Tasmania Reconnaissance Wed 5^th to Wed 12^th April, 2006

I managed to escape Melbourne the week before Easter to join my cousins and friends for their annual tramp around Tasmania. There were 24 of us – all guys – eight riding bikes (TRX850, XLV750, BMW R100CS, XZ550, R1200RS (brand new), my CBR929, a new Kawasaki ER6 and a Virago 500). Some of the bikes were at least 20 years old. The rest of the gang were driving cars: MGA, MGB, MG Midget, old Pontiac, old 260Z, old 911 Porshe. Everything was open top except for the Pontiac and all the guys drove with their tops down in support of the bike riders. Alas, weatherwise they weren’t as prepared as the bike riders and with temperatures quite cold, for instance Hobart 2-7 deg, they really suffered.

In addition to the social aspects of the trip, I used the opportunity to investigate new roads and sample different accommodation as part of the planning for next year’s Club trip to Tasmania.

We left Wednesday night on the Spirit of Tasmania and had a fairly uneventful trip other than the 40 knot side winds and 5 m swell with 3 metres of chop. It was cold and wet and I felt quite queasy, retiring early like almost everyone else on board. We learnt the next day that someone had fallen/jumped off the sister boat on its way down from Sydney and was recovered. A fine effort in the middle of the night.

Day 1: Thursday 6^th Devenport to Pub in the Paddock, Pyengana

We docked at 7 am – awoken at 6.15 am by the Captain – and were all off by about 7.30 am. The plan was to head for Sheffield to the bakery for morning tea. Getting impatient I quickly lost the group but circled around and caught up to them again. Tasmania is really starting to feel familiar, this being my eighth, ninth or tenth trip.

The plan for the day was to start heading clockwise around Tassy, the first overnight stop Pyengana at the Pub in the Paddock, between Derby and St Helens, with the overflow staying in a motel in St Helens.

I ran into a fair amount of rain and fog when I started heading for Cradle Mountain after missing the Paradise turnoff to Mole Creek. It was quite pleasant riding around with barely a car on the road and the bike fitted with a new (!) rear Pilot Power and a reasonably good matched (!!) front Pilot Power. But after 100 km of rain I had had enough and sought the warmth and dry of the east.

After checking out the map the night before on the boat I noticed a road heading due east out of Launceston to Upper Blessington for about 45 km, ending up somewhere near the northernmost reach of the Ben Lomond National Park. It turned out to be a fast open road with some fantastic corners. The only thing to do when you got there was to turn around and come back, or else take to the dirt, not my preferred option this early into the trip.

I started to catch some of the group in Launceston (only place for fuel) and then again at Scottsdale. (This is a brilliant road.) After Derby I took a left turn and headed north to Gladstone as I don’t remember travelling on this road for many years adding another 50 km to the trip. Fires had been through one section and I noticed a large echidna rooting around when I stopped for a drink. I got very close and watched it for few minutes. Then on to Pyengana to catch up with the gang, ensconced in the pub.

Amongst the group was a professional musician song writer with his guitar. Another guy played in a band and also had his guitar. Another two of the guys brought their mouth organs and another his drums (cooking pots). Then there was the communal percussion instruments including a tambourine, aboriginal sticks, various shakers and my cousin on the bongos, any old plastic drum with the bottom cut off. As you can imagine, 20 or so blokes rolling into a Tassy pub midweek, or any other day for that matter, and setting up for a sing-a-long, tends to dominate the proceedings. These sessions lasted well in the early hours and when the pub managers finally called a halt to proceedings, the activities usually moved to one of the rooms. A couple of the guys only had three hours sleep in the first 48 hours – lost voices the most obvious signs. The sing-a-long was a nightly feature, different pub every night.

The first night was pretty full on but around 10 pm I decided to ride the last 25 km to St Helens and find a bed. The road was fairly jumping with animals. A pretty spotted quoll was the most interesting.

Day 2: Friday 7^th St Helens to Hobart

The main group planned to meet us at the St Helens Bakery at 9 am. I figured I would ride the 25 km back to Pyengana in the daylight without the visibility and animal problems, it was so much fun, even at night. The day’s plan was to head down the east coast and stop at Little Swanport for lunch. I figured I could shoot up to St Mary’s and on to Campbelltown and then down the brilliant Lake Leake Road coming out just above Swansea and still meet the group.

