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   Laggan Pub Run

 

The word had past around, a ride was the order of the day. On Sunday 290701 fifteen or so intrepid thrill seekers lined up near Belmore Park, Goulburn. That's NSW folks, not to be confused with Goulburn Valley down Victoria way. The Scribe was left behind as he sought gas to power the mighty Road King. A smile was soon upon the Scribe's face when he rounded up a few geriatric Beemers on the road to Crookwell, known locally as Hootersville.
      The race was on as Turbo Kneebone kicked in the afterburners increasing to warp factor 10. I doubt whether Turbo observed the lines down the centre of the road, or the Highway Patrol hiding in the bushes near Crookwell. Crampster did his best to keep up by adopting the racing style of a snail on valium. Not to be outdone was Weekend Boy Racer, known by his friends as the Binda Senior Citizen as he cranked up the throttle on his Beemer.
      Corners became a blur as Rev Head Julie morphed into Wonder Woman with her right hand working overtime on the red Honda which became excited and vibrated into sheer power. Somewhere back in the pack Wazza was counting sheep as a VW with two crook cylinders left him in its exhaust. The Scribe powered down, the rumble of the Road King keeping chooks awake. Eventually the thrillseekers arrived at the Laggan Pub where even local dogs were asleep.
       Steam Engine Morris had the barbie roaring as he fired up the hot plate, Pam the Caterer dropped the sausages as Wazza took over the tongs and turned them into burnt offerings to be sacrificed in honour of another great ride. Classic Sue was in great form trying to entice the fellows into the bushes for a quick one to warm the soul. I think she meant to say the coffee was ready. Rev Head Jules pranced around flashing anyone who glanced in her direction, I hope she had the lens cap off.
       The Marquis of Thornford County was muttering something about not being able to steer straight when his head wobbled and being unable to keep it covered when he used it. On completion of a feast fit for a politician's official food taster, the thrillseekers packed up ready for the ride home. A vandal was observed jamming an empty stubby up Wazza's exhaust, the Beemer continued on without noticing.
        Turbo Kneebone blasted off into the stratosphere somewhere near Pejar, Air Traffic Control are at loggerheads as they argue about UFO's. The Scribe got lost in search of an appropriate receptacle to discharge the burnt offerings. On the journey home Classic Sue remembered where she could find a blow up doll for her next party.
         Yes folks it was one hell of a day where mates can forget about the chill of a winter ride and thoroughly enjoy themselves.
 
 
THE ABOVE STORY IS TRUE, THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO IDENTIFY THE GUILTY.
 
 
Peter Kenny      

 

Riding on Goulburn insert September Edition.

 

  I must send my sympathies to Editor Miller. Never have I seen evidence of a man receiving so many "Dear John" letters in his life and still remain balanced. One of those letters was penned by Rod Lewis. I don't know who you are mate, but it is pleasing to have a fan of my writing style. I also write for an American bike mag who appreciate my weird humour, they also pay me in real money, not Little Johnnies pesos. Oh, by the way, one of the Goulburn members rides a beemer with "HOG" on his number plate. The only Volvos I like are "Iced", they enhance the taste of coffee. 

    On a more serious note. During a recent ride one of our female members crested a hill and was met by a number of sheep on the other side. She managed to manoeuvre the bike to long soft grass before she came off. Fortunately injuries to bike and rider were light and she was able to climb on and continue after a settling of nerves. A lesson we all learnt was to be careful out there and be aware that "Stock on Road" signs can be placed some distance from where they should be, and farmers don't expect ageing bikers to be invading their road in the country.
    Goulburn group had their AGM in July and elected unopposed for another term was Don White president, John Morris secretary, Peter Kenny treasurer, scribe and publicity. Howard Kneebone takes over from Martin Smyles as vice president, John Marquette assumes the role of captain from Warren Brown. On behalf of the group I would like to thank Smylie and Brownie for their input.
    Before I endeth this lesson. I tasted the bitumen last June when a four wheeled tin topper decided a give way sign wasn't meant for him. I locked up the brakes and kissed the tar. Somewhere in my distant past the memory of a riding course did its job and I came away with a few bruises and aching in places I didn't know I had. After questioning whether the driver knew who his father was I continued on my way with a rather dented Road King. Thanks to fellow member, Warren Brown, the broken bits were replaced, and my boss straightened the twisted bits.
 
 
Peter Kenny. 

 

 

The time had come to seek new places

By Peter Kenny

        The time had come to seek new places, life's adventure had already taken me to every state of Australia by motorcycle, it was time to add to those memories. I felt the urge to visit the land of the free, of Mom's apple pie, and good old Uncle Sam.

