Thursday November 5th Overcast, showers and windy.

That morning as I rode into the park outside my office I could see myself tearing up the road faster than any other boy has ever gone. I felt that my skin was rough but my soul was ripe and no one was going to stop me now.

This year we were but two. But it only takes two to Biblio.







After innumerable photos of the group by the press photographer surrounded by all the beautiful people from the Library we were off on Alan Arnold’s Kawasaki 250 and my new red Ducati Testastretta powered S4Rs Monster.



The two Alans set off on their two-wheel odyssey to see the Central West and take greetings from the city to the country. As usual the staff at Gosford put on a good feed and Mayor Holstein was there resplendent in his BT4 T shirt.

The Somersby plateau is a beautiful part of the central coast with its green fields and bucolic countryside scenes. We were cruising at about 120k when a few trucks and some grey nomads in a Toyota coaster, no doubt heading to Cessnock for a day of bowls and beer, slowed us,

The odour was familiar. I lent over to switch on recycling until I realised my new Duke had a lot of things but not AC. The odour became a smell. This was the chicken capital of NSW so it should not have been a surprise that we were following a truck loaded with chicken poo doing 80k. I hoped he would turn off soon and after ten kilometres the red poo truck turned into a farm; pity the neighbours. We accelerated back up to cruising speed and the two rockets crossed the range and hugged the corners as we sped toward our Singleton appointment.




The Singleton boarding party welcomed us to their Taj Mahal and gave us welcome coffee and cake. The tall one turned up to join us on his yellow steed and I asked him where he was going and for how long because he sure didn’t look like he was planning to come with us.

I digress. Us Duke riders are clean-shaven, neat and lean and only take what we need. No sense having a bike covered in carbon fibre if you carry one sock too many. Speed and handling are everything. Power to weight is king.

The Mule

Back to the story. Ross, as the tall one was known, had a pack pony and draught horse rolled into one. I asked him how long he thought it might take him to get to Darwin.

His Beemer had a swag over the pillion seat, two side panniers full of gear and another bag full of tools. This man was prepared for anything and as we were soon to find out, travelled over any mountain through any river and faster than a rabbit being chased by a hawk. I thought the bottle of VB in the brown paper bag hanging out of his left pannier was a mark of the man. This was no ordinary librarian, he was from MANly.





We drank coffee, ate cake and took pictures, thanked them for their hospitality and sped off to Denman. It pured rain and then it got worse, but the big sky country seen from the vantage point of a speeding bike as you slide into open sweeping curves is addictive. The 40 to 60k winds were a slight nuisance, though I often saw Alan A. slide from the left to the right lane and back again, that is, when I saw a glimpse of his taillight. Boy could that Kwaka go. I thought I smelt racing fuel.

We turned into the main highway into Denman but the Beemer was not to be found. I circled back but soon saw the pack mule flying up past me. Ross had stopped to do some running repairs.

Denman library

Denman library was open and all three staff came out to greet us. A nice new building that could become the standard design of rural libraries. A phone interview with the Central Coast ABC and then off to lunch at a local eatery.







The pub had stopped serving meals so we went to a local café. As I was about to bite into my repast one of the library staff came in and advised us that although it was 2.45pm we were expected in Mudgee by 4pm. I asked her how long should it take if we were to travel the sealed road via Ilford? About two and a half hours she said. No problem, I said, I’ll send Ross along ahead and he should be able to cover the 130k in an hour or so. He will easily make it by 4pm.

I looked across at Ross; he smiled and said, “An hour, an hour how slow do you think the yellow one goes?”

Alan A. called the waitress over and ordered another cup of coffee, “What’s the hurry,” he said, “it’s just over the next hill, and we’re librarians.”

Paris Dakar

Ross did go ahead, but we found out later it was not directly to Mudgee. The library staff showed him a map of the area, which indicated a dirt road, he had not been on before and he was compelled, as GS riders are, to give it a go. After all, the road was there.


Now I told Alan to ride in front so that I would not leave him in my smoke, but when he got to a side road that had an arrow that said Mudgee he took it and kept riding.

I caught up to him and said 30 bloody k of dirt, we are on road bikes, are you mad? Alan just grinned, dropped his visor and gunned the Kwaka. I was left looking at a cloud of dust. This was turning into an every man for himself trip. Alan had never taken the blue one on a dirt road before and thought it was only 13 k and it would be fun.

So here I was eating dust and thinking do I turn back to the carefully researched newly-sealed road and cruise my new very expensive road machine to Mudgee, or follow this idiot and pretend that just because the Duke has high bars it could be ridden like a scrambler. As each k passed I could feel the life of the tyres being reduced as huge pieces fell off. One of the potholes was so big Alan could have been in it and I would not have known.

And after the dust came the rain.

Mudgee

The Mudgee town clock indicated 4.15pm and never looked so nice. The lady at the vet told us where the library was. The chocolate box old town hall cum library was warm and dry. The Mayor, quite an affable man, should have been pissed off with our late arrival but welcomed us to his town with open arms. Ross, the bastard, who should have been here earlier was still cruising the back roads, quietly singing the Bavarian National Anthem.

While Alan A. made small talk with the welcoming committee, which consisted of the Friends of the Library committee, the Ulysses Club, Mayor and library staff and the occasional customer, I asked if they wanted to take pictures and when they said “yes,” I went outside and fired up the Duke and rode it into the library.












