Wintersun 2003: The Big River Loop

Wintersun 2003: The Big River Loop

It's winter again. After my experiences last year, which never made it into a
ride report, one thing that enables me to look forward to winter is the
approach of the Wintersun Rally, organised by Mildura Ulysses and held at
Olympic Park, the Mildura Motorcycle Club's purpose-built premises.

It only takes a few minutes to pack these days, and about the same for the
bike. Tools, spares, wets. Change of clothes, bathroom bag, map, camera, book,
water. I squeezed all this, plus my sleeping bag, into the panniers and, yet
to make up my mind about a rack, strapped the tent over the rear of the seat.
First stop, so near, I filled up and checked the tyres at the local servo, and
stopped at my local market for a bit of food.

At last underway, next stop Wagga. I expected an easy half-trip to the edge of
southern NSW, but I struggled from the start, into the teeth of the wind as
Canberra disappeared behind me. The bike, air shocks at pillion height,
twitched and skittered over the least irregularities in the road like a
drunken ballerina.

Once more the Hume, the first leg of many a trip from Canberra. It is always
changing, and always the same. This day strong winds gusted from the west and
north-west, peppering the bike with motion bolts, their impacts making it
lurch and stagger across the highway again and again. The highway was a high
wave to the Wagga turnoff, and another highway through Wagga, where I stopped
for petrol and a stretch, then as I left town, I picked up a patrol car
escort.

The village of Collingullie is barely 20km from the edge of Wagga, so I soon
made the turn to Lockhart, relieved but not surprised to see my tail hurry off
to a looming disaster for someone on the Sturt Highway.

Once past Wagga, the country is very flat, an unusual experience for people
from nearer the east coast. Wide paddocks of improved pasture stretched to the
horizon, punctuated with stands and strips of eucalypt. A few farmers, and
workers on their way home, scurried towards Wagga, but again, no one went my
way, and I rumbled through the gathering gloom, the bike twitching and
squirming as chill blasts of the sub-Antarctic winds pounded the bodywork.
Many times my passage freaked the sheep into scampering away from the road in
mass waves; I wondered how long it would take one of them to stop.

The sun crept below the distant treeline, splashing the speckled wooly clouds
with the colours of dayfall, while a little north of there, perhaps a hundred
kilometres away in the direction of Hay, a fire raised a huge tower of smoke
that the severe, surging wind tipped over my shoulder, beckoning the darkness
behind me.

So soon, the reverie was broken with the sudden appearance of another highway,
the Newell, and another few kilometres into Jerilderie. I thought long and
hard, even slowing down, to better contemplate my next stage. I felt fine, the
bike gobbled up the km, twitchy handling and all, I could easily continue to
Finley or another 90km to Deniliquin. The night was young, the wind fell a bit
in sympathy with the vanished sun, a crisp, cheeky crescent moon dashed in and
out of the clouds, the country was flat, empty, and clear, and I hadn't seen a
live roo so far...

But I was tired, mainly, this time, because of the wind. It is the one thing
bikers cannot compromise, only endure; the inertia of all that air will always
resist our rides. So Jerilderie it was, a quick tour of the main street, the
famous bank not to be seen (now the local garage), and not much else, empty
shops like missing fence palings.

The Royal Mail Hotel was under renovation, and not offering accommodation, but
it looked cosy, maybe family-run, and bears a return visit, if only for the
story of the XXXX sign on the roof.

Passing up the guarantees of the Colony motel, I passed on to the mystery of
the Jerilderie Hotel. I didn't go into the bar at the Royal Mail, but it
seemed to be hopping, as you'd imagine on Friday night. At the Jerilderie, the
front bar held half a dozen argumentative cockies and a couple of sullen
rustic goths. Ready to relax, I asked what beers they had, (not out of beer
snobbery, just an attempt to short-circuit the inevitable inquiry), and the
barmaid pointed to the two taps: that's it. Carlton Draught or Carlton
Draught. Then I realised what was hopping at the Royal Mail.

