THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE “Why have we stopped here?” Bly eventually asked. I knew he didn’t really care and was only asking out of politeness, so I responded in kind. “Because I like stopping in the middle of nowhere and basking in splendid isolation.” Bly nodded. He was in total agreement. And we were in the middle of nowhere, even though it is called the Armidale Road on Google maps. Motorcyclists know it as the Nymboida Road. It splits Cloud Creek State Forest and Chaelundi State Forest. At one end is a bunch of shacks full of banjo music called Dundurrabin, and at the other end is a bunch of cousins who are all married to each other, and then you get to Coutts Crossing and Grafton. It is my preferred way to get to the strippers and whores of the Gold Coast, and I do like to arrive in their midst reeking of fiendishness and high velocity. Which is not something I can soil myself with by droning up the major highways and staring at my speedo. And I cannot bask in splendid isolation on the main roads, either. And I need to do that. We all need to do that. Taking a break from the road in a servo or a coffee shop or a pub is all well and good. Except that it’s shit. Pulling over in the shade of a tree, turning off the key, stepping off the bike and staring into an ancient forest, a vast brown plain, or a series of distant misty hills, with the only sound being cicadas, birds, wind and the ever-present tick tack of a cooling motorcycle engine… well, that’s a special kind of special, isn’t it? Australia is a big country and sparsely populated. You don’t need to go very far to get the experience of being isolated in natural splendour. Usually, two tanks of petrol will do it. Yeah, I know I can go stand by the side of the Putty Road, the Black Spur, the Adelaide Hills, or the Burragorang race track behind Murwillumbah, and look at views and listen to trees. But they’re just too close to major centres and too busy to offer up what I’m looking for. Which is isolation. Petrol stations are for petrol, coffee shops are for coffee, and pubs are for barmaids. These places exist as a means to an end. You attend them to ‘do’ something. When I go for long rides I wish to do nothing but ride. I just want to ‘be’, as it were. You cannot ‘be’ when you’re being asked “Savings or credit?” You cannot ‘be’ when you’re choosing between the soy chai frapolatte and the chia juice smoothie. And I cannot do anything in a pub but drink beer, eat fat steaks and look for a juke box with all of Johnny Cash’s songs on it so I can dance with the barmaid. Standing on the edge of a road in companionable silence with glorious bastards (or by myself) is the stuff of life. I may have just danced the dance of my people with my people. That dance that sees you a metre from each others’ back wheels as you dice through corner after corner with immaculate sanity and clarity. A snaking, flesh-metal train of noise, skill, and dry-mouthed concentration. Sure, it’s never gonna be Rossi, Lorenzo, Marquez and Pedrosa aiming for a podium, but it’ll do me and my people. And if we’ve danced that dance, our eyes are bright. We are smiling. We are shaking our heads. Some of us are lighting post-coital cigarettes. Others might be wishing they smoked because a cigarette seems quite appropriate after such a passionate fandango. For the first minute or so no-one speaks. There’s just the crunch of gravel underfoot, maybe the sound of a zip or a visor being clipped up. Sometimes a helmet falls off a bike because the rider has been careless placing it on the seat. The sound of it hitting the ground is always funny. So there is laughter. When the talk comes, and it invariably does, because a bunch of blokes standing silently on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for 15 minutes is kinda creepy, it’s the talk of glorious bastards. It’s insults and praise and more insults. It’s excuses, lies, wild boasts and self-evident observations. “How good is that road?” Bly asked me after an appropriate period of silence. “We were on it a bit,” I grinned. “Not the place for shit to go wrong,” he grinned back. “Nothing went wrong,” I sighed. “Everything went right.” “I almost died,” Bly observed. “Me too. I almost died when you almost died on that corner.” Bly nodded. “I could have gone faster.” “I could have passed you like a bitch. I just wanted to be there when you crashed so I could point and laugh,” I lied. “No phone reception out here.” “I don’t even have a first aid kit.” “But you do have whiskey?” Bly asked. “I always have whiskey,” I replied. “Want some?” And our isolation got even more splendid. [/mepr-show]

BEAR FACED THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS There I was, camping at Sleeping Bear Dunes. The main thing you need to know about this bit of Lake Michigan shoreline apart from the wonderful name is that it was named The Most Beautiful Place in America by ABC TV’s “Good Morning America”. Modesty compels me to state that the voting did not take place while I was there. Had this been otherwise, who knows; the dunes might have been named The Most Beautiful Place in the World.

WE LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU, the letters are among the most keenly read parts of the magazine. Pleasetry and keep letters down to no more than 300 words. Then you can read many, not just a couple. We do reserve the right to cut them and, unless you identify yourself and at least your town or suburb and state, we will print your email address instead. Please address letters to thebear@ausmotorcyclist.com.au or Australian Motorcyclist Magazine, PO Box 2066, Boronia Park NSW 2111. All opinions published here are those of the writers and we do not vouch for their accuracy or even their sanity!

HEAD SURFSIDE VIA THE WAY THE PIGEON FLIES – ULLADULLA TO BATEMANS BAY, NSW This month we head to the beach because as the temperatures start to warm up, there’s nothing better than cooling off in the surf after a dirty ride on the trails. This route takes you from the popular New South Wales surf side town of Ulladulla across and past Pigeon Mountain and down south to the even more popular Bate mans Bay.

HO, HO, HO! YOU GUESSED RIGHT; IT’S THAT TIME OF YEAR COMPILED BY STUART WOODBURY Yep, that time of year where Aussies and our good neighbours the Kiwis sweat their way through joyous Christmas days with plenty of good food and plenty of icy cold beer. And now buying a present for a motorcyclist has been made easy with our gift guide. We’ve scoured the world for goodies, and there is bound to be something to suit every budget and taste in the following pages. Enjoy!

 The Big Pic David Attenborough has argued that rather than consider an ant as an individual entity, it’s perfectly logical and sound to consider a complete ants’ nest as a single organism. For me, that also works for small towns where big smoke rules don’t apply: Rather than take a single pub as a standalone item and judge it harshly on its shortcomings, once the bigger picture of the surrounding nest is considered, the place can look a whole more inviting! I’ve found no place where this is more applicable than at Coober Pedy

CLASS DISTINCTION THE 2015 DISTINGUISHED GENTLEMAN’S RIDE WORDS/PHOTOS THE BEAR On Sunday the 27th of September, I donned my bow tie, dress shirt, sports coat, carefully ironed slacks and loafers and boarded the official Australian MOTORCYCLIST Magazine outfit. This fine conveyance took me to Sydney University, where thousands of other spiffily dressed gentlefolk were already displaying their own outstanding conveyances.