        Twelve hours after departing a rain soaked Sydney, Qantas expelled me safely in Los Angeles. The warm sun struggling to compete with the smog that covered the city. Within a couple of hours I was on my way to Phoenix, Arizona where I was to pick up my rental bike. Unfortunately it was not a Harley, but a BMW, none the less I had two wheels to travel about on.

        Time was limited so I couldn't see all that Arizona offered, but not to be missed is the Grand Canyon, one of the most spectacular canyons in the world. Winding down to the Colorado River are a maze of tracks and, if you squint from the top, you can see the adventurous making their way to the bottom on mules, although some took the easy way by helicopter.

        Departing the canyon I followed the sentimental favourite, Route 66, which officially doesn't exist any more. The heat continued to blast the desert as I made my way towards New Mexico, with its sun-drenched mesas and dry river beds. New Mexico has its attractions, but I spent little time in this state. I was Colorado bound, chasing a dream ride over the Rocky Mountains.

        Colorado is a state of natural beauty, from the scenic Rockies to the dry flat plains. For a motorcycling tourist, Highway 550 from Durango to Silverton and on to Ouray is known as "The Million Dollar Highway", and it certainly was. The road traversed up and down, through a multitude of switchbacks, over snow covered passes and past elk grazing near frozen lakes with timber lodges on the shoreline. Under mighty eagles soaring through a cloudless sky.

        Descending from the pine forests, I rode through towns nestled deep between the mountains. At lower altitudes, the road made its way past farms and fast flowing rivers well stocked with tasty fish. After Highway 550 a right turn takes you onto Route 50 heading east towards Gunnison and Monach Pass. The summit dissects the clouds at 11,312 feet. Snow on both sides of the unfenced road made it impossible to stop for photography.

        Turning south and a quick jaunt through the north-east corner of New Mexico and I was in Texas. Crossing the Texas border, the town of Texline is a welcome interruption to escape the heat. In the Texas Panhandle the temperature rose to 110 F. Gusty cross winds, electrical storms, heavy rain and hail made it interesting for a while. A few miles to my north in Oklahoma, twisters were having a spinning good time.

        I passed through many towns well documented in western folk-lore. Amarillo, Sweetwater, Abilene and others that jumped out of dusty cowboy books. The arid landscape emitted an oil-stained aroma. The smell of money wafted around my nose. A couple of hours later, the smell of oil was replaced by the smell of beef. Green, lush grass in Central Texas was a pleasant change. Elm and cedar trees gave shade to fat cattle as they grazed contentedly out of the burning sun.

        Slow talking cowboys have long been the symbol of The Lone Star state. Although I saw many cowboys on horse back, even more were driving pick-up trucks. The horse-power may be different, but jeans, stetsons and cowboy boots were still in fashion.

        I decided to visit the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame museum in Waco. This is a fascinating place where you can spend a couple of hours and still miss something. On display were the weapons used by Billy The Kid and Sheriff Pat Garret who gunned him down on July 14th 1881, in New Mexico, the Kid was 21 years old. History informs us The Kid killed five men, legend states it is closer to twenty-one.

        The search for more information found me down near San Antonio, where Davy Crockett, Colonel Travis, and others took on the Mexicans at the Alamo. Moving further south, I arrived in Corpus Christi on the Gulf of Mexico where I found the USS Lexington, which served during WW II after being launched in 1942. She saw many battles and became an aviation training carrier after the war. The Lex was opened as a navel museum in 1992.

        On completion of one hell of a bloody good time, it was time to make the long trip west, towards Phoenix and Los Angeles. A Texas thunderstorm bade me farewell. I didn't mind one bit as I rode through heavy downpours minus wet weather gear. With the temperature soaring at 115 to 120 F it did not take long to dry out once I was passed the storm. On more than one occasion, dehydration was my travelling companion.

        Before long I was back in west Texas, the heat of the desert frying rattle-snakes on the highway. Towns of cowboy legend came in to view and faded in to the shimmering heat. Eldorado, Fort Stockton, Pecos and El Paso on the Mexican border. I had planned to cross into Mexico but the rental agreement on my bike would not allow it. So I sat on the US side of the Rio Grande and observed Mexico, eating an enchilada, drinking root beer, and listening to a Mexican radio station on my trusty and well travelled transistor radio.

         My journey through Colorado and the south-west of the USA covered 7000 miles and took eight weeks and at $1.25 per US gallon and less than $20.00 a night for accommodation, a very economical journey. Every where I went in rural America I found the people very friendly, although I learned a new version of sign language as I mastered riding on the wrong side of the road.

         Would I go back? You bet! There is still a lot of motorcycle roads in the US I want to ride on. If only the Australian dollar would improve to make it more affordable.

 

 

Peter Kenny.