Royal Enfield on the Acheron Way

Yesterday I spent the afternoon on my Royal Enfield Bullet.  I travelled some of the best roads local to Melbourne.  This included the Kinglake National Park Road, Chum Creek Road, The Black Spur, and The Acheron Way.  These are superb paths for this motor cycle, places where I could easily choose my own (slow) pace, pleasuring  in the bass-drum beat of the single cylinder beneath me.  

The Acheron Way was a highlight.  Known to few, it was completely devoid of people, a single lane winding through a forest of giant ferns alongside a bubbling brook.  The gentle sun fell through the trees to bless me as I passed.

The Bullet was as faithful as ever.  Although it is more work to ride a vintage motorcycle than a modern one, yet paradoxically it is a relaxing pleasure that no other bike can provide.

SR500 Club Rally 2012

This weekend was the annual Rally for the SR500 Club of Australia.  That club is dedicated to the model of motorcycle that I used to passionatley own.  It is a good rally: friendly people, free accommodation (camp ground with showers), cheap catering, interesting bikes, and best of all it is situated in riverina country just at the edge of the Victorian and NSW high country. 

I rode up on Friday.  The route there makes for a fabulous ride: heading north from Mansfield via Whitfield, Milawa, Beechworth, and into Wodonga.  Four hundred kilometres of increasingly blue skies and mountainous roads.  

It was the beginning of a long weekend and there was a lot of bad driving on the roads, but my W650 took all challenges with ease.  It offered a relaxing yet nimble ride through the twisties.

I reached Bethanga just before dusk, the sun drenching the landscape just as it had for most of the day.

Friday at the rally is always quiet, and I spent the evening standing around fires chatting to old and new friends.

Saturday morning I awoke at a hunter-gatherer hour, and thought I would ride to Corryong or even Thredboe.  My friend Rosy was to arrive that evening and I wanted to be back prior to her arrival because she did not know anybody.  

I started off at the Hume Bridge and followed the coastline east.  It is an uncanny thing, a beautifully refreshing thing, to ride along a 'coast road' while smelling fresh water.  Such a scent, combined with the warm morning air, makes the world shine.   

85km on I pulled left into NSW at Jingellic.  I had been on route to Corryong, however I have been there several times and really wanted to experience something new.  The trouble, as I discovered while exploring my map by the roadside at Jingellic, was that my map ended at the border of Victoria. What lay beyond was a perfect mystery.  

So I decided to head north and simply discover what was there.  Because several motorcycles preceded me I assumed the country north would be worth the effort.  And I was right.  What fantastic land. I wound on a ribbon of tar through hills and valleys, making for the mountains that gradually introduced themselves into the landscape.

After a time I came to Tumbarumba.  At the petrol station I was given another map and some advice about which roads to take.  I also chatted to some riders who pulled up on Indians and British bikes.  

From Tumbarumba I wound up and down mountains at speed, arriving at Tumut for lunch.  It was pleasant to see how civilised these places are and how large the towns.  At Tumut I found a botanical gardens and, as the sun glittered through the elms, slept for an hour among the inquisitive ducks.

From Tumut I decided to ride the Snowy Mountain Highway.  This again was a fantastic road, which got better the further I went.

Winding through fast corners, the landscape took on increasingly gargantuan proportions.  You know that feeling, that landscape in an alpine region, where the proportions overwhelm you.  It is like Kant's concept of the sublime, where you cannot take in everything at once, where the natural world overwhelms your senses.

Eventually I found myself on a road above the snowline, above the world, winding and wending through absolute glory, a valley above the heavens.

There had been no petrol stations since Tumut, but according to my new map I could get petrol at Cabrumurra.  I had travelled 165km already and knew my tank would hit reserve by the time I reached that town.  So it was with dismay that I turned off the Snowy River Highway at The Link Road, to see a sign stating that there was no fuel at Cabrummura.  Behind me lay 110km to Tumut, the highway could take me to Cooma but it too was 110km away would put me a very long way from Bethanga.  So I decided to merely hope that the 'no fuel' sign was wrong.  

The roads here were fantastic but I was distracted by my concerns.  On the way I came across a group of Ducati riders surrounding one of their members who had just put his bike in a ditch, but who appeared to be unscathed.

I rode into Cabrumurra and sure enough there was no petrol.

