The Cormanus Chronicles: February 2020

The three strikes ride — 11

Day 11: Tamworth to Brisbane

7 February 2020

Master Map

The kind folks at the motel agreed I could have a late checkout so I could see what state the bike was in. I toyed with having a day of lying around watching television and resting, but decided I'd rather move if possible.

At 0900, as suggested, I went next door to the dealer to check what was happening. The mechanic had cleaned up the bike and was working on it. He was confident of being able to make it road worthy. They said they'd ring, so I bought new wets — a fluro onesie as it was all they had — and went back to the motel to pack and sort myself out.

The left elbow of my wets

The dealer rang just before 11.00 to say the bike was ready to roll. I went next door to collect it. The mechanic had done a great job straightening the bars and he'd taken off the passenger foot peg and moved it to the rider's position. He'd had to grind some off the back to make it fit and it was no longer sprung, but I can get my foot on it and change gears.

A big shout out to Greg at Western Ranges Motorcycles in Tamworth. He stayed back late to help me get the bike off the street and then made it rideable the next morning.

Ready to go again

At Bendemeer, 40 kms north of Tamworth at the top of the Moonbi Range, I stopped for fuel and to don my new fluro onesie wets. It (they?) stayed on all day as I rode through intermittent showers. I stopped only at Tenterfield for a bite to eat and decided to push on. Close to home I stopped again to fill the petrol tank. Mercifully it was a completely uneventful trip. There'd been enough excitement the day before to last for quite some time.

Heading north from Tamworth towards the Moonbis

Epilogue

Really, I've nothing to complain about. It was a fantastic trip other than a display of higher than usual ineptitude on my part which led to the bike taking a couple of naps. I'll continue to reflect on the circumstances giving rise to them to see whether I can reduce the risk in the future. Manoeuvring the bike at slow speed on rough and sloping surfaces adds to the level of risk.

Could I have avoided the bigger slide? I don't know, but I'm all right and the bike can be fixed, so I'm not going to worry too much about it.

I added nearly 6,000 kms to the odometer and used 299 litres of fuel at an average of 5.08 litres / 100 kilometres. That's a little higher than my long-term average. I discovered a couple of really enjoyable new roads on the way. Even better, I got to go sailing for a couple of weeks in the middle of it all.

Some thanks are due. In sequential order:

To Pterodactyl, Aussieflyer and NoRoomtoMove for taking time out of their lives to ride with me, feed me, keep me company and show me some great roads.
To Mrs NoRoomtoMove who, yet again, provided a delicious lunch and was hospitable to a fault.
To Pterodactyl (again) who offered to drive 400 kms to rescue me if the bike turned out not to be rideable. That was a very generous offer which I appreciate very much.
To GrahamT who has donated a set of bars and two new mirrors to ease the cost of repairs. Also incredibly generous and much appreciated.
To folks whose names I don't know who stopped to help or make sure I was all right after I came off. I was particularly grateful to the young bloke who hung around with me in the rain to make sure I was able to get a tow truck. He would have loaded the bike onto his ute and driven me to Tamworth if we could have figured out how to get it up there.
To people at two bike shops who reordered their days to help out a travelling motorcyclist. Dealers get an occasional caning on forums, but they've been very helpful to me when I've really needed it.

As I bring this narrative to a close, an eerie silence wrought by Covid-19 has descended on the planet. When I got home in early February, focussed on getting the bike sorted, I had no idea or premonition that this would be the first virus since the Spanish 'flu to give humanity a reminder of the capacity of tiny and invisible germs to wreak havoc on our existence. While I'm sure we'll survive this one, I'm not sure that those of us who live through it will ever see the world in quite the same way. It certainly casts concerns about the bike into the shadows.

Be well and take care everyone.

The three strikes ride — 10

Day 10: Cowra to Tamworth

6 February 2020

While, like so much of the country I'd seen, my in-laws' farm near Cowra desperately needed rain, it was pouring down at home in Brisbane and the front was forecast to make its way south down the east coast. There was hope for the firefighters to the east of the Great Dividing Range, but farmers to its west were not overly optimistic.

Riding much of the day through really heavy rain was not all that appealing so I changed my plans again and decided to stay a little west of my intended route and make for Tamworth. Sure, I'd get a little wet, but the forecast didn't look too bad and I'd be well placed to make a final run home the following day in what looked like more rain.

It was cool and I soon stopped to put in an extra layer, but I stayed dry until Molong where I refuelled, ate a late breakfast and met a pig. Not long afterwards, the first signs of rain appeared and I stopped and put on my wets.