Heading out of St Mary’s I decided to turn right at Fingal because the main road is very open and boring and potentially risky. And a strong, cold west wind was blowing. I had convinced a few other riders of the merit of the above mentioned route and started bumping into them. The 46 km detour up through Rossarden takes you through real banjo country and you feel very alone and vulnerable, but the views of Stacks Bluff in Ben Lomond National Park easily compensate.

I rejoined the highway at Avoca and no long afterwards passed my bongo playing cousin Ted on his XLV750. It was running poorly and not above 5,000 revs or about 100 km /h. We stopped for a coffee in Campbelltown and Ted got talking to the tractor driver filling up with diesel. He was operating a very specialised slasher designed specifically to slash, mulch and grub out gorse, a horrendous noxious weed often used as hedging. Introduced from England for its pretty flower, yet thorny disposition and extremely hardy nature, it has infested vast tracks of arable land, and is almost impossible to kill.

The slashing operation was for hire, typically by local farmers or councils. The $60,000 slasher apparatus (initially imported from Norway, of all places) was attached to a $250,000 giant tractor. Of course, the slasher had been modified and strengthened to suit the tough Australian conditions, and was the only one in Australia. The operator offered to give us a tour. He was only working a couple of kays away and gave us instructions to find him. Look for the flashing light in the paddock. What an opportunity!

The gorse was about 4 metres high and like a thicket. I think he was clearing about an acre an hour and it was hard work, effectively mowing around and around in circles, working outside in. Ted and I each got a 15 minute lap inside the air-conditioned and relatively quiet tractor cabin in during which time the driver explained the intricacies of the operation. He was off to the mainland the next week on another contract. The problem was he wanted to sell the business due to debilitating arthritis but could find no takers. Alas, time waits for no-one, so it was short walk back to the bikes parked in the paddock and on with the trip.

Rather than detouring back to the coast I decided to stay with Ted as we headed directly for Hobart, about 170 km away. It was very cold and windy, snow a definite possibility. Somehow we skirted the blackest clouds arriving in Hobart around 2.30 pm, giving us time to shoot down to Huonville and Cygnet to visit an incredible, almost completed, hand built sailing ship, maybe 18 metres long. How many coats of lacquer on this panel, I queried? “Well, most people put 7 but I put 14.” It was an absolute work of art.

It was now cold, wet and miserable. Ted and I headed back to the Grande Chancellor Hotel overlooking Constitution dock. Five star tonight.

At 6 pm were we picked up by “The Wild Thing, a 750 hp open deck inflatable water taxi, in effect a giant Zodiak twin hulled surf rescue style boat, capable of 45 knots, which provided a “serious thrill ride” for half an hour before delivering us to the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania for a fantastic evening meal. It was a freezing night and it was superbly warm in the yacht club. The beauty of travelling in a big group is that someone always knows someone and we were able to visit lots of places and do things not normally available to your run-of-the-mill tourist.

The highlight of the evening was placing the ashes of a recently deceased regular Tramper into a smuggled 12 inch cannon with a view to firing him across the water as a fitting farewell. Think wadding, gun powder, wicks, pitch black, suburbia, very loud explosion, middle of the night, lots of beer, 20 blokes crowding around. What could go wrong? After all, we had already got through boat customs on either side of the crossing, mainly because the car guys didn’t know they were carrying gunpowder and a cannon, secretly stowed. Very Life of Brian – the stoning scene where the women have beards so as to partake in the male-only sport and the suspicious guard asks “Any women here? “No, no, no women here” was the high pitched response. The same response was extracted by the customs people. Anything to declare? Gas bottles, fruit. “No, no.” (Just a cannon)

The cannon was duly wadded and loaded with gunpowder and ashes, and pointed out to sea, resting up against a water hose to provide an upwards trajectory, wick lit. Someone stood on the hose and now the cannon was swivelled around pointing at the crowd. I had my fingers in my ear, sensing “this could be big!” The wick lighter dived on the cannon and redirected it over the water, standing up just as it exploded. Fantastic!

There were a couple of unforeseen circumstances. The wooden cannon support shattered sending splinters into various ankles and (ii) the wick igniter suffered powder burns to his neck as a minute amount of the explosion shot up the wick lighting hole. After a few days these burns became infected and medical help was sought resulting in bandaids and more bruising to his neck, which was going to prove almost impossible to explain to his missus, who is unware of his pyromaniac tendencies. He has a real cannon on the (Mornington) peninsula which he fires once a year, rattles all the windows and doors for miles around, and then goes into hiding for a day or two.