We were close enough to Victoria to see another example of the diffuse
borders, the extent to which the rivalry has faded over a century, "sorry, we
don't have schooners, only pots". Bowing to the inevitable, I took my beer on
a tour of the establishment.

The hotel itself is a treasure from an earlier day, all wood and silence
upstairs, probably twenty rooms, a large, elaborate dining room and games room
downstairs closed and dark, a small, casual dining room at the rear with a
glowing gas heater, laminex and chrome furniture, a dispirited and
over-traditional menu, and no diners. The whole place echoed a much busier and
more successful time. Still tired, mainly my arms and upper body from
wrestling the bike through the hail of windbursts, I reclined to warm the bed,
flipped through Genesis, then studied my map (the NRMA map of South East
Australia) until my eyes tired too. Not a sound penetrated my room, no trucks
on the highway, no revellers downstairs, no straining structure lashed by the
wind, not even a creak from my bed. Sleep came pretty quickly in the vacuum of
the night.

Jerilderie is as quiet as the endless paddocks which surround it, as I snoozed
through the dawn into breakfast, the lack of which finally brought me awake. I
snacked on something from my pannier, scrubbed in the cavernous cold-water
bathroom, cram-packed the pannier, and quit to the bare, sandy backyard where
the bike nestled in a decrepit tin shed dating back to the days of single
horse powered transport.

Once more away, in moments the town was gone, and there was more of the same
country that spanned my night ride. I could see further, but scarcely more,
just colours, the subtle tones of the pastoral riverland muted under thin
cloud.

I swept through Conargo, which boasts the biggest and sharpest corner for at
least a hundred kilometres. I stopped briefly at Deniliquin for fuel, then set
off on another highway, the Cobb, which I followed out of town for 20km,
turning off west again towards Moulamein. Almost 100km to the next habitation,
past alternating scrub, pasture, and rice paddy. There isn't much to hold one
in Moulamein, and I rumbled across the vast plain in another long lonely
stretch where I saw only a couple of vehicles, farmers' utes.

At last I came on the pistachio plantation at the village of Kyalite, a T
junction, the scene of my tactical error last year: left, south to Robinvale,
the end of the Victorian riverside highway, is practical (leaving aside the
staggeringly unkempt series of bridges leading to NSW); but don't expect to
find an open servo much after dark; for that you must go on to Euston. Or, as
I did this year, right at Kyalite, north to Balranald, lingering in NSW; a
little further than via Robinvale, but well supplied with fuel.

And fuel I had, at the roadhouse visible from the next intersection, finally
returning to the Sturt Highway I left yesterday, just out of Wagga. Through
Balranald and Euston, the last leg of the outward journey, the highway
crossing native shrub country unlike the pasture and eucalypt of the last
500km, and red soil to replace the soft yellow river sand.

At last, nearing the river again, I came to the roadside plantations and fruit
stalls of citrus and grape for which the region is famous. I marvelled at the
industry, the achievement, the prosperity; Mildura is intensively developed
compared with any region I'd seen since leaving Canberra.

I grinned my way through the NSW fringe of Mildura, then, crossing the river
into Victoria again, I saw the first motorcycle of the day: an R100RS crossing
into NSW; with a quick exchange of nods, it was gone. Much of the world's
ancient history is based on omens of this nature; many of these omens presaged
real events, many did not, and I wondered again how much different things
would have been if they had just tossed a coin instead.

Armed with the simplest directions, and having been there before, I rode
straight to the rally, through the aura of motorcycles at play that swirled in
an intoxicating incense cloud over the city. As I moved up 11th Street, the
density of large touring bikes rocketed. Soon (though not too soon, as 11th St
is one of Mildura's longest, and to be fair to all parties, the site is on the
fringe of town), I turned onto the dirt, and rode a cloud of dust to the gate
of the Olympic Park Speedway.

For the moment, I parked at the gate, and made my way in to register at the
control tent, receiving my badge and a nominal gate pass. Here they had
clipboards for the award entries, where I recognised some names. I took the
opportunity to register aus.moto in the club attendance, snickered over the
poor woman who entered the hard luck award after she ran out of petrol and got
cold feet waiting on the side of the road, and turned grumptious when I saw
myself trumped before my arrival in the oldest-bike-and-rider award. For
consolation, I turned to the clubhouse for a beer.