It's much easier to rack up milestones when you measure distance in kilometres. A milestone in Cowra.

Heading north from Cowra

A porcine apparition in Molong

As long as I can see all right, the majority of the rain stays outside my wets, and it doesn't get too hot, I quite like riding in the rain. It was a good day for it. The rain was gentle, the temperature reasonable and I made good time along the country roads. While none of them was a spectacular riding road, they were pleasant enough and I enjoyed the realisation that there had been sufficient previous rain for the country to be showing healthy signs of green.

I was enjoying myself and making such good time that I was starting to wonder whether I could make Uralla or even Glen Innes for the night.

I refuelled again at Coolah and suddenly discovered, slightly to my surprise, that I was close to the Black Stump. In Australian lore, the Black Stump is that point at which civilisation pretty much ends. In Australia, if you tell folks you've been 'out beyond the black stump' they know you've been out the back of buggery in no man's land. Who'd have thought it, but the Black Stump purports to be a tiny distance from where I refuelled. There's even a pub there. It's strange really: I've been well west of this alleged black stump where there are more signs of civilisation. But who am I to argue with a sign?

It was still raining so I didn't stop for a photo.

Then I turned left onto the Gap Road. I stopped to check the GPS and discovered all was well and proceeded. Six and a half kilometres later, I slowed for a slight dip into a sharp left-hand corner under a railway bridge, turned and the next thing I knew I was losing control of the bike. Time slows. I remember fighting briefly to stay up. Then I went down. As I slid along the road, I wondered how well my abrasion resistant jeans would stand up to this treatment. Quite well, as it turned out.

As I noted, there had been rain this way in the days before my arrival. Good falls apparently. So good they'd washed the lovely dark soil off the Macquarie Plain and into this slight depression in the road. When damp, it's as slippery as a cake of soap, as a mechanic was to tell me next day, and the day's mild rain had made sure it was well moistened.

I leapt to my feet feeling fine, but embarrassed. A bloke in a ute stopped and made sure I was all right then helped me lift the bike up. Another bloke stopped to help and others slowed to make sure I was OK. I was, but the bike's handlebars were bent and the left foot peg had disappeared. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to ride it to Tamworth, but I did manage to make it out of the dip and up the hill slightly to a place where I could pull off the road. The second guy came with me and waited until he was sure a tow truck was coming. He'd offered to load it into his ute and get it and me to Tamworth, but there was no way we were going to get it there without a ramp.

While I'm sure mud packs have their place, they do nothing for a CB1100

While I waited for the tow truck, I rang my wife to give her the good news. I wasn't sure quite what I expected but, having established quickly enough that I was really OK, she was very calm and encouraging. She even apologised for not being able to come and get me. It's a great comfort to get such assurance and support at these tricky moments in life.

Eventually the tow truck arrived and we loaded the bike. I made an ignominious entry to Tamworth. The tow truck left me at the local bike dealer where someone had kindly waited behind so we could get the bike off the road. My wets were trashed and covered in mud, but I was OK and I was pretty sure the bike could be made roadworthy easily enough.

I retreated next door to the motel where the owners were very kind to me. I scraped off the worst of the mud, had a hot shower and dinner and went to bed. Of course I spent a fair chunk of the night reliving the accident and didn't sleep well.

The three strikes ride — 9

Day 9: Mitta Mitta to Cowra

5 February 2020

Being in no great hurry I took advantage of the free breakfast at the hotel and the chance to have a good talk with my wife. Eventually, I loaded the bike, refuelled at one of Australia's seriously expensive petrol bowsers ($1.80 / litre compared with an average of $1.51 / litre for the trip) and set off for the north. My plan was to head to Canberra for the night and catch up with an old friend.

I left the Omeo Valley headed for Jingellic which had been threatened by the fires. The further I got, the worse the smoke became. It was like driving in a fog, although a great deal hotter. Lake Hume, man-made as a result of damming the Murray River was extraordinarily low and everywhere there was evidence of fire.

Lake Hume in the smoke

The CB and the Murray River from about the same spot. The top picture was taken in 2020; the bottom in 2019.

Along the Murray Valley Highway

By the time I got to Jingellic, where I stopped for coffee and water, the smoke was really thick. I checked the state of the fires and the roads and decided Canberra was worth missing. There was a bad fire south of the city; the smoke haze was dreadful and I'd be committed to a long, long stretch on the highway to get there. I sent a message to my mate and decided to head further west to call on my sister in law and her husband near Cowra.

By the time I left Jingellic a nicely set up Kawasaki RS900 had appeared.

Perhaps it reflects an odd sense of humour, but I'm not sure a 'friendly' grocer would sell ice.

