I was back in Australia to ride Yamaha’s new R1 at the Eastern Creek racetrack with the world’s press. (Photo: Neale Bayly) » More Photos
Two days later at the Peach residence we were preparing for our trip. I had scored a new FZ1 from Yamaha Australia, and we decided on a bag, a toothbrush, and a comb, with a set of fresh underwear, camera, notebook and Dave’s cell phone thrown in for logistical support. “She’ll be right for a coupla days mate” was the good word from Dave. Powering through the Sydney suburbs, me on a Yamaha 1000, Dave on his MV Agusta 750, history was repeating itself as he pointed out things I should remember. Not much was instantly recognizable I’m afraid, although there was a pleasant familiarity to the landscape.
Exiting the city and roaring up the road in tandem the adventure had begun. We soon picked up the old Pacific Highway, affectionately known as the “Old Road”, where we were forced to a slow pace by fresh gravel. About 25 km’s later, we stopped at the famous Road Warrior Café for some refreshment. Here, sitting in the shade of the old Gum tree (sorry! couldn’t resist), Dave lamented the state of one of the city’s finer pieces of motorcycling real estate.
Back in the saddle, all sorts of delicious,
weird-looking vegetation lined the road, and it would have been a delight if it weren’t for the gravel. Eventually smoothing out, Kulnura became Bucketty and then Wollombi as we pulled over at an old Convict’s bridge for photos. Next town was Kurri Kurri, birthplace of Casey Stoner for you GP fans, and it was just so stinking hot the bikes automatically swerved into the oldest pub in town, the Kurri Inn. As we were parking, Nikka shuffled slowly out of the bar. Heavy set, with the de-rigueur Aussie singlet, shorts, and flip-flops, his mullet and tattoos spelled biker. “Oath mate, that’s a beautiful Ducati. I used to have a Hailwood Replica, but I gotta Harley now,” he proudly informed me. The condensation on the schooner welded to his right hand told me it was cold, and I tried to lick my parched lips to correct him. Not succeeding, and with the stream of sweat rolling down the inside of my jacket turning into a river, I motioned to carry on the conversation inside.