My calculation of distances was a little rough - I was using a very basic map, and do not have any of the electronic devices (smart phones, GPS) that people use these days as maps.  So I could not accurately calculate distances.  I was seriously concerned about my ability to make it to a town with petrol. And even if I did, would the store be open by the time I arrived.  What if I got stuck here in the alpines?  While the valleys had been sunny and warm, up here a storm brewed and the air was cold even in the middle of the day.  I dreaded to contemplate a night exposed to the air with nothing more than a light motorcycle jacket to warm me. It could be dangerous if my luck went awry.  And so what to do?  My phone had no reception.  If I left my bike and hitched a left into a town would my motorcycle still be there when I returned?  I was not willing to risk that.  So I rode through an incredibly beautiful country, half aware of its splendour, while fighting the distraction of my concerns.      

I sought to preserve petrol by riding gently up the mountains, and rolling (sometimes slowly) down the other side with the engine off.  Another crashed bike - this one alone against a tree, cold, with the rider nowhere to be seen, reminded me to keep my wits about me.

It was a varied and fascinating place.

I rode on and on.  I hit reserve and kept going.  A sign said the next town was 50km away.  My mood lit up - I can get 100km on reserve...usually - there was still some doubt, still some fear.

Eventually I made it to Khancoban with 2 litres of my 15 litre tank remaining.  Filling up my tank rarely felt so good.  

I was still, however, over 130km from Bethanga, and Rosy would surely have arrived.  I had no reception on my phone so I could only guess that she had.  I was uncomfortable in knowing that she would be standing around, feeling uncomfortable, when I had promised to meet her.  So I pushed on, riding hard into the blinding sun of the dying day.     

An hour in and I found a short cut to Bethanga that looked sealed.  This road rang alongside the water.  I had to take a slower pace but it was pleasant and would save time, rolling along a narrow, winding ribbon, passing through green fields, my big twin lapping it up.

And then it turned to dirt.

Because I was running so ridiculously late, after 550km, I pushed along at 60kph on my road bike. As I came to a sharp corner I was suddenly, completely blinded by the low summer sun.  I could feel myself running off the road, could feel the sand becoming thick under my wheels.  Somehow, I managed to stay upright and on the road.  So thereafter I slowed my pace to 30kph in the twisting sections, figuring it was better to arrive without incident that attempt a speedy but flawed entrance.

It was a shame I had to push through this road.  It was a stunning evening and the surface though corrugated was good in places, and running level with the beautiful water.  After a time it returned to a sealed surface and I bounded over the hills into the back end of Bethanga.

Rosy and I arrived at the same time.

The Rally site:

That night was spent with Rosy and I lying in the grass by one bonfire or another, getting progressively more drunk.  

And in the early hours we went to sleep.

Oh what a mistake!  I should not have had those beers, and I should not have held a full bottle of wine in my hand and drunk, and dunk, and drunk from it till it was drained.  And so it was that I sat in the early morning sun with my head in my hands feeling ill.  The plan had been that Rosy, who is Catholic, would go to an 8AM Mass nearby while I packed up the camping gear. When she returned we would hit the road and take on a very long day through more alpine roads, through Omeo to Bairnsdale and back into Melbourne.

I sat with my head in my hands, I drank much water and coke, I meditated to take in more oxygen, but nothing could undo what had been done - I had poisoned myself.  I was hopeful of improved health as we said our goodbyes to my friend Mike and his wife Penny, and I felt confident again.  But on the road - at a late 10AM - I quickly discovered that I was deeply poisoned by my excess, as with each bump my stomach hurt and I felt sick.  

The road south that we needed to take was closed, so we rode into Albury-Wodonga.  It is a place which I have seen more than once in a hung-over state, astride a motorcycle.  

From Wodonga we pushed south for quite some time through the wonderful valley that takes one to Mount Beauty.  That would be the start of our climb into the alps, including the stunning Falls Creek which I had so been looking forward to.

At Mount Beauty we sat eating lunch.  As the hour ticked 1 to 2PM, I surveyed in my mind the map of our impending joruney and remembered my previous day's lesson: that one has to respect these alpine places, that one cannot be cockey in the way that the city makes one cockey.  I shared my concerns with Rosy. She had suffered inadequate sleep (as had I for two nights) and felt the same way: we decided abandon the great ride ahead of us, and to cut back over to Bright and the populated side of the mountains, where we could wander home among civilisation and in much less time.

This was a disappointment and a relief.  I was not in a state to properly enjoy the Alpine Highway, but I have wanted to do it for a long time now.  It remains unconquered.

