Temporary Jet Pilot 4
Written June 2022
We were barrelling down the highway through Warberton and out the other side. About 10 of us, setting a good speed 140-160kays. As usual Mouse and I out front on the Sportsters, his an ‘74 XLCH1000 and mine a ‘89 XLH1200. I don't have an actual photo of his (on the left) but this is mine….many years later.
There are a series of steep mostly straight hills so we wound up the pace a bit cresting the hills at 180 and diving down picking up speed for the eventual valley floor and shoot back up. We did four or five quick hills in succession and as Mouse crested the next hill his break light flashed, my finger dove for the front break lever before I even realised what was happening. As I burned off as much speed as I possibly could, eyes wide, heart pumping, I crested after him to see the road bend radically left, even at my drastically lower speed I had no hope. Rather than lay over harder and deeper risking loosing traction and wiping out I chose to keep the breaks on and spoon out onto the wrong side of the road, praying it would be enough.
Our of the corner of my eye I see Mouses bike sliding in the dirt between the road and the fence, rear wheel drifting like a dirt bike but doing close to 150ish. A plume of dirt, rooster tailing from his back wheel, his left leg out straight ready to dig into the ground if the front slid. Desperation at its finest and suffering a major delusion, the slightest touch of his foot on the ground would have snapped any of his bones like a twig. This style of riding is for motor cross and enduro racing, but in the heat of the moment we do what were used to.
He has no idea how he made it without a massive crash but this was weekly stuff for us. The road shifted to endless bends, Mouse and I in our element. I come into a 60km/h bend doing 100, he passes me on the outside, he lays into the next bend I I dive underneath him passing to the front once more. This will go on and long as there is another bend. Every two or three corners one of us will pass. We know the other is coming so we leave a bit of room, it’s not a race, just a game. If we were racing I’d loose, he is a better rider and has balls of steel. Mine are only brass!
The following summer we were in the mountains, it had been a particularly long weekend. We’d put on a music festival at a pub by the river, our second.....or third, I’m not sure which one it was. Four or five bands over three days of non stop drinking. Camping in tents by the river, a thousand people took over a pub and run amok. We were a little wild back then but it’s hard to deny it was a lot of fun.
I was very hungover the fourth day and after a midday breakfast decided to go for a ride. My friend Podge offered to come along. He didn’t have his bike anymore because of his special stunt abilities. His favourite trick was to squat, one foot on the seat and both hands on the bars and the stand and raise the other leg horizontal backwards. He’d finally finished rebuilding his beloved Triumph and was performing for his nephews in the street outside their house on Christmas day. He lost balance, dropped the bike and badly injured himself.....right in front of them. His sister was......not impressed.
He jumped on the back of mine and we made some vague attempt at a planned destination and arched out the car park smoothly laying into the corners on the endless windy road. It was already hot by lunch time so the cool breeze was a welcome relief in the blazing sun. Podge was a big man and he dwarfed me and my tiny bike. Handlebar moustache, English accent despite being Polish (and growing up in Oz). He was almost like a caricature of cartoon Pop-Eye with darker hair.
My Sportster groaned under our combined weight, which is the only new vehicle I’ve ever purchased, everything else has been second hand. My ’79 Darmah 900 had rear suspension problems so, in a moment of insanity after riding a Sportster, I sold the Ducati and bought my first and only Harley. It was lighter than the other Harleys with the same power, better gearbox and massive corner clearance in comparison the rest......but it was still a Harley. That said I did some especially outrageous things on it.
We rolled from side to side in unison without any hesitation, the years of being both passenger and rider honing our skill, pushing our limits. There was no need to speak or think about what we were doing, it came so natural. We stopped at the Delatite Pub for a few quick beers and then onto Mt Buller. Being summer meant no snow, we parked and it took Podge four cigarettes to reach the summit wheezing and coughing and grumbling something unintelligible. Truth be told understanding the words wasn’t always a bonus. We watched the sunset and walked casually back down from the peak. Open face helmets on I mounted the bike and waited for lug nuts to finish his last coffin nail, stub it out with his ridiculously large boots and climb onto the back, lowering the seat height dramatically. He was a big boy!
On the way down the mountain I had trouble seeing. With my sunglasses on I couldn’t make out the road clearly in the dusk light. With them off I was peppered by bugs, I just couldn’t win. Podge grumbled about the speed but I just couldn’t see. Weaving my way down the winding mountain road was a strain on my still hungover brain.