Our igniter was already suffering an injury of sorts after being flung unceremoniously into the pot plants while attempting to exit the Grande Chancellor Hotel revolving entrance door. Someone gave it an extra hard shove and I looked up to see him literally flying through the air. The bruising to his shoulder was as big as a hand span and would develop into deep purple, green then yellow over the course of the week. Did I mention he was the leader and organiser of this brilliant trip? And this was only Day 2!

Back to the motel via the Constitution Dock and the Wild Thing for an early night, for some.

Day 3: Saturday 8^th – Hobart to Maydena

Next morning, I took some fantastic photos looking out of the immaculately clean 8^th floor foyer windows looking down onto Constitution Dock, as the snow flakes drifted upwards. Easy day today as were only heading 100 km or so to the Giants Table bed and breakfast, a collection of hydro workers houses with 5 bedrooms, a kitchen, 2 toilets, separate showers, and pot belly wood fired heating in the large lounge room. We got a room each.

But first I headed for the Salamanca Markets, in full swing, to purchase a woollen beanie, the choice almost too great. I settled on a lined, plain grey, pure wool, maybe hand knitted beanie, for $12. My cap wasn’t cutting it. Some of the lads had found Joes Garage the night before at some extreme hour but it didn’t reopen till 4 pm, so I headed onto the Hobart Museum for an hour or so. Well worth a visit. Next time I will pick up the Maritime Museum which is also pretty interesting. The Queen May, a sailing ship, was also open for inspection. It has been lovingly restored by enthusiasts, originally used to transport timber up and down the south coast.

We managed to negotiate a late leave from the motel at 11 am – or so we thought. Next stop was a tour of the ship building yards in North Hobart, with only one person knowing how to get there. Cars, bikes, lights, rain, traffic. It is a wonder any of us made it. I corner marked, a concept difficult to convey to a bunch of 50 and 60 year olds used to giving orders, running companies, etc.

The shipyard was brilliant and not normally open to the public. They build all aluminium catamarans, usually over 100 metres long. The boats end up as passenger ferries all over the world. They employ 400 people with another 400 about to be put on. They were building three boats including one for the American Army, all decked out in military insignia. The production manager ran the guided tour for at least an hour and a half. The numbers are mind boggling large and difficult to comprehend. They had almost completed another boat 112 meters long on spec. “Some one will buy it if we build it.” “How much?” I asked. “About 100 million dollars.” The shed alone, was an engineering marvel, at over 600 metres long. I took a few photos but they don’t do justice to scale of the operation.

Next stop Maydena on the Strath Gordon Road. I figured out early on to dump my bag in one of the cars and by Day 3 all the bikes were similarly travelling light. It was just as well, because after 1200 km in the first two days, my front tyre was looking decidedly worn, particularly on the right hand side. Worse, it made the steering very heavy, not the normally quick and light steering I was used to. I developed a theory that these Pilots don’t handle at all well after about half worn. The tyre chopped out on the sides quite badly, albeit slowly, making the tyre profile fairly triangular. You would expect it to steer quickly, but it didn’t. I changed it the day I got home with another second hand Pilot, also showing more wear on the right hand side due to the camber of our roads. I figured I may as well put it on backwards and even up the wear like I have done many times before. It is only in absolutely pouring rain that I might consider the reverse tread pattern to be less than ideal, but how often does that happen?

Of course, changing the tyre restored the steering to light and fast, so fast it took a few days to get used to it and not oversteer. After 2,500 km of heavy steering I had got a bit stronger in the upper body. I digress.

That night we settled into a private meal at the in-house restaurant. A round of drinks usually consisted of another three bottles of red wine. As per every other night, I heard some fantastic stories. These blokes have packed a lot into their 50 or 60 years.

Day 4 – Sunday 9^th Maydena – Derwent River Hotel/Lodge

Next morning we set off for Strathgordon, Lake Pedder and Lake Gordon, a lazy 75 km of uninterrupted twisty road (and another 75 back). No petrol at Strathgordon but coffee and cakes and a great view across Lake Pedder. We climbed the 400 steps down to the impressive Lake Gordon Dam wall and walked across it for more misty views.