But the ride to Bright was great:

We rode from Bright for Wangarratta (which, ridiculously, would place us 45 minute's from where we had been five hours earlier).  We both began to fall asleep as we droned on, so we napped in the grass on the roadside at 5PM, but otherwise pushed and pushed, aiming for the Hume Highway which would take us to the Midland Highway then Mansfield and south into Melbourne.  Once on the Hume - which I normally hate, considering its straightness a waste of a motorcycle ride - we were bathed in evening light as warm air rushed over us.  It felt great.  This, combined with the fact that we just wanted to get home, meant we decided to ride the Hume all the way into Melbourne.  It was an uneventful and meditative ride that was actually quite nice.  

Once more the Alpine Highway is untrodden by me.  

Once more I was hung over at Bethanga.  

Once again it was a fun little adventure.  That was my SR500 Club Rally experience for 2012.    

First hot ride of the new season: Eildon-Jamieson Road

Today was forecast for 27 degrees and sunny.  It was the first 'hot' riding day of the new season so how could I miss it?  Well, quite easily, perhaps, when I woke up to thunder and rain.  I lay my head back down, but ten minutes later sunshine streamed in through the window, my multiple alarms (yes, I need them) went off, and I stepped forward into a full day of blessed motorcycling.  

I rode via Yarra Glen and the Black Spur to Eildon, where I sat burning myself in the sun and eating some delicious abomination called a 'pig dog' (a hot dog with many things).  Then it was over to the main event of the day, a run on the Eidlon-Jamieson Road.  60km of endless twisties.  

I have done this road in the past, before it was sealed:

But now it is sealed and flowing.  On a road of constant turns, left, right, left, bespeckled by shafts of sun yellow or green depending on whether the trees mediated its light, I felt like a baby rocked in a cradle.  I picked up an easy rhythm, averaging a lazy 60kph.  At the heights I looked over valleys and water. 

And in the low places I sat by that glittering water and green light.

It was another wonderful journey, a day of unfurling speed and pleasure.

Rediscovering Reefton

Yesterday was one of those days when you rediscover wonderful, simple pleasures which you had forgotten.

One simple pleasure was that of riding through a warm, summer's day.  We are mid-way through spring and it will get much hotter, but yesterday it was warm enough for me to ride in my open-face helmet, with no scarf, wearing my summer gloves and enjoying the air on my skin.

It is also a simple pleasure to ride with others.  My friend Rosy joined my for the first third of my ride and we leisurely chatted over a long lunch.  I've been feeling a bit lonely on my rides of late.  Although riding often has the function of giving me precious time alone, yet my tastes do come and go, and lately I have wanted to share the adventures.

All of this combined with the pleasure of enjoying that well-trammeled loop, the Black and Reefton Spurs.  I had forgotten what such a delight these roads can be.  I ride the Black Spur often, usually without traffic.  We were to ride the Black Spur before lunch, but because the traffic was banked up for miles outside of Healesville Rosy and I changed direction and travelled via Yarra Junction to Warburton for lunch.  That meant that after she left I began a loop of these two spurs travelling in the opposite direction to usual (I usually start from Healesville with the Black Spur and end at Warburton).

The reason I don't ride the Reefton Spur often is because it is a favourite haunt of sports bikies, which means there are many riders on there whose ambition out-strips their ability.  I don't want to repeat this experience.

However I hit Reefton just after lunch when the roads were more quiet, and only passed the odd rider or sports car.  Otherwise it was an empty, beautiful, never-ending set of sun-soaked twisties.  I doddled along at a cruising pace, feeling full of the pleasure of motorcycling.

As I rode music from The Felice Brothers played on repeat in my mind; songs such as this and this.  What a wonderful day.

The Bullet goes to Yea

The Bullet was taken on it's first hard-working ride today.  Previously it has meandered along slow twisty roads but today I made a 240km round trip on the more demanding road to Yea, via Kangaroo Ground and King Lake.   

I found that with the current Indian parts the bike feels happy with a top cruising speed of 75-80kph.  It pleases me to know that when it is rebuilt the engine will be an article of modern, high-quality English engineering and production, thanks to the parts available from Hitchocks in England.  I already have the mated Alpha roller big end bearing and Hitchcocks conrod sitting in a drawer, and the rest of the parts will be cheap by comparison.

I am offering a number of photos, from slightly different angles, because I cannot decide between them - this is such a beautiful bike!

