Half-a-dozen keen souls stood around chewing their cuds at
the Watson BP. The small gathering
slowly grew in number as the appointed hour for departure drew closer. It looked like the previous day’s Toy Run had
drained the pensioner’s pockets so the expected crowd struggled to make the
even dozen, but got there in the end. It
was a baker’s dozen if you counted Kipper.
If you count pairs of feet we had fourteen resplendent bikers ready to
do battle with the bugs, potholes and Sunday tin-tops. I asked Kipper to do the head count and he
included several people getting fuel, a few highway passers-by, and a couple a
magpies sitting in a nearby tree. I
think there were at least two-dozen according to kipper, so I’ll run with that
as it sounds much better than the dozen we really had.
There were no females present on this ride, but since I’m
doing the ride report, I’ll pretend that there were. It makes for a far more interesting read, and
suits the photos I pretended to take much more easily. Having volunteered for the ride report
duties, I can vouch for the fact that I had no camera, no pen, and no
paper. By all accounts, being factual is
not a prerequisite for these ride reports anyway, so sit back, hang on to your
rocking chairs, and let me take you for a ride.
If you don’t like being taken for a ride, then skip the drivel in the
middle, read the list of names in the last paragraph, and accept that we went
to Gunning for lunch. You have been
warned.
Peter had drawn the short straw as Ride Leader for this one,
so he checked the time and called the sheep to gather round. Some of us were already fairly round, but
that’s not what he meant. Kipper
wandered off to find some shade. The
remaining leather-clad bikers formed a half-circle in front of Peter. Had we formed a circle, some would have been
behind him and it would have reminded him of his days in the military, so that
was out. Had the circle been in front of
him, some would have had their backs to him, and that would have been rude, so
that was out too. We had a few new
starters for this ride. They were
strange people from strange lands with strange accents. They seemed friendly enough, so we were happy
to offer our thoughts on their heritage.
You can see the newbies in the photos.
We were a fine looking bunch.
Many were disappointed that we weren’t stopping somewhere
for morning tea on the way to Gunning, particularly as it was so far from
Watson and only 11 am. However, Ride
Leader ignored the pleas and said we wouldn’t even bother with corner markers
or a tail-end Charlie let-alone morning tea.
Mutiny was averted, but only just.
By this time, Kipper was getting really bored and Jerry Attrick (one of
the new boys) was frantically kicking his kick-starter and tickling his carbies
in order to start the burnout beast.
Strange fellow old Jerry. He
usually kept his hands in his pockets and tickles his marbles, whatever that
means. Something to do with vintage
motorcycles I suspect. Jerry’s shenanigans
were the most entertaining part of the day.
With the serious side of the Ride Leader’s briefing done and
dusted, we all headed for the bikes. The
boys wanted a group departure photo, so I lined them up, squinting hard against
the glare of shiny black leather, and pretended to take a photo with my drink
bottle. I explained that this was a new
dual purpose drink bottle that was all the rage for the 2016 Christmas season. Foolishly, they believed me. With the faster boys ready to lead us out of
the BP fuel station, Gerry Attrick decided to do a burnout. What he actually said was “Watch this
smoker!” and all assumed it was a burnout.
I’m not convinced. It was at this
stage that the girls decided to ride to Gunning via a different route and have nothing
further to do with the boys, so they will figure no more in this factual ride
report.
I told you to skip to the end if you didn’t want to read a
continual line of bullshit! Traffic was
heavy heading out along the Federal Highway.
After that, the run to Gundaroo and beyond was reasonably fast with
adequate overtaking space available. It
would be wrong of me to say really fast and get out of the way type overtaking,
so I won’t say that at all. We arrived
at lunch early. Funny that. The whole group of some two-dozen riders re-formed
outside one of the old shops in Gunning.
What a great looking bunch, although the locals looked on in trepidation
until they realised who we were. They
were happy to accept our money. The café
lunches at the merino were fine. Kipper was
even allowed out the back in the garden.
He waited patiently for his little taste after I finished eating, as
usual. It was noted however, that
Richard had to be severely admonished for eating his assorted Brownie
collection before his lunch arrived. It
was clear that this was a cardinal sin as Ride Leader and all others on the
Leader’s table chorused their disbelief that such a thing had been done. More than one fat biker would be eating the
road this fine day. I have no idea what
that means by the way, but I like it.
Lunch was excellent by all accounts. I accounted for twelve, but we looked like
two-dozen. Manfred arrived late, but
only a little late. It’s not like being
a little late if you’re a female. That
means you might be pregnant. Manfred
isn’t pregnant. I digress. A few wanted to leave early, but that
stretched out a bit to become sort of early-ish. It was eventually time according to the
sun-dial, so we all got up and wandered over to the bikes and donned bug-splattered
leather. Its summer you know. Damned inconvenient to have bugs splattered
everywhere. The Christmas beetles really
hurt when they hit your face. Yeah, I
know, put your visor down. Jerry decided
that one simulated burnout for the day was more than enough. He was also conscious of the gathering crowd
of locals who had been regaled with stories of his Watson departure. The grapevine works well in these parts.
All-in-all it was a good day with old friends and new
friends. I’m not sure what the newcomers
thought of the day. If anyone followed
Ride Leader home via Nanima Road like I did, they would probably think about
the good ship Enterprise. Take her to
Warp Nine, Number One. Damn the photon
torpedoes. Not really. There were no photon torpedoes. This was a simple chomp and chat style of
ride. We did ride. We did chomp.
We did chat. It wasn’t a big day
on the bikes, but it was enjoyable none-the-less. Peter did a good job keeping his sheep in
order. It’s far easier than cats and suited
the Merino venue The Merino was fine
with pretty quick service given the massed arrival of the hungry hoard. The photography was excellent, especially
with the artsy black-and-white twist on the photos instead of the usual boring
colour.
I’m amazed I could write so much about so little! Ride Leader was the charmingly disarming
Peter Arday on the ST1300. The rest,
excluding all the runaway females who weren’t actually there, were: Daryl Palin on the Goldwing 1800, Richard
(eat the brownies first) Hay on the Trumpy Explorer, Rob Faulkner on the Strom
DL650, Jim Bass on the Zuke C50, Michael Winters on the Trophy (great to see),
Peter Schriebel (or not, depending on your interpretation of the last letter of
Peter’s name on the handwritten list that I didn’t write) on the Boulevard,
John Grace on the Guzzi 1200, Neil McRitchie on the GTR 1400, Trevor McLeod on
the FJR 1300, and the late (but not in the female way) Manfred on the lovely
R1200R, plus of course, the ubiquitous Jerry Attrick on his vintage Abomination. Scribe was me (Mick), along with my sidekick,
best mate and travelling companion, Kipper.
Cheers all. Mick
Beltrame.