The clubhouse is a mighty tin shed, a biker palace made of sweat and beer and
big ideas. A chain-link fence sets it apart, except for a sliding steel door
which faces the public road. Close by is an ablutions block. The main entrance
is away from the road, with a large outdoor concrete pad for barbeques,
overflow from the clubhouse, and just enjoying the outdoors. Inside the entry
is the obligatory guests' register, a rather simpler affair than we're used to
in NSW, and the obligatory noticeboard, with the universal club calendar, bike
for sale, and wanted ads. Passing the gleaming, well-equipped kitchen, fronted
by an idling urn, to the left is the small but cosy bar, to the right a large
fireplace, and in between, a bit of a stage, a thicket of small steel tables
and chairs, all on the blokes' choice, garage-quality concrete floor.

I struggled through a hail of greetings from small groups of strangers, at the
tables by the fire; from central Victoria, from South Oz, from Albury/Wodonga,
a dozen instant friends! But seeing me bug-blasted and dust-filmed, they urged
me on, and I drifted left towards the bar.

Arrayed in the fridge behind the bar was a wide selection of cold drinks and,
in an echo of Jerilderie, a choice of two beers: Vic beers (sadly, not Grand
Ridge). Sighing, I slumped away, burdened with a green can, which quickly
disappeared in between conversations with my new friends by the fire.

Thus relaxed, I scooted across the rally site, bulging with bikes, blokes, and
bombast. Choice machines, cheery souls, and relentless chatter covered the
riverbank. I heard later that over 300 had registered.

I rounded the bend down to the aus.moto site, to see a large crowd of familiar
and unfamiliar faces, many sporting brand-new T-shirts with the infamous
aus.moto graphic. It was a moment for greets all round, a multitude of
handshakes with people I hadn't seen for weeks, since last year, or ever, a
suddden hail of stories, and the continuous ratbaggery that is the rally vibe.
The remains of a large log smouldered at the apex of two tracks that head up
to the back of the site, towards the new fence.

I eventually slipped away to put up my tent and blow up my air mattress, loath
to postpone that until after a few more beers and a sudden sunset. Then some
headed up to the gymkhana, reduced and relocated due to the effect of weather
(several of us remarked that the gymkhana could be much improved by the
introduction of a mud trap or three).

For me there is as much excitement in the crowd as the activities, but a
special mention goes to Al Pennykid for his exhibition of three-wheel theatre
(and the couraged-up Marty H who swung for him); Tim Moran blitzed them in the
horizontal bungee jump; and no one went home in tears.

At the end of those casual events, of course devised for entertainment, not
the indulgence of competitive instincts, the crowd dispersed, back to the
clubhouse, back to their tents and campfires, back to the fundamentals of
rallying; and a few, myself among them, set off for a trip to town.

Well-equipped, and well-occupied as it was, Olympic Park is still a bit of a
sprint from Paradise, short of such basic human needs as a phone box and an
ATM. I rode the long stretch down 11th St to the centre of town, eventually
spotted my ATM, parked in Saturday afternoon's near-deserted streets as the
sun sank below the buildings into a red pool, and set off on foot into the
similarly-deserted paths of the jewel of the riverland.

The Langtree Mall may be the spiritual heart of town, but Hudak's bakery, on
the corner, is surely its belly. Traditional touches like portraits of the
founders and wooden door and window frames bristle nervously against the
modern hard-edged plastic furniture, tiled like a boutique pub's dunny, a
cavernous place that is inevitably ten deep any lunchtime, with an alien from
the metropolis, a whirring Coke machine. The effect is unsettling, and I
wouldn't go there, except that their success is unavoidable; it has the
widest, most interesting, and tastiest range of breads, pies, and cakes I can
remember.

