Is that thing diesel? by Paul Carter

Author:Paul Carter [Carter, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2010-03-10T14:00:00+00:00

Bags packed, our laundry done, a decent breakfast, the bill paid: it was time to depart Melbourne and make for Sydney via Canberra.

‘All set, mate.’ Eddie looked and sounded like he hadn’t even sniffed a drink last night. Bastard. Dan looked the opposite, just like I did. I filled up the bike, pulling the hose through the little flap on the side and flicking on the fuel pump; the smell made me gag.

‘What was all that pirate talk about last night?’ asked Dan. ‘I called you to see if you guys wanted to join me and all I got was “Arrr this” and “the Black Spur that”.’

‘BEWARE THE BLACK SPUR,’ yelled Eddie from the cab. I shot him a smile. ‘Pauli spent the night in the truck, it smells like a brewery in here,’ said Eddie.

Dan looked puzzled. ‘What happened?’

Eddie described my drunken mission to rescue the truck from some taggers.

Dan looked at me. ‘It’s still parked in the same spot.’

‘Not quite.’ Eddie pointed at the front left side. ‘He managed to shift it all of five feet into that streetlight.’ Dan walked around to the other side and started laughing.

Not too much damage, just a dented ego.

The rain started as we pulled off and kept on going for the rest of the day. My head was thumping in perfect time with Betty’s donk. I sat behind the truck for ages, riding on autopilot, until we hit Healesville. Whap, whap, whap. Sports bikes blasted past us as we began to climb. This must be the start of the dreaded Betty-crushing Black Spur, I thought.

Eddie swiftly confirmed this over the two-way. ‘THE BLACK SPUR,’ he announced. ‘You’re never gonna make it, sucka.’ I overtook the truck and put-putted into the most amazing high country forest. Two brand spanking KTMs pulled alongside and Betty got the once-over. There was some pointing, lots of laughing, then they barked the engines, down a gear on the throttle, front wheels effortlessly airborne—wankers—and off up the straight on the balance point through the gearbox.

I couldn’t do that; I just didn’t have the power or the gearbox. But I could enjoy the scenery, hairpin after hairpin straight up into the Yarra Ranges. Betty was doing about twenty kilometres an hour, much to the annoyance of all the cars behind me, but there was nowhere to pull over with any degree of safety.

The ride down the other side was a joy, all the same swervery but no longer underpowered so I could finally keep up with all the other bikes enjoying the run. The KTM duo were stuck behind a caravan, deep in conversation, doing twenty. I thumped past, rushing a really silly overtake on the apex of a right hander—no oncoming traffic but an overhanging tree nearly took my head off. Don’t look back, just hold her wide open and go.

The game was on. I caught flashes of their headlights in my mirrors; Betty’s footpegs touched bitumen for the first time. I rode as hard and fast as the bike would let me.

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