Ride Like Hell and You'll Get There

by Paul Carter

  Diego really is a talented rider, if more than a little bonkers. I looked up from my beach-riding daydream, the tune from Chariots Of Fire now playing in my head, to see the mad Argy pulling a mono into the surf. Most impressively, he didn’t stack it. Wow, I thought, he’s equally intent on giving his new German a proper seeing to. What a great place to take your bike; the idea of pulling off the road to ride your bike on the beach would get you shot in Perth.

  I was starting to get hungry so we headed for George Town, and even in the appalling weather the riding was sensational; the roads were practically deserted. We skirted the edge of the Narawntapu National Park; it used to be called the Asbestos Range National Park, go figure. Initially I found this extraordinary, but by the end of my first day I realised, that’s Tassie—the people are just so relaxed and accommodating that naming a national park after a poisonous material wouldn’t bother them in the least while anywhere else it would cause a riot. By the end of the first day I would have gladly pulled over to chat to a random local who just waved me down to the side of the road using a severed head.

  George Town offered up a warm fire, awesome hospitality and contented stomachs. Fully fuelled we consulted our map and hit the bikes. We skimmed along empty roads in a state of bliss, stopping again at Bridport, hitting some unsealed road and getting it a bit sideways on the way round, then joining up to the main road, the A3, that plugged us into St Helens for lunch and a brief game of ‘Spot the Local’. Then it was back up in another big dogleg after Fingal towards the silly but fun part of the day called ‘Jacobs Ladder’. This involved a world-class blat through Ben Lomond National Park; some of it was blacktop and some of it was dirt, all of it was fun. The Ladder is a curious succession of six very steep switchback hairpin climbing turns that slither up the side of the formidably wet and Scottish-looking Ben Lomond. Going off the edge of the ladder was a frightening prospect; any mistake would result in a proper caber toss into a red stain at the bottom, so we took it nice and easy to the top. Sufficiently ready to call it a day, we headed to Launceston for the night having done just over 500 k’s since we landed.

  Diego had it all worked out. ‘I’ve booked us a bakery,’ he said, beaming. I debated whether I should ask for an explanation then decided just to go with it.

  Although I have not yet fallen at the altar of Apple and am able to say ‘There’s an app for that’ while someone is talking about hippo mud wrestling, I’m not too proud to admit I was glad Diego had an iPhone. When the sun is going down and you’re getting cold and tired on a bike rolling down a random street in a strange town with no information and no plan, that phone is a crackerjack piece of kit.

  We pulled up at the rear car park, checked into the bakery (converted into a very nice hotel) and enjoyed another great meal; I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the tin roof and thoughts of home.

  Daybreak welcomed us with warm sun, no wind and an urgent need to blat straight down the main freeway that cuts through the centre of Tasmania to Hobart. My friend Christiaan lives there, but he was leaving the next day on a business trip and catching up with him was important because he runs ‘Tasmanian Air Adventures’—and has in his possession a beautiful, totally restored 1964 DeHavilland Beaver sea plane.

  Christiaan and his full-time pilot Jethro run this operation from the harbour at Sullivans Cove, with Salamanca Market across the street, bang in the middle of all the action Hobart has on the waterfront. Chris spent twenty-plus years as an FA-18 fighter pilot in the RAAF and Jethro flew Tornadoes for Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force; between them they have set up a marvellous business. They can take you fishing or camping or sightseeing or drop you off for dinner by a lake or just flat-out scare the piss out of you in a jet fighter that they also play with.

  I had not seen Chris in over a year and knew he would have all kinds of good bullshit to swap over a cold one. Diego was equally elated as he had never been in a sea plane before.

  We hit the Midland Highway and blasted straight down towards Hobart. I found myself being reminded of Scotland again, then France; Tassie is just a really nice part of the world to go and ride your bike. I guess most of us would have ridden our bikes into the ground as younger men; I’d just ride right through winter with a ‘fuck it, it’s just water’ attitude, but these days I’m driving my car through the colder wetter months and happy to put the heater on if necessary—hell even the heated seat and radio sometimes. Gone are the days when I would compromise comfort or safety to try to look cool.