Back from the belly, I crossed paths with a woman in full black leathers, and
we nodded, as bikers often do, then smiled, a little self-consciously, out of
place, well separated from our bikes, and so far removed from our homes. I
made for the phone, and made my calls. Strolling past the mall, I stumbled
over Woolies, my last destination. Disenchantment set in pretty quickly at the
Olympic Park bar with their beer supply, and I stepped into Woolies in search
of real choice. Imagine my delight on finding a fridge full of Coopers on
special! The realisation that I was coming close to beer snobbery wiped the
smile off my face. Like a drowning man, I clung desperately to my six-pack,
and scurried back to my bike, and back to the massed frivolity of Olympic
Park.

Everyone had their own specialty for dinner, taking turns at the fireside with
implements of dinner construction, part of the social side of rallying, where
the ancient communal life and modern independent life mesh like the gears of a
bike transmission.

So the night unfolded around the fire, distinctive killer lollies dispensed
from the section of log which had served as a table, we thought, last year,
now pressed into service as a bar, by the youngest temptress in our circle of
fire-watchers. Remarkably, I was the only person to have not brought a chair.
And the fire-watching soon spread to the entire site, as towers of flame leapt
into the air and cast hellish glows across the campground and over the river.

This was the main night, with a band pumping excitement, with a crowd of young
and old in a mosh shuffle in front of the trayback stage; nearby, a
much-reduced bonfire. I shuttled to and fro between the campfire and the
stage, not wanting to miss anything, not even the people I met relaxing around
their own fires on the track winding through the site.

In time, there was enough of the day and too much of the night, and the many
conversations turned to few; people charged, stumbled, or crept into the
darkness of their own private oblivion.

Eventually, another day dawned in the tradition of the best weather in
Victoria. The sun was pale and low, oozing from the soft blue sky, gently
nudging us, and the world, awake.

The day before, I had seen an invitation to a day ride on the club
noticeboard, passing the highlights of Mildura's hinterland. The day was so
perfect, and the opportunity so near, that I decided to join the day ride.
Some 20 of us assembled at the gate, and after a briefing from Sy, the ride
leader, we streamed away from Olympic Park into the heart of the riverland.
Quickly, the residences stretched apart, the gaps filling with orchards as we
left behind the straights near town and moved deeper into the Spider's Web. We
pulled in to a lookout by the river, overlooking the famous red cliffs, and a
few stepped down the modern walkway, twisting down the cliff face 30 metres or
more, almost to water level.

It was a cause for much wry comment around the rally, how one could expect any
genuine twisties in the vast shallow bowl at the bottom of the river valley.
As Sy explained it, the earliest irrigation channels in the area (now mostly
underground) once followed the gentle contours of the land, and the roads
built by the pioneers followed alongside the channels.

But those gentle contours soon closed up, into some strangely-cambered
corners, chains of S-bends, and the stream of bikes stretched away through the
back roads of Mildura, as the the more experienced riders, ever hungry for
another dose of opposite lock, tested their own skills to stay ahead of the
spider.

So soon we were clear of the web, back on the characteristic long straight
verged with orchards and scrub, straight to the village of Nangiloc, our lunch
stop. The all-purpose commercial premises offered a supermarket, servo,
bottlo, and Internet cafe at front, and a pub and an impressive restaurant at
the rear. It's not what you know, and the 20 or so bikes were soon reclined in
the sun across the lawn at the rear of the pub. Over the fence was the
ever-present citrus orchard.

In the best tradition of biker lunches, it took us over half an hour to order,
and the gas-bagging raged all around the pub and over some bemused non-biking
tourists. Over another half-hour the lunches came, and I had a chance to visit
the front, a diverse and bulging supermarket where a chalked sign invited us
to try the Internet. Hardly a cafe, more of a desk, with a modern PC and a
tasty LCD screen, and what seemed to be a Telstra satellite connection. A nice
idea, sponsored by the Victorian Government, it was hampered by lousy ping
times, erratic traffic, and constant DNS timeouts, rendering it next to
useless. But a steady stream of visitors had filled in the logbook, so it
presumably, like many Telstra customers, had good days and bad days.

