There were four of us. Brum, Mick, Andy and me. All on big cruisers, two Chieftains and two Victorys, one behind the other, in no particular order and with an ever-changing leader.
And we were on it. Large,
Throttles pinned and faces set against the blast of the wind, our speed was as speedy as we could demand from the big twins – who, quite frankly like to meet those demands and have sweet spots over 140 it behoves their owners to explore.
Yes, we were riding fast.
On the empty open roads of the Territory it’s the only way to ride. If you were to ride at the inane posted speed limit of other states you would go mad. You would sail off into the desert, gibbering and foaming and exposing your genitals to the endless unforgiving sky. Then you would fall into the dirt and jackals would come for you in the night to crack the marrow from your crazy bones.
That was not going to happen to us.
The only thing that could possibly happen to us is that we would run out of petrol.
Oh, you get more than 300kms out of your tank? That’s nice. Ride at 180 for half-an-hour and see how that number changes.
So in addition to being all perky and zesty and hyper-aware because you’re going so fast, you’re also playing numbers games in your head. You stare at the fuel gauge far more than you stare at your speedo, because your speedo shows a constant speed and there’s really nothing more to see. Your fuel gauge, on the other hand, is an ever-changing vista.
You know the next fuel is 220km away. You know you’ve done 30km since the last one. And you know that at the speed you’re doing, you’re not going to make the next one, so at some stage, you’re going to have to back off a bit.
But will you un-man yourself and be the first?
The high-speed freight train jam is hugely addictive, and you never want to be the first to pull that syringe out of your vein. Best it be someone else. Let another man cry “Hold! Enough!” and button off before you do.
And really, it’s not a decision that has to be made until the fuel light comes on and the sign that tells you there are maybe 50 or 60kms to go flashes past. Or do you draw upon your rat-cunning and ease off the throttle now, let them get ahead laughing at your piddly little man-stones at how you could not maintain the pace, only to have you charge through them 20kms from the finish when they’ve had to decelerate or push the bike the last few kays into town?
Decisions, decisions.
What wonderful things they are. Especially the ones made at high speed out in the desert where all the best decisions are made. Out where your life hangs precariously poised in the balance between the whim of the Road Gods and whatever skill you’ve managed to accrue in your years on the road. Out where speed is actually a salvation and a redemption, and a lens through which you see things in precise detail, and where nothing else on earth matters except speed for the sake of it – and making the next petrol stop.
There is a focused clarity to this kind of riding. It’s different to carving hard bends, flipping the bike from side to side and trying to out-brake your mate. Long-term speed over big distances demands its own concentration and delivers its own reward. It’s not over and done in a few corners or over a piddly 100kms. It’s done over 600 and 700 and 800kms. The visual cycle of checking your mirrors for the familiar silhouettes of your mates’ bikes (or sitting off the track of the rider in front just so – not too close, not too far), keeping a close watch on the fuel gauge, scanning the country far ahead and far to each side, while keeping the throttle unremittingly pinned, as the kilometres are hammered over and over and over, is like entering some divine stasis.
The organs that jism goodness into your brain will have jismed themselves silly, and provided more serotonin than they ever knew they could make. But you’re body’s good like that. You need it, and it will do its level best to keep feeding it to you, calling on primal reserves from the days we hunted swamp bears with pointed sticks.
It takes a day, or maybe even three or four days of constant and relentless application of such speed before your mind is set right.
And then, when it’s done, you’ll end up on a very special high.
The beer you drink that night will taste better than any beer you’ve ever had. The steak you eat will fill the space behind your face with flavours untasted since we herded mammoths off cliffs and danced around fires smeared in their blood.
You should try it some time.
It’s highly recommended for what ails you.
Words by Boris Mihailovic