by Paul Carter
‘Nice one, mate,’ said KTM One; thumbs-up and he was gone.
‘It’s a diesel, hey?’ KTM Two asked.
‘Yeah.’ I smiled.
‘Where you headed?’
‘Doing the big lap,’ I said.
His eyes widened. ‘Really? You’re game. Good luck.’
‘Cheers,’ I said.
He lifted the front end again and blasted away in a spectacular display of proper motorcycle hoonability. Melburnians are truly blessed to have such a great choice of rides to occupy their weekends. Eddie was smiling when we stopped at the bottom.
‘Mate, how good was that?’ I couldn’t stop grinning.
We sat on the Maroondah Highway headed for a small town called Taggerty, where Eddie grew up. ‘Mum and Dad’s is next, mate, there’s gonna be a good feed on.’ He sounded excited to be visiting home.
As predicted, Eddie’s folks were hospitable beyond words. Dan and I pigged out on Eddie’s mum’s lasagne, then we got the tour of the property. Eddie’s dad, Murray, is the area’s deputy group officer, a volunteer firefighter. He casually walked me through a shed to rival my father-in-law’s. Guys from that generation know how a man’s shed should be: no comfy seats, no designer shelving or super clean floors, just tools—heavily used tools. Power tools, tools with big engines, half a tractor here, half a big-block V8 there, and in the corner an old fridge that looks like a car door packed with man beer, not imported Italian stuff. These men have the man caves that my generation should aspire to. Murray talked casually about the Black Saturday fires that ravaged the area one year before, Australia’s worst fire disaster. As he talked, I got a glimpse of the type of men he and Eddie are, just flat-out hard-working, decent blokes who will risk their lives to save people and property from turning to ashes.
Everyone else headed inside for a cuppa and I went to check Betty’s almost shredded CVT belt. She was going through these drive belts at an increasingly rapid rate. I wandered through the shed, straight into a waiting spider’s web the size of a bed sheet. At the last nanosecond I saw the spider, right in the middle; he looked like he could bench press Spiderman. And right there in the semi-dark wooden shed I did what my wife calls ‘the spider dance’—the interpretive instant spin/strip that you do while hopping up and down and wildly rubbing your hands over your head. You know he’s holding on somewhere, ready to plunge his white-hot fangs into you. Thank God no one was around to see me do the spider dance—except the spider, of course.
After lunch, we ambled on from Taggerty past Bonnie Doon, made famous in the film The Castle, but the lake was dry. We stopped to refuel the truck in Benalla, passed Wangaratta, then got on a minor road to Wodonga on the Victoria/New South Wales border. This little back road was almost as direct a route as the Hume Highway, and there were no trucks or hell-for-leather near-death experiences. I was back to riding relaxed again; my only lingering worry was the CVT belts—I had only one left.
We crossed the border into New South Wales at dusk, Eddie leading, and got a bit lost looking for the motel in Albury. ‘I’m chuckin a uey at the lights, mate,’ he said over the radio, while in the background the GPS in a clipped English accent said, ‘Execute a legal u-turn at this intersection.’ I watched Eddie take out a traffic-light shroud with the side of the truck as he turned around. It rattled down onto the road, so I hopped off and picked it up. I had an old milk crate strapped to the back of the bike where I put my helmet and gloves whenever we stopped, as the wind had been blowing my kit all over the place. Eddie’s carnage was placed in there, and I caught up with him still looking for the motel.
‘Mate, you nailed that traffic light back there,’ I laughed over the radio.
‘Bullshit,’ said Eddie, so I pulled up next to him waving the shroud at the driver’s window. ‘Oh shit.’ He looked worried.
We found our digs for the night and I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
New South Wales is my old stomping ground; there’s some great riding in this state, but on this trip, it was only on the downhill side. The next day we were off to our nation’s capital Canberra, again taking the back roads. We left Albury via the Murray Valley into Corryong, a nice little goldrush town, and then into a valley.
