by Paul Carter
THE BOYS WERE happy with our effort; as to whether or not the bike would still be around in a year for a third shot at Speed Week was another question. For me, I had to be patient and resign myself to getting on with normal life without holding on to the hope for yet another year.
We walked Doug over to his plane. I hung around and watched him turn into a speck in the distance, then lay back on the grass next to the runway and enjoyed the spectacle of the army parachute display team hurling themselves out of their aircraft. They morphed from dots in the sky to an amazing coordinated descent, one after the other landing next to me like they were casually stepping off a chairlift. My brother-in-law Dan shares this slightly frightening obsession with throwing himself out of aircraft and off the edge of cliffs; he shows me the footage from his tiny helmet camera and it seriously makes me feel ill.
Diego flopped down next to me followed by Colin and Ed and we all lay there for an hour, idly chatting about the last three years. How close we had come, the excitement and innovation, a bike that was the first of its kind in Australia. Even the Clean Diesel fuel was a first in this country. I was so proud that everyone who worked on this project did it because they wanted to see it work, and work here in Australia, built by Aussies, from the Holden engine to the galah I killed on the runway.
We packed everything into the trailer, car and bikes on autopilot then went back to the motel to clean up, check out and meet up for lunch at the pub. Colin and Ed were heading back to Adelaide where they would try to talk the university into holding on to the bike. Diego and I were heading down to Melbourne and straight on to the 4.30 p.m. ferry to Tassie.
But Colin wasn’t quite finished. After we’d done our runs at the airfield he’d poked around the bike for a bit, clipboard in one hand, then back at the motel he’d disappeared, saying he had some calls to make. Halfway through our burgers he casually mentioned, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
We all leant in to hear it.
Colin started talking about British Aerospace, who he worked for when he first arrived in Australia. He’d been on the team that designed a missile system purchased by the Australian Navy and had been sent here to assist with the weapons system being integrated into the maritime theatre of operations. The handover took months as the whole system needed to be tested and the navy personnel had to be trained in its use. This was all done, Colin explained, inside a large secure military live-missile firing range.
Now we were really listening.
Colin paused to drink his beer. ‘Well, I’ve been on the phone and the same army officer who ran the place is still there.’ He had a bite of his burger.
‘Great, Colin, that’s nice. How is he?’ I said, suddenly and uncontrollably flooded with hope again.
‘The facility has a 5-kilometre dead-straight access road that’s used to move the missiles from storage to the firing range.’
‘And?’ The bastard was torturing me now. He had a bit more burger, another sip of drink.
‘And so I asked him if we could run the bike down it. He thought it was a great idea.’
We erupted like a footy team that just learnt that peptides are now allowed in sport, then started firing questions at him all at once.
Colin was grinning madly, but as always remained the voice of reason. ‘There’s a mile of red tape involved, lads,’ he cautioned. ‘He needs to put it to the military chain, and we need to be patient. It’s not the sort of place you can just ride into.’ He was still smiling, though, which gave away his optimism. ‘I also spoke to the senior police officer for that area about an hour ago, and he thought it was a great idea, too. He even offered to use his radar gun to register the speed, but it can’t go above 200.’
Colin added that the military facility had grown and they now had all kinds of new kit that wasn’t available in his time. If we got the go-ahead, we’d also be allowed to play with the army’s new toys, courtesy of Colin’s mate, including a four-wheel-drive vehicle with what looks like a giant golf ball on the back but is actually a laser-guided missile tracking system. I couldn’t wait to tell Doug, he was going to wet his pants.
The five of us dreamt on for another hour, then parted company with the life breathed into us again. Diego and I hit the freeway south towards Melbourne to meet our ferry.
The Bio Diesel Motorcycle Salt Lake Special—just an engine gearbox and rear swingarm in 2008.
In one piece in late 2009.
And in 2010.
The salt is like riding over crazy paving.
Focused on the endgame.
Speed Week 2013.
Passing the one-mile marker.
Tailem Bend test track—low-flying eagle situation.
Corowa’s main runway—no wind, just too short.
Diego and myself—ready for Tassie motorcycle nirvana.
Miles and miles of sideways smiles, and no one else.
Christiaan and Jethro’s Beaver sea plane in good company.
The crew of the Bob Barker—don’t mess with them, especially the small chick at the front.
Diego fast and loose.
That sign.
Bondy, myself and Janelle.
Sydney Harbour shoot for Australia—Life On The Edge: Mat is dressed as an officer, I’m the convict next to him, Nathan the cameraman is in the middle, then Russell the director in the stern.
Dirk Hartog Island shoot in WA: Ulrich Krafzik cameraman (left); Eliot Buchan (centre) directs me with flair.
NO WEAPONS
ALLOWED
MELBOURNE WAS MORE than 300 kilometres away and it was 11.30 a.m. in Corowa.
‘Pol, wat time ees our ferry departing?’ Diego was looking at his watch.