The gang were heading for Ouse on the main highway for lunch. I figured I would head up the guts, picking up that brilliant back road into Bothwell. It didn’t disappoint. I continued north past the Great Lake and Arthurs Lake, now through snow lined roads. My hands were very cold but feet dry and if not warm, then not annoyingly cold. It was another emotional “higher plane” experienced as the bike and I ploughed northwards relentlessly finally plunging down the escarpment to Poatina at the base of the Great Western Tiers. Lunch consisted of attacking the reserve supplies of muesli bars and mixed nuts smuggled in from the mainland. They had run out of anything hot at the general store and time was pressing.

There was only one way, and that was back whence we had come. We were making good time, fuel now the uppermost thought, but tanks wereoften going around 300 km, reserve not hit before 260 or 270 km. Mr Plod in a 4WD whizzed by in the opposite direction, as we passed mid corner. He never even lifted off. The lads had run into the TOG driving around in a late model super charged (?) Mini Cooper S hunting up and down the East Coast. And Mr Plod had come dancing out onto the road in front of me as you run into Hobart where it changes form 80 to 60 km/h. I was nodding at a local Hyabusa rider on the other side of the road who was frantically waving at me. By the time I avoided this idiot running out in front of me in the pouring rain on well worn black shiny bitumen I was well down the road before I figured what was really going on. Ooops. Good luck to Mr Plod if he can read my number.

Last person to arrive at Derwent Bridge copped the worst bed, and it took me a while to find the pub, five or six hundred metres out of town, or maybe it was the town! Another big sing-a-long saw out the night.

Day 5 – Monday 10^th Derwent Bridge - Queenstown Best Western Gold Rush Motel

Just out of town is a very new and modern building quaintly named The Wall in the Wilderness. It is a purpose built gallery housing the first 20 metres of a 100 metre wooden sculpture, The Wall, depicting Tasmania’s history – so far, hydroelectricity and logging. The artist, Greg Duncan, is crafting an extraordinary work expected to take between 5 and 7 years to complete. It is 10 foot high. The building, fittings, heating system, lighting, and other sculptures are all high quality works of art. Thoroughly uplifting. We got to watch the artist at work and later talk with him and ask him “Why?!”

On the road again, I checked out the Lake St Clair Visitor Centre, an enormous place, almost incongruous with the surroundings: beautiful lakes, snow capped mountains, unspoilt views. According to the map it was only 114 km to Queenstown and hence I am not sure where the rest of the day went.

But late in the afternoon, room mate Andy offered me a ride on his new R1200RS, which I gleefully accepted. I headed off to Strahan on the 37 km of tight twisties and it took me 16 km to find somewhere to do a U-turn! Well, that is my story. The bike is wonderfully comfortable with adjustable screen which I fiddled with to find the spot where the turbulence was a minimum. The power assisted brakes take some getting used to (at least 30 seconds) as does the eccentric BMW blinker arrangement. The bike goes around tight corners with surprising ease, though steering lock is limited. It doesn’t seem to have much power, in terms of acceleration, but conversely is deceptively comfortable at speed, providing the illusion of travelling slowly. I think this is a function of sitting quite high (consider a go cart on a race track: it feels dangerously fast at 60 km/h), and the detached nature of the suspension. You can’t feel what the front tyre is doing. This is neither good nor bad, just different. The bike is relatively heavy – probably 50 kg heavier than mine, but you wouldn’t know it when cornering, only accelerating and stopping. It is a brilliant long distance mile muncher.

That evening was a big one in the Motel restaurant, the “band” in full swing. We shared the restaurant with a large family group celebrating an 18^th birthday, providing some eye candy. A boisterous rendition of Happy Birthday sung by the troops was really appreciated by the family.

Day 6 Tuesday 11^th Queenstown to Tullah

We headed into town to partake of “Douggies” Mt Lyell Copper Mine Tour at $60 each. Initially this seemed expensive, but you really got your 3.5 hours worth. It was a surreal experience and I am sure will not be tolerated by OH&S bureaucrats for too much longer. “Just press up against the wall when a truck comes past. They don’t mean to scare you.” These trucks have six foot high wheels, the ground shakes and you feel them coming from a few hundred metres away. The mine complex is a maze of tunnels and they could come from any direction and they drive at speed. It is dusty or muddy, we have lights on our helmets, heavy batteries attached to our belts, reflective vests, goggles, ear plugs, gum boots and hands straight by our sides, not folded in front, not folded behind, not in our pockets. We must wear long sleeve clothing and be able to walk 1 km, unaided. Highly unionised. Dangerous.