My mounting frustration was echoed with the rumbling of bikes, and I dashed
out of the shop to join the departing throngs. Just out of the village we
turned right, away from the river, and the leader shrank westwards on a road
so straight that elevations were visible, with a few able to keep the R1 in
sight, and the many straining their bikes and their wonderment as the ribbon
of road flashed under us to its western vanishing point.

So soon, we were back to the Calder, the major road in the region, for the
last leg of our day ride. We regrouped in Red Cliffs, at the park in the
middle of town built to honour Big Lizzie, an enormous steam tractor from the
region's pioneer days some 5m high and, with its trailer, at least 25m long.
Normal speed 2 miles per hour, top speed 4 miles per hour; a more profound
contrast with our two-wheel rides would be hard to conceive.

Our departure from Red Cliffs, just a few minutes from Mildura, was a little
drawn out, with some heading off for petrol or refreshments, and I somehow
found myself separated from the crowd as we slipped into the suburbs. Going
onto reserve at this point, I filled up myself, cleaned the dust and bugs from
my visor and the bike's windscreen with a rare sudsy wash in the servo, and
followed my nose back to Mildura.

The long haul down 11th St took me to one more curiosity, the river road that
ran parallel to Olympic Park's fence towards the bank, and then, like
thousands of other informal dirt tracks, it followed the river downstream.
Every few hundred metres was a parking bay off the road, most with rough
fireplaces and several with parked cars, as the locals recharged their passion
for the river that is the lifeblood of the region.

Back at the rally, I felt I had earned a trip to the bar, and so refreshed,
diverted by passing conversations, I made my way to the track. Out on the day
ride, I had missed the day's full program, but some enthusiastic racers who
hadn't had enough of the day's excitement and colour staged impromptu practice
on the racetrack.

As my beer dwindled, the teams in the pits packed and departed, so I did the
same. Back on the bike, I headed to the campsite, where the real business of
the rally was in full swing. My arrival made me part of that, and I reported
my day's activities, as chatter and merriment raged around me. That couldn't
last of course, and after the debate eventually narrowed on a consensus, a
large deputation headed into town for dinner.

Goaty and I stumbled along in their wake for a last stroll to the clubhouse,
passing gaps in the ranks of campers where people had already left, and we
found hardly a crowd inside, even with the large fire and sterling company
making the clubhouse the warmest and friendliest spot in the riverland. On our
way back to camp, we bounced off the Broken Hill mob, whose camp had spilled
into the access road after much of their traditional campsite had been claimed
by the expanding track fence.

Back at the aus.moto camp, in the midst of serious partying that even
attracted drifters from the darkness, seeking the friendship and frivolity
flung outwards from the fire. So often we say "the more the merrier", and mean
it, and so often we are sustained by "the more". But finally, a gathering fog
of silence crept across the camp, with the subtle approach of sleep, contrived
the repletion of our days.

The end of such social occasions is like a little death, where you know you're
better out of it but it is easy to enjoy one more joke, one more flight of
fancy, one more sparkling mote of community that links us in memory; but the
sparkles fade, the silences spread, and it is inevitably time for bed.

The morning crept alight with a covering of low cloud, but strangely, no dew.
We lived through an extended clattering and scattering from before dawn; some
bikers, more determined, hurried away, while others sought to stretch and
cling to the weekend's highlights. Once again I emptied the tent, folded the
folds, kneed the thing into its bag, stuffed the panniers, stretched the
straps, and then it was my turn to shake hands and wave my way out of the
choicest camp in the whole riverland.

But I couldn't get away without one more curiosity, a closer look at another
R100RS parked far across the campsite. On my exit, I joined the rider and his
friends, deep in their packing routine, and with my change in viewpoint, I was
amazed to see that the RS, a late-model monoshock model in pearl white, was
hauling a sidecar. The rider and his party, a family affair with a couple of
teenagers, were from the Hamilton area, way south of Mildura, and I wished
them straight roads; it is truly a labour of love to wrestle an outfit with
the minute handlebar of an RS.