Eventually we hit the flat road and wound up to 160km/h. Why? That was crusing speed, it what I always did if I could, it was fast enough to enjoy but not too fast as to be really dangerous. I know, you think I’m crazy but I’m not arguing with you, it was what we all did, it was ‘normal’….for us.
The dusk light was fading but the was more of it out on the flat road. I caught a flash in my peripheral vision and my fingers which permanently sat leaning on the brake leaver reacted all by themselves. The four spot performance Machine caliper on the front was by far the greatest investment I’d made so far but the effect in this situation was explosive. The back wheel launch off the ground and the front dug in hard. Podge slid up my back so far he had to catch my arm pits to stop himself from catapulting out in front. The sudden stop of his momentum using my arm pits pulled us ruther forwad, the bike approaching vertical when I caught second sight of the flash. I large kangaroo landed on the gravel next to the road, his next would be directly in my path.
The strain on my forearms and neck we immense. Podge’s belly was pushing against the back of my helmet and his entire weight and mine were driving down my arms onto my wrists. The handlebars were gyrating slowly as I struggled to hold it in a straight line. The part of my brain the calcutates, distance, speed and time came up with a frantic plan. If I could time the gyrations correctly my right hand and handlebar might just miss the massive roo.
I began pushing and pulling the bars just enough to achieve my hasty goal but without loosing control. I thought I felt the brush of the fur against my hand but maybe I just imagined that bit. The roo passed, I let go of the brakes and the back wheel came down with a slam followed by Podge crashing onto the tiny seat. He near fell off the back grasping desperately at my vest. We we still doing over a hunderd kays. I jammed down through the gears, breaking more evenly, pulled over and flicked the kickstand out. My heart was pounding so hard it made my head pulse. Podge rolled off the back and I started to shake as I dismounted. I turn to look at him, my face in shock as the realisation of just how close we’d come coursed through me.
Podge’s reaction was different. “Haha you shit yourself!”. He laughed at me. I peeled my helmet of and threw it at him, it only made him laugh more. “Of course I fucken shit myself you giant prick”. He staggered from side to side laughing, I was only making it worse. Finally I saw the funny side of it and started laughing too. “You owe to beers now, cunt”, “What? What for? Fuck you!” We climbed aboard laughing. “Delatite then?” , “Of couse, need are few beers after that” he replied. It was hard to be angry at Podge, it was like being angry with Yogi bear, it was pointless.
I picked up the first beer with my right hand and took a huge swig, I held out my left, you could still see the tremor as the nerves settled. When we stopped again at the Jamieson Pub, everyone was there for dinner. Our story made for much laughter but it wasnt anything amazing, it was just another weekend. It was my birthday so everyone bought me drinks, I tried to say no but it was futile.
Hours later Glen the manager of the Kevington Hotel, who was drink with us, decided he was coming back with me. “Sure, if you want”, it only about 8km. He was taller than Podge if that was possible. He climbed on the back and the rear spings sagged to their lowest ever. We took off and he lost balance, he was drunker than I was by far and I was really struggling. We came to the first bend and I leaned the bike over, except it didnt lean, I pushed harder, confused and drowning in alcohol, we were not turning and not going to make the bend. I look over my should to find Glen leaning in the opposite direction to me. I elbowed him in the ribs hard. It worked but too well, he switch to my side and the sudden transfer of weight near brought the bike down on the ground. It took all my strength to hold it up.
I had to watch the road, I yelled it him looking forward. “What the fuck are you doing!?”. We came into the next corner and the wrestling match was smaller. Within a few bends he got the hang of it. We made it back to the pub without a scratch but how is less clear.
Should I have been riding? Obviously not. What if we’d hit an on coming car? I never occurred to us. It seams almost funny now but we could easily have had a head on with a car, both of us ploughing through the windscreen of some innocent people trying to get home. How would they live with the mental anguish of surviving a crash were we perished literally on top of them, let alone the physical recovery from their head injuries. But it never occurred to us.
What if someone else had done this to one of our family, how would we feel then.
Podge and I nearly hitting a roo is funny, but there’s nothing funny about two drunken dickheads swerving out of control on a country road they shouldn't have been on. This is not a story of bravado, it’s an admission of sheer stupidity and once again recklessness beyond forgiveness. What’s so sad about it was how often it happened. Not just with us but to everyone back then. Drinking and driving was part of the culture, everybody did it. You couldnt knock back a beer and nobody would question your ability to drive or take your keys off you. But none of this absolves us from our guilt. We took risks with other peoples lives without even thinking about it. The near misses a litany of of our negligence.