The smoke continued as I climbed through Tumbarumba and Batlow, which had been badly affected by the fire. By Tumut the smoke was clearing a bit and, by the time I made my way to the roadhouse north of Gundagai, it was clear and hot. I stopped to eat and have coffee before enduring a stretch on the highway to Jugiong.

The aftermath of fires around Batlow

A large koala at the Gundagai service centre. People stand inside it and have their picture taken. Why for god's sake?

A section of the lovely road from Jugiong to Harden

Old railway bridge outside Boorowa

From there I retraced Pterodactyl's and my steps to Boorowa where I had a cup of tea and refuelled before the final run to Cowra which I made on a road I'd not ridden before.

Sulphur-crested cockatoos on strangely green ground in Cowra

Cowra was home to a prisoner of war camp during World War 2. In August 1944 more than 500 Japanese prisoners attempted a mass breakout. Two hundred and thirty one Japanese prisoners and five Australians died during the breakout and subsequent recapture. Cowra still hosts a Japanese war cemetery and memorial Japanese garden.

The three strikes ride — 8

Day 8: Melbourne Port to Mitta Mitta

4 February 2020

From sporadic contact with Aussieflyer, I knew he had been working behind the scenes to engineer a day away from work on Tuesday 4 February so he could come riding again. The fates conspired against him and he could not escape, leaving me with a dilemma: should I ride north out of Melbourne to get home as quickly as possible, or head east and try to catch up with NoRoomtoMove again?

Heading north would mean getting into some excellent roads more quickly than heading east, but the advisories were showing the Omeo Valley Road as being open. As it's one of my favourite roads and it would give me an opportunity to see the aftermath of some of the fires, I was tempted. It's a dilemma I had to think about: would it be rubbernecking plain and simple, or would spending a little money with businesses adversely affected by the effect of the fires on their trade be a good thing? On balance, I reckon if you keep moving, keep out of the way and help the cafés, hotels and petrol stations, it's a good thing to do.

A generous offer of lunch with Mr and Mrs NoRoomtoMove clinched the deal and I took to the freeway east from Melbourne.

I'd been tempted to ride north of the highway into some country I'd not seen that looked interesting, but I wasn't sure of the road condition and I did have a deadline, so I took the highway to Pakenham and then turned south towards Phillip Island. Before arriving to empty pits and a deserted track, I turned east onto the A440 and made my way through Forster to Sale and thence to the NoRoomtoMoves' rural retreat where, ironically, there's plenty of room.

A milestone on the way

Looking from the A440 to Wilson's Promontory. Had we sailed another half a day or so from Deal Island we would have arrived there.

Mrs NoRoomtoMove made us a splendid lunch and we talked for too long before NoRoomtoMove and I headed out towards Omeo where I was thinking to stay the night. He was going to ride as far as he could before turning for home.

Trying to keep up with NoRoomtoMove a little east of his home

We passed through Sarsfield and saw at first hand the edges of the fires that had ravaged Gippsland. I hadn't realised there was a locality called Sarsfield; for no reason it surprised me a little as there are Sarsfields way back in my ancestry. It was a curious thing though, that some of the damage already looked out of context. The remains of this house had been bulldozed and a little rain had already made it look as if there'd never really been a fire.

Leaving Bruthen at the start of the Great Alpine Road

I expected the Omeo Valley to have been devastated by the fire and to be equally devastated by it. Aside from being a wonderful riding road, it is also very pretty, with fine examples of Australian bush on display for the majority of the way. Happily, it wasn't nearly as bad as I expected, although there was serious damage and an airborne water bucket attested to the fact that fires were still being fought.

Is the chopper in the next picture after whatever's causing that smoke?

Checking out a lookout

At around 5.15 we stopped at the Swifts Creek Hotel to have a soft drink and a final chat. The pub was advertising accommodation and meals and I realised I'd had enough riding for the day. They were happy to feed me; but had no accommodation. There was none to be had elsewhere in the town; nor was there any in Omeo, 15 minutes or so up the road. Firefighters and other people helping with fires and recovery rightly had priority.

The next pub was Mitta Mitta at the northern end of the Omeo Valley, 130 kms and at least 2 hours serious riding away. They had a room and I booked it.

NoRoomtoMove and I said our farewells around 6.15 pm and I climbed on to the bike to do my best to get to Mitta Mitta before too many kangaroos came out to play. I was not altogether happy about having to ride so far so late in the day but needs must.

It is a brilliant road. After the first 20 kms to Omeo, it twists and turns seriously for better than 100 kms. I promised myself I wouldn't be a fool, but I did need to make good time.

