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As former US President Donald J Trump was being disposed of into a swamp in Florida, we were off on a Make Motorcycling Great Again ride, again. It was a beautiful day.
I thought of this, MMGA, as I headed off quietly to Heathcote, to meet “the boys” and to lead the ride to Kiama. I thought of the briefing, and my opportunity for grandeur. Warnings of excessive speed, and the need to avoid sanctions and the risk of impeachment. An award for the Mike Pence Grovelling award, perhaps, for anyone too close up my arse. My little mind ticked over with amusing and empty Trump associated threats and promises.
I had read the recent “Tips and Helpful Hints” from the Ride Committee. I thought too of the things I must mention, like leaving on time, corner marking and safe distances. I wondered if we would have a virgin rider, and whether we’d be able to throw him, or her, into the Kiama Blowhole as a sacrificial virgin (which is the most useful type of virgin, as it keeps the crops going and the weather good)?
Ten minutes or so before the briefing was due, I went for that final nervous pee necessary prior to all great speeches. On my return I found, indeed, my leadership not just challenged but all that I had thought of down the drain. Insurrection! Trump had struck here at Heathcote. “The boys” were all out of there, helmets on and ready to go, except for Marty who was still trying to figure out where his helmet went. Shocked, I jumped on the bike and shot off. It was 9.57am. No one else moved. As I got down the road, eventually there were a couple of distant headlights behind me. The insurrection continued in the form of a “go slow”.
Things though did eventually fall into place, as we turned off and meandered down through the Royal National Park. Curiously, there were a group of non-lycra social bicyclists headed down the same winding hill. They’d managed to discombobulate themselves through a road under repair stop sign, into a bunch of 4WD’s and the odd truck, and into the path of 10 insurrectionist motor-cyclists. They were like drunken emus. A lady bicyclist stopped in the middle of the road, looking back at the confusion bemusedly. She was beautiful, and I slowed in hope and anticipation of her suddenly baring her breasts, which is all she could have done to gain more attention and create an even greater catastrophe.
Gravity, with the boost of the internal combustion engine, eventually sorted the downhill melee into a natural order. Life took on a more normal rhythm. The road through the Royal National park is sweet, dappled with light and winding. It is not a road for racing, but more for practising smooth, graceful riding. Good lines, the right gear, good throttle and limited use of brakes. It is a poem, rather than a drama.
Further insurrection occurred when the “joint” decision was made to include the road to Mt Keira and on to Mt Kembla. This was a good decision, as it turned out. Rod May led this part, because he knows the road well, having lived for years in Wollongong during his stalking of Wayne Gardener period. I watched Rod at a desperate downhill pace as I did my best to keep up, his hands off the handlebars, his arms swinging, echoes of opera, The Man from La Mancha, reminded me of what his wife had said about him and the excessive cost of good counselling nowadays. But that is another story.
The next stop was Robertson Pie Shop, which everybody knows requires a run up Macquarie Pass, a road that seems to cause everyone to become demented. The tight bends, limited overtaking opportunities and variety of traffic and occasional police presence – this time further complicated by holiday traffic – seems to contribute to the insanity. Along the straight, just prior to the windy bits, Mad Max shot past me in a beautifully executed overtaking manoeuvre at just short of the speed of sound. Onto the first bend, and there I was behind him. I don’t know who was behind me but it could have been Mike Pence. In front of Max and I was an old Holden Station Wagon; fat wheels, lowered, hot engine and Queensland number plates – clearly a hoon!
In front of the hoon was a slow parade of sad-arsed holiday traffic. Kids wanting to be sick. Mothers who wished they’d stayed home. Fathers who wished they too could be a hoon, and didn’t have to put up with this Toyota Corolla thing. And the terror of Macquarie Pass.
At the first overtaking opportunity, the Queensland hoon shot past just about all of it, Max and I close behind. A brown 4WD with a limp baldish man listening closely to Alan Jones on the radio and with limited awareness blocked us off, as he smugly sat in the overtaking lane having fantasies of Pauline (Hanson). We managed to get around him, and were tight behind the hoon. Another dramatic moment as a large truck hurtled down the hill on a narrowing section of the road. Inches to spare and off the hoon goes again, hard through the bends. We came to a sharp right-hander, and our hoon, spent, did the right thing and pulled wide so we could overtake. Probably not a bad bloke, that hoon!
I tried to address the gathering at the Robertson Pie Shop, but the insurrection was too deeply ingrained, and they ignored me. After a sausage roll and coffee, off we went down Jamberoo Mountain Road. Again, a beautiful road, lovely winding bends, little traffic and magnificent scenery. The distance travelled would be worth it just for that, but throw in the National Park, Mt Keira, Macquarie Pass and you have a bargain of unbelievable proportions. It gets better.
We go through the village of Jamberoo and over Saddleback Range. Now I think the ride, which is not fast, ragged or raging – it is ambling – down Saddleback is one of the most moving and beautiful sights in Australia. You are passing through a lush and emerald land. The sunlight aids the brilliance. The sea, an eternal blue vista is dramatically below and contrasted by the light blue of the sky. This day, the sea is up and has created a beautiful white aureole where the sea surges and pounds onto the shore. Your inclination is to slow and to try to become absorbed into all of this. Slowing is a prudent idea, as the bends come up on you in ambush.
We make it to Kiama, and indeed the Blow Hole is having a good day and has drawn many tourists. We watch a Muslim woman, delighted, laughing and soaked as the sea pounds up through the ground showering her and her little family. Every one is happy in the perfect sunshine.
We regret though we didn’t have a virgin to sacrifice. It would have been a good day for it.
Down to the fish n chip shop. Now some of the fellows have brought, as usual, the Peck’s Paste and Vegemite sandwiches prepared by their mothers, as has gone on since their school days. They dispose of these quickly. Some of us know though, that John Dory is on the menu but that requires a wait. It’s school holidays and the crowds are large. We are in no hurry, and there is not a better reward for a hard days riding than John Dory and Chips. Paul, sensibly and whilst I’m waiting in the queue to order, asks which way the ride is to return to Sydney?
That was a very new issue, and I admit that I have no clue, other than we are likely to head North and probably on the old highway?
The Dory and Chips eventually arrives, but the Peck’s and Vegemite boys have become impatient and decide to sod off. That was a pity, because the ride, for four of us, went on. We went back up Mt Keira so we could watch Rod go through his Wayne Gardener fantasy again, and then, spontaneously, through the Royal National Park; smoothly, swiftly, happily and poetry not drama. We stopped at Audley for a pleasant coffee before parting company. I felt guilty, having not thought about the return that everyone could have enjoyed, and just hope everyone else had a ride as good as mine.
I think Ross did the TEC job, and so thank you Ross. Certainly, the nominated leader by leading only part-time and by creating an insurrection added new meaning to the word “delegation”. But what else would you expect on a Donald J Trump Memorial ride?
I’m still thinking of the Grovelling Mike Pence Award, maybe we’ll have a free and fair election for it?
Stephen Davies,