  My bike was superbly comfortable. This new model came with forward controls as standard, while the rear suspension was a bit too rigid so I fitted an aftermarket seat and combined that with an air-hawk cushion; the result was perfect. Harley decided to put a tiny peanut fuel tank on the ‘48’, but even with 8 litres I could get around Tasmania without worrying about running out of fuel. The front end on this bike was wide and had a short wheelbase for a Sportster; the new triple tree now needed to accommodate a 16-inch tyre up front, making the whole thing snug and very low slung. So low that there are ‘pavement feelers’ fitted to the end of the foot pegs. This is a stud that points down towards the road under your foot pegs, so when you decide to go hard into a corner and lean right over, they hit the deck first and let you know you’re about to take the chrome off your pipes. I really couldn’t ask for any more from a bike.

  One thing that hasn’t changed with age is that I still travel light. All I had on me for this trip were the must-haves: a change of clothes and a few, I mean a few, items for personal hygiene like my toothbrush, tyre repair kit with compressed air cylinder, some basic hand tools, cable ties, a 1-litre fuel flask that was more of a mental security blanket than anything else and, of course, our new wet-weather gear.

  I slotted in behind Diego and we slipstreamed each other down the Apple Isle, meandering at a comfortable pace, lost in the resonance of engines and wonderful landscapes unfolding over hilltops. Hobart soon came with the coast; we followed Diego’s GPS and pulled up at Macquarie Wharf. There in the middle of Kings Pier Marina tied up next to a small jetty was Chris’s sea plane.

  Diego was doing his excited beam. ‘Pol, I can’t believe we are going to fly in that plane soon.’

  We wandered over to the small office overlooking the marina.

  ‘You must be Paul,’ said a guy in neat casual clothes who appeared out of thin air as soon as we walked through the door. ‘Jethro Nelson,’ he said and shook my hand. He had a warm clean-cut smile and relaxed but organised demeanour, that wonderful combination you get with some ex-military people that puts you immediately at ease just because you can be confident that he knows exactly what he’s doing, even in his sleep. He introduced himself to Diego, explained that Chris was at a business meeting and would be back after lunch when he’d give us a safety briefing before we flew off. Jethro was right on top of his game. He gave us a quick tour before parking us in a really nice restaurant next door where he had organised lunch while we waited for Chris to arrive. Lunch was a seafood spectacular that would make Captain Birdseye wet his pants.

  ‘Oi, you in the filthy T-shirt!’There was Chris, looking happier than I’d ever seen him.

  We had a quick catch-up then Jethro gave us the rundown on safety and the aircraft, and that was it. The next thing Chris was starting the Beaver’s radial engine and in what felt like a few seconds we were airborne and climbing over Hobart, with Mt Wellington as a backdrop, gazing out the window in awe.

  Within a very short time we were flying over huge areas of complete wilderness unmarked by any manmade feature. The landscape stretched into the distance flanked by steep snow-capped hills. The Beaver ducked down into a ravine 200 metres deep and tracked along the Gordon River, dropping in with a slight bump and coming to a stop within a remarkably short distance near Sir John Falls. It was a breathtaking ride.

  We had a quiet cuppa at the falls, talking about the good old days and just taking in the bush on sensory overload. But it wasn’t an idyllic picn
ic for long.

  As we left the river I started to suspect that Chris was having a brain-snap; it pretty much looked like we were taking off directly into a very big wall of vertical rock jutting out of the water. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Diego’s face freeze, only his eyes got bigger. ‘This is the good bit,’ Chris casually commented over the headsets. I looked at him—he looked like a cab driver stuck in peak hour—then I looked out the windscreen through the spinning prop at rock, everywhere I looked was rock. He pulled hard on the controls and we climbed and banked aggressively but effortlessly, pulling up and away from the ravine wall. I was gripping the side of my seat so hard I cut off the circulation to my fingers.

  ‘Wooooohooo, let us do eet again!’ Diego was loving it but thankfully for me we didn’t.

  On the way back Chris took us all round the city, giving us his rundown on what’s what. Touching down in millpond conditions we gently glided back to the pontoon at Kings Pier Marina.

  ‘Beer time, lads,’ Jethro announced as we gathered on the jetty.