We drive 7 km down an incline to ground zero, 2000 metres underground. (Those miners trapped by the rock fall since last Tuesday are at 950 meters underground.) The mine is Indian owned and all the ore is trucked to Burnie and then shipped to India after first being processed to 24 % purity (by volume or weight, I am not sure). Australia gets a commission per tonne. The mine employs about 310 workers who earn roughly $90,000 per year, working five (12 hour) days on day shift, 5 days off, alternating day and night shift. This may seem like a reasonable amount of money for semi skilled or highly skilled workers, but there are no penalty rates, no public holidays, and no excuses. Would you work more than 2 km underground in hot, wet, noisy, dirty conditions with poor air, no daylight, and no external communications?

We checked out the whole underground mining process except where the blasting occurs. Mechanical leviathans of the deep, the wonders of hydraulics, the sheer engineering brilliance of humankind. Safety record? Afraid to ask.

A few hours later after scrounging a snack, we headed off to Strahan for a late lunch via the 37 km of twisties which almost became a chore with some of the cars and riders taking a long time. The cars were struggling with the steep hills, fuel consumption drastic. One of the bike riders suggested he could go 20 km faster than the posted speed limit on most bends. Hmm. Rarely did I have time or the inclination to look at the speedo, the glorious scenery (snow capped mountains) or rapidly approaching next bend focusing my attention.

We regrouped outside the Strahan bakery and planned the late afternoon’s activities with the local mayor, well known by the leader as he was formerly from the Victorian Mornington Peninsula. We decided to go back to Queenstown and check out the first hydroelectric power generating plant in Tasmania, opened in 1914 and still working. The mayor suggested retracing our steps but I knew heading up to Zeehan and back to Queenstown, though twice as far, would probably be twice as quick due to the more open nature of the road. It was also suggested that I could retrieve three bottles of precious amber fluid and someone’s mobile phone from The Best Western and still be back to join the tour. Nothing like a challenge.

It was along the Zeehan stretch that the remaining cremated ashes were released at a suitable speed, completing another key performance indicator of the tour.

It is a magnificent road between Zeehan and Queenstown with sandpaper-like grip. The front tyre looked very shaggy by the time I got back to the motel, collected the bottles, mobile phone and a bag of dirty washing. The trip was taking its toll on the participants’ memories.

I managed to get back to the unsigned dirt road turnoff to the power station to corner mark for the rest of the gang before anyone had arrived. While waiting I met a local dressed in jeans and runners out for a fang on his Kawasaki ZX12R. He said there were six bikes in town.

The 6 km of dirt road was tight and twisty and took some time to negotiate. We had been warned to ignore all the signs suggesting Trespassers Shot on Sight, Do Not Enter, Wrong Way, Go Back, etc. They were just for the tourists.

As expected, the hydro plant was very interesting, and having a couple of years electrical engineering background, even more so. One man was running the show. I asked how long it took for the capital expenditure to be recouped. He said in the first year and it is still pumping about 7 MW or $1.5 million into Tasmania’s power grid each year. But new plants develop around 140 MW and are probably cheaper to maintain. Hence it is unlikely this station will be working when the Club visits next year. Of course, it should be developed as a tourist attraction. It has a large gallery of historic photos. They certainly did it tough, circular large diameter pipes made from wood! The plant engineer made the astute observation that wind farms take 15 years to recover the capital investment but only have a life of 20 years.

The weather was perfect so I decided to take the long way to Tullah. Back to Zeehan (along that road again) and out to Reece Dam. Just out of Zeehan I ran in to some of the lads who were heading for the “Spray Tunnel”, a short tunnel through a mountain that allowed a train to carry tin from a mine back to Zeehan for processing. The lines had been ripped up to allow 4WD access and foolhardy motorcyclists. It was a single track dirt road through a golf course (that is the sign to look for). Various signs describe the workings. We wandered around for 20 minutes or so before making tracks.

I had never done the Reece Dam road and it was worth the wait. Forty km to the dam and another 60 km back to Tullah and civilisation. No cars, no intersections, mountain scenery. Better mark this one down for next year.