The road was empty so I had a chance to take in the landscape. Shadows spread across the road, and the place felt palpably creepy. ‘Good location for a horror film,’ Dan said over the radio. He wanted to stop and do some filming against this backdrop. Five takes and ten passes later he was happy.
The road snaked round the foothills of the Snowy Ranges and on to Tumut, then we doubled back on the highway, heading south through Kosciuszko National Park and Australia’s highest town, Kiandra. We took a left turn at Cooma and then drove back up north towards Canberra. The day’s riding was spectacular. I felt light and happy. It had been a risk, I guess, to ride so far with only one belt left, but the riding was worth it.
About an hour before Canberra we pulled over for a break. I brewed up some tea and lay back under a tree, looking up at the branches swaying. Dan found inspiration in the landscape and bounded off with his stills camera. Eddie was in good form, so we fell into conversation. Before I realised it, we’d burned too much daylight and it was late afternoon.
Off again, me in front this time, and I focused on the road ahead, the bike thumping down the highway. And that’s when I felt it. Only a little at first, a light pressure at the back of my head, and then the horror set in. It was like a small hand slowly crawling from the back of my lid to the front. Something big and hairy with long legs was inside my helmet, looking for an exit point.
I checked my rear and slammed on the brakes, locking up the back wheel. A blue streak smoked off the burning rubber as the bike slid off the road. I sprang off, letting the bike fall over like a doddery toddler, and did the Roadside, One-Night-Only, Helmet Spider Dance. It’s not unlike the standard spider dance, but this one involves the high-speed removal of gloves and a mad thrashing at the chin strap, followed by hel- met soccer and the traditional rubbing of hands over your head.
The truck pulled up just as I was composing myself. Eddie wound down his window. ‘Everything OK, mate?’ He looked over at the bike lying on its side, the motor running.
‘Oh yeah, fine.’ I ran over and stood Betty up, smiling at the boys.
We continued on. It was getting dark and really cold, just above freezing; I was wearing all my gear now, almost too many layers to do up the zipper on my jacket. I ran out of fuel less than a kilometre from the motel. Running out of fuel is a prick on Betty; she’s hard to start in the cold, and even harder to start with the lines and filter empty.
Canberra was a dark, empty meat locker. We found our motel eventually. I left my bike-maintenance ritual for the morning; it was too dark, too cold, and besides, Eddie had bought beer.
The sun broke through the next morning while I was working on the bike. My last CVT belt had to get me all the way to Sydney, where I could pick up some more. Today, we were going to a tiny little place called Majors Creek to see my old mate Nigel Houston Begg. Majors Creek is a jewel nestled in wonderful country among the rolling hills behind Araluen Valley, where another friend had a place which would be our stop for the night.
I was excited about seeing Nigel. He’s quite mad, a dedicated motorcycle man who eats, sleeps and breathes everything bike-related. He used to be a daredevil of sorts, once jumping a mountain bike over I can’t remember how many buses—let’s just say there were lots. That was back when mountain bikes were just regular bikes with slightly wider tyres. Over the course of his life he’s had many passions; his current one is all about getting back to the basics. So some years ago he sold everything, purchased a large chunk of Majors Creek land onto which he put a 40-foot sea container full of motorcycles, and moved in. The container has no power or running water, in fact no amenities whatsoever, just Nigel and h
is bikes. I thought he had finally cracked back when he did it, but I was wrong: I’ve never seen him happier.
That could have a lot to do with the young lady from Belgium he rolled up to meet us with—on a tandem bicycle—outside the Majors Creek pub later that day. From there we followed him out to ‘the container’. It was spectacular; Nigel had made it very comfortable. There was a creek running past the front door. Nigel pointed to a clump of bushes near it. ‘There’s our laundry,’ he grinned. I got the tour of the inside. ‘Feel the temperature drop when you walk in?’ he asked, and I nodded. ‘That’s the nature of tin box.’ He had a generator for power, a gas stove, everything you might need (on a basic kind of Nigel level).