  ‘Do you drink beer, Diego?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I drink the beer very well,’ Diego replied.

  ‘Good,’ said Chris. ‘We have a day off tomorrow, mate.’

  THE

  GREAT ESCAPE

  WE PILED INTO a nice trendy-looking bar, found a corner with a couch in it and started drinking.

  ‘Christiaan tells me your father was an RAF navigator.’ Jethro was sitting next to me, looking relaxed.

  ‘He was, mate, 11 Squadron for a long time,’ I replied.

  Jethro’s eyebrows raised. ‘I was based with 11 Squadron, bit after his time, though.’

  ‘Well, it would have been in the 60s. Dad was in Javelins, I believe.’

  He smiled. ‘Wonderful aircraft. So is he a bike nut, too?’

  I laughed. ‘Mad for them, cost him dearly, though.’

  I went on, ‘He got smashed in the officers’ mess one day and on a dare tried to ride his bike right through the bar . . .’

  Jethro sat forward, his face lit up and to my complete surprise finished the story off. ‘He rode up the steps to the entrance, paused on the nice clean red carpet that ran the entire length of the hall, dropped the clutch and sat there pissed while the long red carpet was hurtled out the door under the spinning wheel. He runs out of carpet, the back wheel hits floorboards, flipping his Vincent up into a trophy cabinet, then bursts into flames and the whole fuckin’ place nearly goes up—your dad’s a legend.’

  I was speechless that Jethro knew the story which I had grown up with.

  ‘You know, that bike is mounted on the wall behind the bar now. I used to stand there with a pint looking at it.’

  Now I was really stunned; my dad’s bike decorating a bar, that I did not know.

  ‘Back in a minute,’ Jethro said, glancing at his watch and picking up his phone before going outside.

  Christiaan was telling Diego about how the boys amuse themselves on their days off while Diego had that wide-eyed amazed expression on his face. It’s hard not be impressed; these guys are motivated on a different level from Diego and I, they have spent decades in a constant state of readiness, relentless training of the mind and body. Then when they leave the service, one that has placed an operational tempo on them that’s significantly more demanding than flying a sea plane full of tourists, they find themselves lacking challenges. Building up their business took focus and both men have worked very hard on it; just getting the permission to fly in and out of Kings Pier Marina was a massive achievement. So when they take a few days off, what do you think they do? Chill out and relax?

  Fuck, no. They take it in turns to set each other challenges. For example, Jethro will fly Christiaan out into the wilderness, way out, and drop him off with a compass, knife, tent and, in case of emergency, a radio transmitter, then Chris has to make his way back to Hobart in a given time. Next its Jethro’s turn, and so on. Of course the challenges also have to get harder and eventually they’ll be dropping each other off in their underwear with a can of dairy whip.

  These guys are the real deal; they just get on with it, they have nothing to prove to anyone, they have done their duty in peace and in war, more than once. As I write this, both men are flying round the clock, moving victims and trapped holiday-makers away from the catastrophic bushfires that have blazed across Tasmania in the last week. Without any hesitation, they just started flying to the fire front, landing as close as possible to pick up the needy and move them to safety. Bless them both.

  ‘There you go, chap.’ Jethro was back and was holding out his phone. On the screen was a photo of my dad’s bike, mounted on the wall behind the bar in the RAF officers’ mess. ‘I just phoned a mate who I knew was a pretty good chance of being in the bar and asked him to take a photo and send it to me,’ Jethro explained.

  I sent the photo to my dad straightaway, who called me back straightaway. Once we stopped laughing I asked how he was doing, but the cancer was something he didn’t want to talk about other than to tell me he was ‘fighting’. I went back inside to hear more flying stories, drink more beer, then single malt, and piss ourselves laughing until the sun came up.

  When I woke up the next day it was still morning and I was fully dressed on the floor near the bed in our hotel. Diego was on the couch in the lounge room, also fully dressed. Jethro was there as well, but he’d actually removed his shoes and clothes and physically got into a bed and slept like a normal person. He bounded out half an hour later, chirpy and lively, while Diego and I stumbled as far as the wharf across the street looking for coffee.