Another big night at the Tullah Lakeside Chalet. On previous occasions riding around Tasamania I had never been further than the general store about 500 metres off the main highway and was dumbfounded to walk out the back of the Chalet, another 200 metres up the road, to be greeted by a breathtaking view of Lake Roseberry. Just brilliant. Twin share accommodation was sparse but for $50 including a two course evening meal and breakfast, we weren’t complaining. The view alone was worth it. It was the bartenders last night and she was quite taken by the band’s antics, and amazed that the manager kept selling drinks two hours past closing time. He wasn’t stupid!

Day 7 Wednesday 12^th Tullah to Devenport

I wanted to do the 150 km loop back to Reece Dam and them north to Corinna via the Pieman Ferry and then the backway into Savage River and then Waratah and the highway. Alas, the morning was misty and cold and yesterday’s bravado was today’s history. The route did involve 12 km of dirt to the punt and another 26 km after. How hard could it be on low profile wide tyres in the wet? Hmm.

So alone I set off. I rationalised to myself that the thing about Tasmania is that you are never more than 100 km from civilisation, unlike riding the deserts in Central or Western Australia. And I wasn’t going to die of thirst! If Lyn was with me, she could have done the worrying for me.

Back to Reece Dam, a completely different ride in the wet, but pleasant enough. Then on the tight and hilly 12 km of sandy dirt road heading for Corinna. I stopped for a drink at one of the many multicoloured bee hive collections at the side of the road. It was hot, dodgy work, and I was quite pleased to see the enormous Pieman River at last, even if the ferry was on the other side. I pressed the button and waited, as per the instructions. Out of the blue a 4WD appeared on the otherside wishing to come across which was handy as I expect I wouldn’t have been charged only $10 for the 100 metre journey, but rather the standard $20 for motorcycles and bikes!, cars more. I thought I was back in far north Queensland crossing the crocodile infested Jardine.

Corinna is a three house town and all the one family. Wood fires were working hard, as everywhere else in Tasmania. The smell of the smoke started to bother me by the end of the week as it appears most houses primary source of heating is burning wood. I realised that I had never travelled in cold times and hence the fires weren’t in operation. It was good to get back to Melbourne and not be assaulted by smoke.

After reading a bit of history about the town it was back on the bike for the 26 km of dirt to Savage River. This took 35 minutes and equates to an average speed of under 45 km/h which is very, very slow. The problem was (apart from the continuous light rain) that road works were being performed which involved semi trailers dumping loads of orange sandy/clayey soil and then another load of white limestone looking stuff was then graded over the top, the combination setting like concrete. This went on for kilometres, in various stages of completion. There was one grader and maybe three of four semis to be negotiated. The bike was running over temperature, thermatic fan running, and was covered in mud. Going back was not an option as fuel was limited. Not much grip front or back, up hill and down dale, made for an exciting, sweaty trip. I was very glad to rejoin the bitumen at Savage River and ride the next 35 km or so to Waratah for petrol and a well earned rest. I heard the guys had been in to check out the Waratah Museum.

Back to the Murchison Highway, still misty and wet, and then onto the Cradle Valley road, my only company the occasional logging truck doing it easy at 120/130 km/h, fully loaded. I headed to Mole Creek for lunch, seeing a few of the lads. At 1.50pm the rain stopped and the roads were dry, allowing some investigation of the roads south of Mole Creek and Deloraine before heading north to Sheffield and Devenport, spending the last couple of hours with the gang in and around the pub, waiting for the boat to load.

One of the bikes queuing up was a Vietnam Veteran riding a $65,000 Boss Hoss, complete with V8 Chevy motor. It only weighed 380 kg, but sure had presence. It had a square car tyre on the back and a completely bald Avon motorcycle tyre probably 150/60 front. He had been queued up for hours and one of the gang had got the goss. His trip had only lasted three days after his (then) girlfriend, first time on a bike, had leaned the wrong way in a corner on day one, causing the rider to lean more than he wanted to, resulting in all the underneath rear braking system (an after market add on to boost braking performance) being ripped off. He had no rear brake which meant all the braking from that point onwards had to be handled by the front. And the tyre lasted three days. He spat it, she spat it, and they were on their way home. The fact that I rolled up 10 minutes before loading and then promptly got pole position (as one should) before scooting around the colossus to be first on board didn’t add to his humour.

Arrived Melbourne next morning right on 6 am after being woken at 5.15 am by the friendly captain’s voice. Spent the day washing the bike and replacing the front tyre.

Ben Warden