That’s one of the good things about auto doors for the disabled - they open for bikes as well. When I got to the circ desk I turned into the front reading room and hit the kill button. The locals took it in their stride and lots more pics were taken. Gorgeous women must be attracted to work in rural libraries, Mudgee was full of them. I asked the library manager an easy reference question. “Where is the best pub?” And with the answer we were off.

Ross did turn up eventually and charmed the ladies with his rough macho look. Sometimes it is fashionable to be late.

There followed a nice evening at the Criterion pub with a few ales and tales of the day.

Friday November 6th Overcast, showers and windy.

A Mr Biddel rang me the previous night. Said he had received a press release from my Council and wanted me to do an interview the next day at precisely 8.15 with Sharmayne. Any later and I would conflict with the funeral report, which would never do.

I rang Sharmayne from the Lachlan Valley Community Radio station at 8.15am and did the interview.

Friday morning saw just what we wanted, more bloody rain. Off to the library, bike back in to the circ desk then, photos with the press and off to Wellington, rain and wind. As we passed the Wellington Gaol we knew we were soon there. The library is in a nice park right in town. More pictures then on to Dubbo.








Arrived at the city library and parked the bikes out of the wind otherwise they would blow over. Talk about the crows flying backwards. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw two bikes approaching. I thought there is a huge empty car park here, why are they parking near us? Big black bikes. Big black English bikes. I reached for my phone to ring the cops, then one of them called my name. Councillor and his colleague from Parkes were here to guide us back to their city, the Gracelands of the South.

Parkes

As we entered the outskirts of Parkes a gorgeous woman on an Italian bike flagged us down. She told us that we could not enter the town unless she led us in. Who was I to argue with a lady, so we grouped up and followed her into town and as we did photographers filmed us along the way. Soon we entered the street graced by the library and were greeted by about thirty people including councillors, the general manager and library staff and two of the original crew from BT 1 , Ian and Sherrey from Canberra. The helmeted women turned out to be the library manager who then invited us into her library for refreshments. Of course some of us took her literally and rode our bikes in. There followed more photos and lots of food and talk about libraries and bikes. We thanked the Councillors and parted company.





















We were soon off again for the short ride to Forbes and more refreshments and wonderful stories from an 82 year old that managed the library’s local history collection. He used to ride a 1941 Harley and told us of his many trips on it.

Forbes

On departure to freshen up for the night, Ross asked the local journo who came to cover our story were he could camp for the night, having been banned from any motel due to his outrageous behaviour on past tours. His advice was “You go down the road and turn left at the traffic lights, then over the level crossing and past the old pub. You then take the first turn right then next left and follow the Cowra road … To Cowra. There is a great camping spot there. Ross smiled, knowing there’s no such thing as too far, and fired up the Beemer once more.



The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling Way down in the valley tonight
There’s a man in the shadows with a gun in his eye And a blade shining oh so bright
There’s evil in the air and there’s thunder in the sky And a killers on the bloodshot streets
Or so it seemed, but it was a breathalyser squad. Some four cars, three bikes and a wagon, all the cops in Forbes and they stayed there all night on the Lachlan highway. Only one thing to do, ride our bikes back to the motel on the main road through the middle of town.

That evening more drinks at the local club where we celebrated Ian’s birthday with a bottle of Cowra white, and further refined our outrageous motorcycling tales.

Saturday November 8th Overcast, showers and windy again.

And wherever you are and wherever you go There’s always going to be some light
But I got to get out I got to break it out now
Before the final crack of dawn
So we got to make the most of our one night together
When its over you know
We’ll both be so alone

Forbes on a Saturday morning was like something out of a Wild West movie except that the transportation was cars. The railroad depot newly painted was a museum, a crow sat on the semaphore signal while a freight train stopped road traffic while the guard changed the points for the train’s onward journey to Parkes.



I walked the town at dawn and met Butch who was opening the local Mazda dealership. “How many do you want?” he said, “Oh just looking at the Mazda Three” I replied. “Its crap” he said, “What about the Mazda Two?” “Yeah, its crap as well”, “Then the six?”, “Crap” “What do you recommend”, “The Suzuki Swift” (they make bikes as well), and so we talked for nearly an hour and I listened to the history of Forbes and the wisdom of a man who had seen it all and told me more about rural life than any book.





The four bikes were soon on their way to Eugowra, through bushranger country, past Escort Rock, were Ben Hall and the gang robbed the gold escort in 1862. Flat roads, nice wide turns and then tight corners and small hills revealing the Australian vista exactly like the Australian landscape paintings in the NSW Art Gallery.

Canowindra

Canowindra library is in a trust-listed street with curved glass front windows in a former dress shop. Another Alan runs the place with his Saturday sidekick. The joint was now packed with Alans. Anything could happen, but morning tea did.

We sat around and talked libraries and waited for Robyn, the local journo to get her camera.

















I’m going to hit the highway like a battering ram
On a silver black phantom bike
When the metal is hot and the engine is hungry
And we’re all about to see the light
Nothing ever grows in this rotten old hole
And everything is stunted and lost
And nothing really rocks
And nothing really rolls
And nothings ever worth the cost
And I know that I’m damned if I never get out
And maybe I’m damned if I do
But with any other beat I got left in my heart
You know Id rather be damned with you
With those words written in the wind and ringing in their ears Ian and Sherrey readied for departure to Canberra and the rest of us for Blayney.

Blaney

The original three fought the mighty wind and flew into Blayney where the local librarian gave us more tea and biscuits and we talked about the town. They had a wonderful museum in the library that consisted of farm and workshop implements from the last 100 years.