‘4.30, mate, we better get a wriggle on.’
He looked up. ‘A what?’
I fired up my Harley and yelled back at him over the engine noise, ‘Never mind, let’s go.’
He bounded up to his BMW and performed the Diego Legover: his short frame required a comical run-up and vaulting action as his crotch was much lower than the seat height of the huge bike; he looked like he was humping it. Having said that, once he’s mobile he rides like a demon; we exceeded the speed limit constantly. I had to put the hammer down just to keep up with the mad bastard.
We blitzed down the M31 like we just robbed a bank, hitting Melbourne’s outskirts which opened into a maniacal blaze of confusing direction choices, usually made at the last millisecond by Diego. He had the GPS telling him in a clipped British accent to turn right in 50 metres. Diego, on the other hand, was convinced he should turn left; although his bike was indicating right, he went left with me in pursuit swearing while weaving through traffic. We went over the Bolte Bridge three times trying to work out if we were going in the right direction and every time poor Diego was hit with a fine; I have a side-mounted licence plate that folds in, so each time we passed a toll I reached back and flipped it in and out of sight.
The Spirit of Tasmania 1 is a massive vessel that crosses the Bass Strait in a constant to and fro between Melbourne and Devonport, ferrying huge amounts of people, vehicles and truck freight. In fact, the traffic going in and out of Tasmania is so heavy that there’s also a second ferry, imaginatively named the Spirit of Tasmania 2. Diego and I finally rounded a corner at the end of Waterfront Place and there she was like a floating skyscraper lying on her side in the water.
We pulled up near the entrance to the jetty and lay on a grassy embankment in the sun. One by one other riders appeared; every single bike was a big tourer loaded with gear, sporting huge windscreens and panniers with stickers from all the runs they had been on, engines with more power than my car. They had mountains of kit, thermal jackets, balaclavas, boot liners, neck warmers, insulated gloves—we’re talking crazy amounts of gear and luggage. Meanwhile I sat there in a T-shirt and jeans with a run-of-the-mill leather jacket—my gear, or lack thereof, caused some punters to point and laugh. Diego had about the same amount of kit as I did, which was fuck all, though of course his was
more stylish.
Diego looked up the weather forecast for Devonport on his phone. ‘You know how yesterday the weather was forecast to be fine and with sun and 25 degrees,’ he began and I nodded lazily in reply. ‘No more, Pol. Now eet ees rain and the showers with high wind gusts and 15 degrees.’
I looked over at the parade of stormtroopers still smiling smugly at us. Now I knew why.
‘How you say, we going to freeze our teets off.’ Diego laughed at his attempt at Aussie slang and I thought to myself he wouldn’t be laughing about it for long.
The boom gate opened and we formed up in a queue waiting to enter the belly of the gargantuan ferry. While the massive line of vehicles waited to board, people got out of cars and stretched their legs, occasionally chatting with other passengers. Here we got our first look at a ‘Taswegian’, a species of bogan found on the Apple Isle. He emerged from a horrendously battered Kingswood that was parked next to us, wearing pyjama pants and a sauce-stained singlet about 50, overweight; his nose alone suggested large amounts of beer were about to be consumed. He smiled and asked if we were ‘goin’ tourin’.
Diego froze in complete astonishment before glancing at me.
‘Yup,’ I replied and smiled.
‘First time to Tasmania?’ He was openly and unashamedly scratching his balls.
‘Yes, we’re really looking forward to it.’
He removed his hand from inside his pants and offered it up to shake, I stepped aside and deflected the shake to Diego. ‘This is my friend Diego,’ I said as the manky ball-sweat-stained-hand was redirected at Diego.
‘George,’ said the man.
Diego smiled serenely and put his gloves back on—nice move, mate—and shook the offered hand then continued to smile and nod so much he started to look like a stroke victim. I pretended there was a problem with my bike and lay on the ground tinkering with it. Eventually the Taswegian went away and sat on the bonnet of his Kingswood, pulled out his false teeth and started polishing them with his singlet. Diego and I hid behind my bike, consumed with our all-important task of tinkering, while Diego whispered ‘Unbelievable’ and ‘I have never seen anything like eet, Pol’.
We were saved from any more unwanted attention when the crew started boarding the bikes, a process done with predictable efficiency, and before long we had hit our cabins, were showered up and sitting down to a very nice meal in the restaurant. We were both excited at the prospect of five days of riding ahead of us, five days to do whatever the hell we felt like in one of the most beautiful places in the world.
After dinner we moseyed into the bar, which was more like a nightclub it was so packed with happy punters. Even so, Diego’s Argentinean mojo reverberated like a compelling bass rhythm and he was soon approached by a stunning young lady who tossed her hair and blushed perfectly. I smiled as I imagined her disappointment when she discovered Diego really is ‘just friendly’ and stepped out on deck.
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.
STORMTROOPERS
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. ‘Ma
y 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.