The first of two stops occurred when the people at the pub rang to say the trip would take me getting on for 2.5 hours and that they may not be there when I arrived. I paid them in advance over the phone and made arrangements to get in if they were not about.

The second occurred when nature insisted.

The road was deserted. I think I saw a motorbike and three cars, all early on. Leaf litter, fallen branches and four fallen trees were a problem, but all were visible in time not to be too inconvenient. In the dusk as I approached Mitta Mitta I passed one lone wallaby.

In spite of my promise, I did have one pucker moment when I nearly overshot a corner, but, as usual the CB1100's front brakes did what they were meant to.

Just after 8.15 I pulled up at the Mitta Pub. Luckily for me they'd had an influx of visitors and were still there. Even better the kitchen was open so I got a beer and some food. I slept very well having ridden a good deal further than I had intended.

The three strikes ride — 7

A Rest Ashore

While I was away sailing, my wife flew to Hobart. My youngest son, who lives there, kindly collected the parts that had arrived at the dealer. As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I climbed off the boat, replaced the clutch lever—easier than I expected—and set off to join my wife. We were to spend a week catching up with friends and family.

My attempts to replace the push cable failed when I was reminded how difficult it was to remove the fuel tank and realised just how difficult it would be to get down into the middle of the throttle bodies to replace that end of it. I tried, but soon gave up and found a dealer who could squeeze me in at very short notice. Not only did they squeeze me in but, with no prompting, lent me a bike for the day. It was a Hyosung 250 cruiser-style bike and it was not the most exquisite riding experience of my life. However, it worked and let my wife and I get easily to meet some friends. A big thanks to all the guys at Hobart Motorcycles.

By the way, it took them 3 hours to do the job; no way could I have done it in less than 6!

My wife came with me on the CB1100 as we covered a little ground in south-east Tasmania. On the reasonably quiet and interesting roads, it was all good riding.

And, I'm happy to report, in a number of days in the saddle, there were no mishaps.

My wife flew home the day before I was to depart; she is yet to take on the long ride from Tasmania to Brisbane.

As can be seen I got to ride over the bridge over the Denison Canal as well as sail through it.

Day 7: Hobart to Devonport

3 February 2020

I'm lucky, really. I've mates who ride bikes in four states on the Eastern seaboard. Graham, and his mates Stewart and Garret, were all up for a ride to make sure I left their shores. Actually, they weren't prepared to ride all the way to Devonport and back and their plans for a central plateau ride were squashed by threats of unseasonal snow, but we kept company up the east coast and across to Campbell Town.

We met in the historic town of Richmond and then rode to Orford on the east coast of Tasmania before turning north to just north of Swansea. At that point—in the way of motorcyclists the world over—we turned west towards Campbell Town in the middle of the state. Most car drivers would have driven north from Hobart to Campbell Town, but they would have missed the wonderful roads we enjoyed.

Preparing to leave Richmond

About 3 kilometres from Orford, there's a pretty dam, a sharp right hander then a left hander that leads to the final run alongside the Prosser River to the town

I've always liked this stone building on the north shore of the Buxton River

It's not a particularly good photograph, but it is taken approaching Swansea looking east to Schouten Island and the Freycinet Peninsula where we spent time at Bryans Corner on the sailing trip. What took two solid days sailing in the boat took little more than an hour and half on the bike.

This turned out to be a very brief stop as once we all got off our bikes and discovered the Lake Leake Inn, 40 kms up the road, was open and serving lunch, we all climbed aboard again.

Graham's CB500X turns onto the road into the lake

I was taken by this sign.

We enjoyed an honest pub lunch and then rode the short distance for a quick look at the lake before heading on to Campbell Town.

Descending from the plateau towards the midlands. The central highlands can be seen in the distance.

Not long afterwards we parted company at Campbell Town and I took a series of minor roads to Devonport to catch the ferry. Other than leaving Hobart and a kilometre or so in Campbell Town, I spent no time at all on the main highway all day. Bliss.

A big fish in Cressy, Tasmania

Because it was summer time, the Bass Strait ferries are running day and night. It means the evening departure is delayed and it was after 8.00 pm when we finally boarded. Luckily there were other blokes on motorcycles to chat to as we waited.

Boarding the Spirit of Tasmania in Devonport for the overnight trip to Melbourne

In the interests of economy, I elect to share a cabin on the ferry. Sometimes I luck out and have it to myself, but I've never had to share with anyone I found disagreeable. For the first time I shared with another of the bike riders, an interesting ex-motorcycle policeman from South Australia.