We swapped a few stories, had a whisky and decided to go down the back road from Majors Creek to Araluen. I love that track; it’s just a small dirt road but it’s fast, steep and a lot of fun. Dan climbed on the back of Betty to film, and Eddie drove the truck round the long way to meet us at the Araluen pub.
‘I’ve never been on the back of a bike before,’ said Dan, looking a bit worried, more for the brand-new thirteen-thousand-dollar camera in his backpack than anything else.
‘Don’t worry, Danny, it’s all downhill mate, just hang on,’ I said. Nigel rode beside us. The track was a blast, Dan letting go with a few screams on some tight hairpins when I let the back wheel slide out near the edge, giving him time to look over and realise there was no railing, just a sheer drop a few hundred feet down a cliff.
We were on our third beer at the pub in Araluen when Eddie showed up.
After that it was on to Gail’s place for the night. She was away in Sydney at the time, but being the legend she is, she’d left us a roast in the oven, apple pie in the fridge and cold beer in the esky. That night was like every night I’ve ever spent on that property, just brilliant. With a full belly and the peace and quiet, I slept like a baby.
In the morning Eddie got up early and fixed us a full cooked breakfast. Dan wanted to go for a ride to get some shots, so he jumped on the back of Betty again. We plodded through a few paddocks, cresting a big hill to pull up right in front of the biggest bull I’ve ever seen. He was magnificent. It looked like someone had stretched a hide over a drooling city bus. The big beast blew snot out of nostrils you could fit a fist in.
‘OK mate, we’ve seen the giant bull, let’s move on,’ Dan said nervously.
The bull turned and started walking towards us.
‘Pauli, let’s go, c’mon mate,’ Dan said.
I pulled off very slowly. Dan didn’t think it was funny.
By lunchtime we were past Batemans Bay and heading for Kiama and a great night with another old friend of mine, Jane De La Vega.
About twenty k’s out of Batemans Bay, I was going down a hill sitting on 90 when Betty’s back wheel suddenly locked up. She bucked wildly, her back wheel sliding then freeing up again. I nearly came off. The idler sprocket, shaft and housing had sheared off, flying into the main sprocket and chewing everything to pieces. This was a big repair, not something I could do roadside. I needed a new chain, sprockets, shafts and bearings.
Betty went into the back of the truck for the third time. I sat there, worries filling my head. I had to get the bike to Matt Bromley in Sydney; once he’d worked his magic on it I could relax, and hopefully spend no more time sitting there on the back seat. We rolled into Jane’s driveway two hours later, to be met by a great home-cooked meal, hot showers, and lots of good conversation.
The next day we got an early start for the last run into Sydney, another two hours down the highway. I called Matt at Deus; he was ready for us to bring Betty straight into the workshop. This whole leg had seen me relying on mates to get me through; sometimes friends make all the difference.
Clare and Lola would be waiting for me in Sydney. My dad, who had flown all the way from the UK, would be there too. He was going to join Phil and Dan in the truck up to Brisbane on the next leg. The time I spend with my father is great now, though it hasn’t always been that way. We were separated for a long time by my work and a lack of communication that lasted far too long. I was looking forward to seeing his face when he finally laid his eyes on my daughter for the first time.
I was a little apprehensive about getting the bike fixed, and having my family shacked up in a hotel while all this was going on. I would be busy every day helping Matt with the bike, plus I had to find spare parts, and I didn’t have a clue how long all that was going to take.
Betty rolled into Matt’s workshop on Thursday afternoon. I had Friday to find all the spares; on Saturday I had a racing suit fitting and Clare had to go to a funeral so Dad would have to look after his new granddaughter.