And it rides beautifully too!  On the SR500 I used to fantasise that I was riding a 1950s British motorcycle.  Now I am!  There is no pretending.  And while it does not have the ability of the SR to push hard without fear of engine failure, yet it does have all else I could have wanted.  It feels wonderful to sit upright and ride along on a motorcycle that is so beautiful.  Were the roads not sealed it might have been the 1950s (well, the 1950s with mobile phones and roadside assist, and cappuccinos in Australian country towns).  The Bullet plods along at low revs in a way the SR never could, its heavy flywheel rolling away.  That's what I wanted, a bike which is pure old-fashioned torque and plod.

Despite being only 120km each way, it took me two and a half hours in each direction.  These roads include some downhill, decreasing radius corners which I usually have to remind myself to slow down for.  There was no question of that on the Bullet, and I thudded along like a fast bicycle.  I noticed myself becoming increasingly relaxed as I rode.  Everything felt predictable, yet pleasant, new, fresh, and detailed in the sun because the slow speed meant I could spread my attention across more things and take in the countryside. Oddly I noticed how much more a part of the scene I felt.  It is often said of a motorcycle that the rider feels much more connected to the world that does a car driver.  This is absolutely true, magically so.  But I felt that the Bullet can be compared to a modern motorcycle in the same way.  At these slower, patient speeds on this character-filled motorcycle I felt much more connected with the machine and the surroundings than I could on anything modern.

 

Strathbogie in the Spring

Today the weather was too nice not to ride.  I did another loop that took me through Yea, Highlands up to Euroa, but this time I returned via Strathbogie up in the mountains.  

Quiet places in the sun, all to myself:

And waterfalls and creeks all dancing with light:

Leading to a warm evening....

Another 400km of cruising and contemplating.  Riding is a wonderful time to work through problems and make sense of what questions need asking.

Nyah, Damien, Jeff

I just returned from an overnight ride with two friends, Damien and Jeff, to Nyah and back.  I have wanted to share with friends the route which I've ridden when travelling to visit my Mum, a route which has become rather special to me.  

The first step was to head up the Calder Freeway to Woodend and across to the springs and gushing blowhole of Hepburn.  From there onwards we were to pass through nineteenth century gold-digging country for many miles.  This is a country of hills, of soft soil and scraggy bush.  At Maldon we climbed the tower to look out over our route and the surrounding country.   

North of Maldon I led the group on single lane, empty ribbons of tar through green paddocks and yellow canola, through townships such as Eddington, Dunnoly, and Moliagul...stopping here and there to look at the whatever took our fancy.

Our intermediate destination was Melville Caves.  These are named after the bushranger who used them as a base during the nineteenth century to rob gold-rush travellers.  I usually visit them on my own with no people about, which can be eery, so it was a different kind of exploration this time, but a very fun one.

Just after leaving the caves I almost collided with a massive eagle which avoided me with a slow woosh, woosh of its massive wings.  

We made for Wedderburn and petrol, but the station was closed.  So we pushed on through those tiny gatherings of houses and pub that dot the road to Boort.  The light faded as we rode on and on.  At the Kerang I stood, ate a Freddo Frog, and watched a Royal Enfield being ridden up and down the street! The rider pulled over and we had a nice chat.

It was night when we left Kerang.  Damien was riding my old SR500 which he recently bought from me, and he was feeling strained on it, so we swapped bikes and I led on the SR into the night.

It was a beautiful night and the Spring air was delicious in that way known only to motorcyclists.  I loved the the drone and hum of the SR as I chased my headlight into the rise and fall of the dark road. Until that headlight died and all was dark!

The inside of the switch had collapsed.  We had no knife to hotwire the headlight itself, so with limited tools I smashed the useless unit apart and played with the wires in the dark, creating light once again.

As we neared Nyah the air changed and I could smell the Murray River.  It was a wonderful night ride!  This great song was on repeat in my head.

The next day I took the fellows south via a different route, through riverina country.

Given how much activity we enjoyed over these two days I did not take many photos.

We stopped at the Pyramid Hill where once Major Mitchell, the first European to come to this country, stood and reflected on the life that settlers would one day make here.

The further we rode, the more Damien's SR500 began spewing petrol, so in Bendigo we stopped and it was Damien's turn to do some repairs with limited tools - a publican loaned us a bottle opener with which he trimmed the fuel hose.

We sailed down the McIvor Highway and through twists and turns into Melbourne.  Another ride passed into memory to enrich the store.