We were all itching to leave, so I left them to their packing. There was time
yet for another round of congratulating the organisers, industriously
rejuvenating the site, and a last call to the amenities block. Not restored
yet from the massed influence of hundreds of bikers, baring the strains and
stains of a long weekend, the blokes' bathroom highlighted bikers' focus on
practicalities. The splashes of slurry across the floor, and the pungent
odour, couldn't dissuade me or others from a shower, but solar power kept
those brief. As I brushed my teeth, I admired the severe efficiency of a
stainless basin, chromed taps, and exposed piping mounted on the
concrete-block wall, contrasted with the whimsy of a tatty, stained posy of
artificial flowers left by some biker to soften the hard, raw lines.

Go! Fuelled yesterday, I quit the city via Fifteenth Street, on the road to
Ouyen, the Calder heading south. Shops and houses gave way to vines and
orchards, then native scrub. Out of the city, the horizon is everywhere
visible, the earth bulges, the sky is a bowl centred over me. The low cloud
from early morning lifted and thinned a little, and seeing so far, I was
headed east into transition, to my right, deeper into Victoria, wild, dark,
tangled cloud masses, stirred by weather over the horizon, and to my left,
north, nearer home in New South Wales, the patchy, soft clouds stretched in a
regular ripple pattern to clear open sky brightening the northern horizon.

At Hattah I turned back towards the river, into the national park, full of
bulbous riverine bushes and remnant eucalypts, embedded in orange sands. The
park gave way to farmlands, and, briefly, the curious Wemen mineral sands
mine, with the huge mounds of tailings by far the tallest objects in sight.

In an area without a lot of signs, I followed my nose to Manangatang, the
Mallee crossroads, very quiet mid-morning on a public holiday; sadly, perhaps
half of the shops in the main street abandoned. I crossed towards Chinkapook,
the big bike boomed through riverine scrub and farmland in this forgotten
corner of the country, veering east towards the river, a long straight denied
to us so much further east, lined with eucalypts and scrub, a couple of tiny
hills nudging the line. I was not tempted to hurry into the tunnel of scrub
lining the road for at least 5km ahead.

At the end of the straight I rejoined the highway at the river, having to wait
for traffic in both directions. I had seen scarcely a dozen vehicles since
leaving Mildura, many of them on the first stretch of the Calder out of the
city.

Approaching Swan Hill, the farms gradually changed from the sheep and wheat of
the Mallee to the cattle and rice of the riverland. There was plenty of
traffic on the highway, but not holding me up. Of course it is very flat here,
with small signs pointing left, north to the river, small dirt roads most of
them, cutting through farmland into the network of unofficial tracks cuddling
the river and its branches, after the decline of recreational fishing, still
the heart of much of the social and leisure activity of the riverland.

I took the heavy vehicle bypass through town, but on a public holiday, these
servos were closed, and I had to go back through town. On my way soon enough,
watched by thousands of cows, the road winding left and right along natural
contours cast off the river so long ago.

Feeling the day lengthening, feeling a the urge for a break, I had a quick
lunch in Kerang, then to my next stop, the small river town of Cohuna. Both my
parents came from farming communities around here, where a branch of the river
creates the huge Gunbower Island, close by the highway, scene of many a
boating and fishing trip in my childhood. And I was back to call on my aged
aunt. Auntie Hazel is in her 80s, frailer than ever and crippled by a chronic
ulcer, but still bright as a button and sharp as a tack. We chattered nonstop
for an hour, on all manner of things, until the sinking sun crept into her
room and, armed with Hazel's weather prediction, I had to go.

Out of Cohuna heading towards Echuca, back in familiar territory; I remember
from my childhood trips the 50 miles to Echuca drive-in bouncing about in the
back of the farm ute with my brothers and cousins, wth blankets and hay for
our comfort. I remembered my mum said that there was a new weir at Torumbarry,
so I diverted down one of those northerly tracks, perhaps the best one, to the
river, and the newest engineering works in the riverland. The old weir, with
wooden trestles, looked back to the 19th century; the new, with steel gates
and hydraulic rams, looked forward to the 21st. The 12-metre height of water
in the lock was an eye-opener; the river would need several metres more water
downstream for any boat to get through here.