The racing suit fitting was important. Through Deus I had been put in touch with Rory, the Australian supplier of Gimoto racing leathers, world-class Italian-made racing suits. That gear is normally well out of my reach, however Rory had heard about the HPDM project for the Speed Week flying kilometre and very generously offered me a set of leathers for the salt. I was stunned. ‘Mate, I think it’s great,’ said Rory when I called him. ‘We love to get behind this kind of thing.’ He was going to meet me at Deus on Saturday at noon, and Dan wanted to film the fitting for the show.
At Deus, Matty was as keen as ever. ‘So, this is Betty,’ he said, and he looked her over. ‘Mate, if you’re going to keep punishing yourself on this thing, we need to rebuild the whole sprocket and shaft system. How much time do you have?’
‘Not much. Money’s tight too.’
He sipped his coffee. ‘Well, I’ll get started. Don’t worry, mate, we’ll look after you. Now go and see your girls.’
A great sense of relief washed over me as I handed Betty over to Yoda. Fix it, he will.
The other two mechanics looked over the top of the bikes they were working on. ‘Is that thing diesel?’
On the way out I stopped in the café for a brief moment with Eddie. His wife Katrina was there, so I got a chance to say thanks to them both. They’re good people, the kind that make the world go round.
When I got to the hotel, Dad was already there with my girls. Everyone looked great. I had missed my father’s first contact with the next generation, but life is like that. It didn’t matter, I was just glad to see him there holding Lola, so very happy. I hadn’t seen him in two years, but we picked up right where we left off. He would be with me for the next week, supporting me—he’d even brought the single malt.
I stayed at the hotel for an hour and then went back to help Matty. He had already stripped the shit out of the bike. ‘OK, mate, we need to replace all that, but with bigger bearings and shafts. You’re going to need the same sprockets but they need to fit round the bigger bearings.’ He pointed to a box of stripped parts.
Taka was there too. He’d already ordered a new chain but the drive and idler sprockets were not off-the-shelf items as I had been told. ‘No, not available off the shelf, I’m afraid.’ He picked up the smashed idler sprocket and held a vernier to it. ‘Custom size.’ Taka may be as laid-back as it gets, but he still has that wonderful Japanese sense of precision and efficiency. He’s probably on the ball even when he’s asleep. I’ve got nothing but time for Taka.
I called Rob at the uni’s workshop, and told him what we needed. ‘Not a problem, mate,’ he said. ‘I’ll courier the lot up to you today.’ He would also make, from scratch, new shafts and sprockets all properly hardened and ready to go; however this would take four days, which meant that I’d get back on the road by next Thursday if I was lucky. My other problem was the CVT belts. In the three years since the uni built Betty, the firm that fabricated her CVT belts had gone out of business.
Rob couldn’t believe I’d gone through the lot. ‘You’ve got none left? I’ll try looking from my end.’
I started ringing around every drive-belt supplier, importer and manufacturer in Australia.
The belt had very specific parameters, as nothing on the bike could be moved to fit the belt—the belt had to fit the bike. I had some luck with CBC Bearings, and fixed a time to go out to their warehouse the next day. That evening was spent chatting to Dad, but by eight o’clock I was falling asleep, exhausted.
On Friday morning I had coffee with Matty at 7 a.m. He was busy with several other bikes, so Dan and I went out to CBC Bearings and met Steve Hudson, the Senior Applications Engineer, and the New South Wales General Manager Lou Amato. They listened as I described my problem, then walked me into a warehouse big enough to park two 707s.
On huge racks stretching to the ceiling were thousands of drive belts. ‘Right, what size do you need?’ asked Lou. I told him, and there was a moment of hope. I was standing there, surrounded by millions of drive belts; surely there wasn’t a drive belt on the planet that they didn’t have. But guess what? They had drive belts that were close to my requirement but not exactly the one I needed.
I was stunned. They saw the look on my face. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get the right belts, Paul,’ said Lou. Steve offered to come all the way across Sydney to Deus and have a look at the drive system on the bike. He couldn’t believe that the belts we had access to would not work, so we drove back to Betty with a box of belts. Matty and I reassembled the bike and for the rest of the day we tried all the belts, one by one.