take on a whole continent.
Dan Stevenson, the cameraman, arrived in Perth four days before our scheduled departure. Dan is in his early thirties, and has loads of experience doing this kind of fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants filming. He’s calm, creative and thoughtful but, as I was to find out, very, very forgetful.
I knew everything worked, but what I didn’t know was if it would all work together. We needed to practise, Dan in the special filming seat, camera harness and comms on, me riding behind the truck, and both of us in communication with the driver. I called my mate Dave and asked him if he could spare the time to drive the truck all over the place while we got used to the gear. He came straight over. Like most of my mates Dave’s an oil man. He’s mad on his car, a brand-new Audi R8; the truck must have been punishing for him in comparison.
During our run-through we had a few dramas. At first I couldn’t hear Dave but Dan could. Dave would brake while I was too close to the back of the truck and I almost ended up in Dan’s lap several times. But eventually we made it work.
The next day I had to drop Ossy the cat off at the cat hotel, his new home for the next three months. We had taken him to the vet a few weeks earlier as he was doing some seriously weird shit. He was starting to look a bit haggard as well, like an elderly bum had just been reborn as a cat. It was $600 worth of blood tests and check-up.
When we returned with Ossy to get the results, the vet gave us that sympathetic smile. Oh dear, I thought, he’s gonna give us the sleepy needle speech. But no. Ossy’s blood work had come back revealing the bastard was built like a freight train. ‘He’s a big boy; when he was young he must have looked more like a dog disguised as a cat.’ The vet strained to lift Ossy’s bulk up onto the counter. ‘He’s around nineteen, but could last another five years—all his organs are working fine. Considering his history he’s in great shape physically, but his hearing is very impaired. Also, his erratic behaviour and night terrors are classic signs of cat dementia.’
Madura Pass, crossing the Nullarbor.
Lola maxing and relaxing in the back of the truck.
Pre-ride anti-vibration training.
Gavin Kelly and myself on the Victoria River. We’re supposed to be fishing.
Matty’s pre-ride survival training.
Dan Stevenson—full-time camera man, part-time lunatic.
Dan and Dave Henry getting the chopper shot.
Gav making friends with the locals, Bullo River, NT.
It’s only bad when they overtake you.
Riding into the sun, central Queensland.
The bush at dusk—hard to beat.
He died just after I got there.
‘So Pauli, how are you feeling?’
Too much glare, do it again. Too much noise, do it again. That truck’s in the shot now, do it again. Where did that eagle come from? Do it again. I need to pee, do it again. Where’s the long lens? Can you do it again? Okay, almost there, no wait the battery’s flat, do it again.
It’s a big bite.
Longreach Hospital interview.
Betty’s donk now resides in the Australian National Motorcycle Museum.
Betty’s big bad sister the high performance diesel motorcycle awaiting final stages of fabrication at the University of Adelaide’s Mechanical Engineering Department, ready for a land speed record attempt on the salt flats during Speed Week 2011 at Lake Gairdner.
‘What?’ I looked down at Ossy. A small string of cat drool was about to connect his head to the countertop.
‘Cognitive dysfunction syndrome,’ the vet said.
‘OK, so he’s going mad,’ I said.
Clare jumped in. ‘He’s just an old man, honey.’
The vet smiled and stroked the back of Ossy’s head. ‘Look, he could settle down or stay the same, or it could get much worse. Just monitor him and come back if you think you need to.’ Ossy was now crashed out next to the fax machine on the counter, looking like a bum next to a dumpster. We took him home.
Let me explain what the vet meant by erratic cat behaviour. Ossy would wake up at 2 a.m., walk into our bedroom, come over to my side of the bed and let go with a series of howls that our neighbours could hear. This was dementia cat speak for: ‘WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE? . . . I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM . . . NO, WAIT, I’M A WELDER FROM NEWCASTLE.’ I would wake up with a start, and in the meantime Ossy would walk into Lola’s room, and let go with another howl—‘WHAT THE FUCK’S GOING ON WITH ALL THIS GIANT FURNITURE?’—from directly underneath her cot, so she would start howling too, and now the two tenors would begin their impromptu sold-out concert. Clare and I took it in turns to deal with it.
Calming my daughter down i
nvolved the search and retrieval of one of her two compulsory sleep dummies. She’s got a hell of an arm on her, so I never found them in the cot, but on top of her wardrobe or pegged halfway down the hall. While I was rocking her on my shoulder in the dark and looking for said dummy, Oswald would see me, stop mid-howl and say to himself, ‘Oh . . . that’s right . . . I’m a domestic cat, I live here with this bald idiot and his mental family. Shit, I’m going back to bed.’ I’ve seen his face at this moment; you could see the realisation come crashing down. He’d walk off slowly towards his bed. ‘Fucking humans,’ he mumbles under his kitty-cat breath. Two hours later the whole thing would start again. ‘WHY IS IT DARK? . . . WHO THE FUCK AM I?’
That’s not to say he wasn’t affectionate, though he chose his moments. One night, after working on the bike till very late, I found myself asleep on the toilet at 3 a.m. I woke up, my eyes struggling to focus, and looked down to see the old cat curled up in the nest of jocks and trousers between my ankles, his bulky frame spilling over the edges and his drool everywhere.
So you’ll likely sympathise when I say I had a twang of separation anxiety as I pulled away from the cat hotel. Even in the car with the aircon on and the engine running, I could hear Ossy protesting from his new digs. The cats next door to his fenced room were considerably smaller than him, and they all had the same reaction to his arrival, scooting off to hide under their beds. I hoped the crazy old bastard would still be around when I got back.