Finally away again, on to Echuca where, rejecting the Victorian highway, I
crossed the river into NSW, heading north towards clear skies at last. Auntie
Hazel was right as usual, Echuca is a fine little town, but the sky was
clearing from the east as the sun fell towards the west, and I hurried on,
following my nose and my NRMA map along back roads, briefly on the NSW side of
the river, then back to Victoria. Around Cobram, the sky cleared at last, just
as the sun sank below remnant clouds on the western horizon, leaving the same
cheeky crescent moon, this time beckoning me east.

I pressed on into the gathering darkness, crossed into NSW again, a brief fuel
stop at Mulwala, slipped through Corowa, then, pushing into the darkness,
nearing Albury, the road, now the Riverina Highway, developed rises and falls
to rival the riverine twists and turns. I was back east, in hill country.
Around one of these graded bends, over the edge of a spur, suddenly splashed
the lights of Albury (perhaps it was Wodonga), time at last for a break.

It was Albury, and I came into town from an unfamiliar direction, followed my
stinging blue nose, stumbling through town until I stumbled over Highway 31,
pointing me towards home, still a third of my return journey, mixing with the
traffic in the gathering cold.

Remembering, even depending on a repeat of last year's resurrection, I kept
close watch for my dinner stop, the Rebels pizzeria on the main drag. It is
unmistakeable to the careful observer, as a result of its female mannequin
dressed as Marilyn Monroe in "The Seven Year Itch". This year they have a fan
on a timer, which periodically fluttters the mannequin's long, split dress.
Yes, there it was, and room to park as well. My stiff fingers fumbled with my
gear, and I dumped everything on the floor and studied the menu, gradually
reviving, as waves of heat washed over the shop from the regular opening of
the oven.

It was hopping at the Rebels, for a Monday night; it clearly has a reputation
more broadly based than its 60s chrome decor and LPs stuck to the ceiling. As
my pizza cooked, I slouched on the bench, soaking up the warmth, the scents of
many dinners and the colour and movement of many customers at least as
enthusiastic about their dinner as I. Outside, a steady stream of trucks
roared past, each one sending a rumbling tremor right through me and into the
largely deserted depths of the shop.

The pizza was a masterpiece, fresh, crisp, generous, truly without peer, the
best possible reason to stop here, and I scoffed half of it faster than I
could manage, burning the inside of my mouth. I relaxed a little over the
second half for, once it was gone, then so must I.

My reluctance to move grappled with my need to get home, and eventually I set
off into the darkness, once more the Hume, the playground of the mighty
transports. Sheets of fog wafted across the road, sometimes multiple layers,
nibbling at my fingers. With few cues in the close, foggy darkness, I stuck
doggedly to the limit. I concentrated on exercises to relieve the sharp pains
in my shoulders and upper back, only small green signs marking my progress
towards Gundagai, my last fuel stop.

I'd already stopped before the servo, in a small rest bay with deep gravel
strewn over the entry, for more varied exercises, and to warm my twin gloves
on the engine. They stay warm for a few minutes, and keep the cold at bay for
half an hour. The RS fairing is a wonder for protecting the rider's body, but
can't warm my fingers. Wind is a factor, less so on the RS, but the ambient
temperature is usually low, and there's a limit to how much padding we can
wear before compromising our ability to control our bikes.

On from Gundagai, toasty-fingered, the last leg home. Quite near Yass, I
happened on a recent prang, a sudden traffic jam, battered cars parked off the
road, a truck too I think, a man brushing junk off the road, shattered panels,
clothes, pieces of an esky, then a huge splash of diesel all over the highway,
the stench was overpowering and the danger right across my path. Having
recently dropped this bike on oil, my breath and my heart stopped as I skated
through the chaos to creep away, nerve-wracked about my fuel-dipped tyres.