  At the wharf we saw an impressive vessel, big and painted in what I’ll call ‘waterflage’. I was drawn to it, alone at the end of the pier, no one around, no one on deck, only a big fuck-off set of teeth painted down her bow at the waterline and a Jolly Roger snapping at me through the wind from the top of its line. As we got closer I could see it was not actually a Jolly Roger but rather a skull with a shepherd’s crook and trident crossed underneath; she was called the Bob Barker.

  Rounding the edge of the pier we saw a small trestle table set up next to the gangway with a sign that said ‘Free Tours’. A young woman sat there smiling. We looked like a couple of bums in leather jackets, but she sprang from her seat and launched into what turned out to be a really remarkable hour-long visit with the crew of the Bob Barker. That flag she sails under is apt; they were patrolling the sea to protect marine life, part of a large and committed organisation called the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. On this occasion their aim was to harass and track the Japanese whaling fleet. As history will tell you, if you want it done, and it’s at sea, you get a pirate to do it.

  The Bob Barker crew were a focused and determined bunch but we were made to feel very welcome and the tour was an insight into the things that go on out at sea when people don’t think you’re watching. Of course the Japanese have every right to go whaling, provided of course they do it according to the rules, but they are not. Last year Sea Shepherd saved 500 whales from turning the ocean red with their blood. We all went out on the main bow deck and took a group photo, Diego calling out as he focused his camera, ‘Okay, everyone look like hard bastards.’ By the time we were back on the pier waving goodbye, I was fired up and mulling over the satisfaction I would get from running down a helpless whaling crew with an aircraft carrier.

  That afternoon Diego and I hopped on our bikes and headed south of Hobart down the B68 that tracks the coastline all the way round a small cape then doglegs back up north again. The asphalt gods were good to us that morning, the beautiful green undulating hills revealing picture-postcard town after town with names like Snug, Flowerpot and Woodstock.The road, however, was the opposite of its laidback sleepy surrounds; it was draped like a discarded black necktie over the landscape, serious aggressive riding; as soon as you’re out of a blind turn you’re already setting up and looking for your exit from the next one. Concentration on the relentless corner
s should be forcing you to slow down and enjoy the surrounds a bit more. Instead we opted for the riding experience, though we did stop at every town to take a look and almost every town had something interesting to look at as well as the occasional tourist coach to avoid slamming into the back of. It was a weird time of year to tour Tasmania, in between the energetic grey nomad ramblers of summer and the winter walkers.

  As we hit the bottom of this little cape, the road offered up wonderful sweeping seaside corners that gave a visual all-clear for any other traffic and an open invitation to lay the bike over, drop a gear and use the whole road to take it as fast as you can. And that’s where the local police will nab your arse for speeding, lesson learnt.

  Speeding fine neatly folded in my wallet and a friendly wave from the cop who just blew my beer money, we mooched along well under the limit back up the other side of the cape till we hit the A6 at Huonville, turned left and tracked down to Southport. I started thinking about the endless choices for dinner; the food was good, really good here. Progress was stress-free, and we had plenty of time to admire the views.

  I was really loving the riding; the road was completely empty, the weather was warming up with the sun bathing more colour into the landscape. Tasmania has some of the most unspoilt and dramatic scenery anywhere in Australia. It’s also tidy; I wasn’t scanning the pavement for dog turds or praying I don’t step on a needle at the beach.

  Coming around another meandering corner through deeply green rolling fields pepper-potted with tin-roofed, thick-timbered barns, any random one of which I would gladly convert into a holiday home in my private helmet screening of ‘Paul’s Barn Conversion Grand Design’, we hit the edge of a huge forest and the whole thing starts to look like Switzerland, but without the associated smug smell of melting chocolate and money. With the greying aged barns floating on a sea of green waving grass, backlit by forest and hills, I was suddenly insane with the need to just ride into the fields, up the ever increasing hills . . . being chased by the Germans atop badly disguised Triumph motorcycles. My imagination went wild. Yes, oh yes . . . there was a break in the fence line and a clear dirt road that stopped after 10 metres, unleashing an open grand green Valhalla of a field for my complete and total encapsulation of the full Great Escape moment.