Within a minute the first flashing lights approached from Yass, with two more
following before I turned down the Barton towards Canberra. This is a mighty
distraction for the thin blue line, so I hurried away, past Yass, onto the
Barton for the last stretch. Roads you know well seem to go quickly, even when
I've been through my repertoire several times, of tunes that I drum on the
grips, to keep up the circulation in my fingers. In time, the Telstra tower
split the sky, Canberra's forever spark, visible from north to south right
along the basin, and from the Brindabellas to the Ridgeway.

My excitement and relief had distorted the time, just seeing the tower made me
feel at home and, via the North Belconnen exit, a left, a few lefts and rights
into the suburbs, I was. It was ten to eleven, fourteen hours after leaving
Mildura. My ears hissed and bubbled like I'd spent the day on the road. Back
east, home, nestled in some respectable mountains (by Australian standards),
with the shower singing to drown out my ears, I couldn't shake the river,
stretching, swerving, snaking through the heart of Australia.

With alternatives like this, it is easy to resist the lure of the Alpine.
There is no siren calling me from the edgy crystal night to snuggle in the
tent near the roof of Australia; instead, next year, once again, I'll follow
the Snowies' greatest child, back to Mildura, haunted by my childhood memories
of the mighty Murray, and captivated by the endless plains of the west,
revealed in the Big River Loop.


Gary

 

I tried to read it, honestly i did! but im just too damned tired and didnt get past paragraph two

Mike.S

 

A very good read Gary,

Al

--
Al

"Go soothingly on the grease mud, as there lurks the skid demon. "

Remove *ME* before replying

 

Bravo Gary! It was worth the wait. ;-)


BTH

 

**** off, sleepy bitch!

Gary

 

Nice read. I don't remember Mildura being such an inspirational place, but
you've managed to add a rosy tinge to my memories.

BTW, I came across[1] that R100RS outfit some distance down the road. His
rear shocker had collapsed, and he was not enjoying steering what had become
a rather flexible outfit with those neat little RS 'bars.

See you there next year.

Moike

 

<snip>

That's a fine report, Gary. The Nangiloc Tavern was a favourite of ours.
We used to do a ride which finished there, we'd camp in the yard and they'd
put a BBQ, bacon, eggs, snags etc out for us for breakfast.

Just a correction (not a criticism), Mildura is the major city in the
Sunraysia region. The Riverland is the area in eastern SA around Renmark,
Berri, Loxton.
--
Conehead
"Your credibilty along with all the other people arguing in this thread has
been totally distroyed... I am copying this thread and will send it... but
I'll send it not to the parents, but to a couple of magazines I know..."
kiwipete in a hissy-fit

 

Oh no it isn't (although, Sunday morning you'd never guess!)

-----sharks

 

**** off, calendar bitch!

I had time to weed the garden... before the rain set them all growing
again.

Gary (I hope Madame Minx is impressed...)

 

Nice report Gary


Geoff and Jodie

 

I was talking to the owner of the RS outfit in town, he'd only had it for
just over a week I think. Nice looking outfit though.

Al

"Go soothingly on the grease mud, as there lurks the skid demon. "

Remove *ME* before replying

 

Bullshit.


Postman Pat

 

Me too.

--
Clem
[cynicism is all tool rampart]
~

(snip)

 

Philistine!
It was a work of art!!

 

Pat Heslewood scribbled in crayon stolen from toddlers mailboxes:, next year,

How would you know Pat?, you never got out of bed that weekend!
--
Al

"Go soothingly on the grease mud, as there lurks the skid demon. "

Remove *ME* before replying

 

i believe you, but my witthe noggin couldne cope!

Mike.S

 

wtf? and that's comin from me, oh wait, i meant little. i think

Mike.S

 

Bugger. I only meant "the riverland", as in anywhere from Tintaldra to
Goolwa, as distinct from The Riverland. Notice I didn't say "Riverina".

Gary

 

Yes, Riverland is actually a trading name for oranges from Mildura! Gary
on points!

Cheers
Goaty

 

A top read Gary (I saved it for a rainy day). Well worth the time taken to
both write and read it. Lucky for you and us all that you didn't follow me
and take two weeks to ride home from Mildura to Melbourne via Brisbane &
Sydney.

Nev..
'03 ZX12R
'02 CBR1100XX