From the Library

[Biggles]

As I twisted the throttle to get more fuel through the injectors I had to pull on the front brake to stop from lurching forward. Then it hit me, the most amazing aroma of cooking oil. It was an unmistakable food smell, a combination of fish 'n' chips and greasy fry-up. I turned in the saddle and looked down at the light grey smoke puffing in time with the engine's KA DONK, KA DONK, KA DONK.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p75

[Biggles]

Practice makes perfect, provided of course you have the right parts. I drilled myself over and over again changing tyres, chains, sprockets, filters, the whole lot. 
Betty and I went for ever-longer rides from Perth. I was getting to know her, and discovering that many of her character traits were- how can I put this?- less than ideal. Betty was loud, so loud people walking down the street 50 yards away would turn to see what was making that bizarre noise. This was often followed by an open-mouthed stare and the question: "Mate, is that thing a diesel?" Riding Betty past a group of people waiting roadside for a bus was a cringe-making, loud, smelly and smoky experience; the combination of her rank green colour, noise and exhaust fumes was as repellent as you could imagine.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p105-6

[Biggles]

I stood in the little examination room staring at the eye chart on the opposite wall and nervously hopping from toe to toe while the doctor sauntered in and casually closed the door, regarding me with a whimsical look. "Right, you've got an insect in your ear then."
I twitched, my eyes big and crazy. I closed the gap between us, put both hands on his shoulders. "Get it out, for God's sake."
He straightened up instantly, all humour gone. "Don't worry, Mr Carter. Over to the bed and sit down, please." I leaped onto the bed. "Call me Paul. Just get it out, Doc!" He produced one of those black trumpet-shaped scope things with the little light, pulled down on my lobe and poked in the scope. As his head drew close to the lens he jerked back.
"Whoa," was all I heard.
"What the stuff is it?" I asked.
He put down the scope. "Well, there's a big cockroach in there, but don't worry, first we're going to drown him with oil, then we can remove him."
"Whaddya mean drown him? It doesn't need to look like an accident- why don't you send in a hit man? Drown him in oil, what do you mean in oil? I work in oil. What kind of oil? Why muck about with a drowning? Just use a gun- even better, there's a meat skewer back at the house. I was raving, but he was already gone. I sat there for what seemed like forever. My new friend, sensing he was in real trouble, began scratching around even harder. The doc came back with a giant turkey baster full of warm vegetable oil. He had to sit on my head to keep me still while a nurse squirted the oil into my ear. The roach went into his death throes while he slowly suffocated. The doc held on while I screamed and bucked wildly. The nurse held the examination bed down while the doc enjoyed his first human-head rodeo; he rode for the full eight seconds before dismounting and straightening out his hair. I lay there twitching in unison with my newly drowned friend.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p120-1

[Biggles]

We ascended through the Madura Pass at nightfall, with rain still falling hard, and pulled up at the motel there. "Try the quiche, it's really good," said the motel manager as I checked us in. I glanced over to the driveway; Clare was waking up in the cab outside. The manager was a big man with a shaved head, a goatee and a lazy eye. On a night like this one, my first impression was that he had probably just finished digging three shallow graves out in the bush in anticipation of our arrival. It didn't help that the motel was a big spread-out complex at the base of the pass.
Other than us and the manager, it appeared to be totally empty. Our room was at the end of a wing that stretched into darkness. "This place is creepy," said Clare, looking through the rain as lightning lit up the wet landscape. We unloaded our bags and ran back to the main building for something to eat. The motel manager was there. "Try the quiche," he grinned. "It's really good." We sat there in the restaurant alone, not another soul in there. "This place is like an Aussie Bates Motel," I whispered. Clare looked worried and put on Lola's bib. "He's scary," she said.
"Are you going to have the quiche? Apparently it's really good." She pulled a face. The manager returned a moment later with a pad. "I'll have the quiche," I said, smiling at Clare. Clare had a salad and Lola demolished a big piece of fish.
The quiche was horrible, our night was long, the door had a flimsy lock on it, and Clare was convinced the motel manager was going to burst through the door and hack us up with a fire axe. She was ready to pile up the furniture against the door, but in the end the night was uneventful. The manager was in fact a perfect gentleman with a dry sense of humour and bad taste in quiche.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p122-4

[Biggles]

Our first night's stop was due to be Mount Gambier via Keith. My initial joy at finally being on the road was ephemeral to say the least. The first thing that hit gain- was how slow Betty was. The second thing that hit me- on a highway surrounded by trucks- was the shockwave of wind right after each truck has shot past. My hands were totally numb from the vibrations coming through the bars. Now that's a weird feeling: you know you're holding onto the handlebars, you just can't feel it.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p129

[Biggles]

They could not understand why this guy on a big motorcycle was only doing 80 kilometres per hour. I was in the slow lane, where you can legally do 80, but this just wasn't good enough for the average mild-mannered motorist, most of whom simply defaulted to giving me the finger and/or a verbal serve on passing. I'd had enough, so we turned off the coastal route at Lavers Hill, heading northeast. This country was much better for an underpowered bike. Betty cruised over the Otway Ranges through some really pretty country. The sun came out, the road traffic was light and I started enjoy myself- that is, until the sun went down and we hit the Princes Highway. 
Back to the road rage and abuse- again with the hand gestures- from fast-moving cars; trucks blew by threatening to suck me from the handlebars. It was impatient driving at its worst. One bloke even threw a kebab at me.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p131-2

[Biggles]

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.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p140

[Biggles]

In the morning Eddie got up early and fixed us a full cooked breakfast. Dan wanted to go for a ride to get some shots, so he jumped on the back of Betty again. We plodded through a few paddocks, cresting a big hill to pull up right in front of the biggest bull I've ever seen. He was magnificent. It looked like someone had stretched a hide over a drooling city bus.
The big beast blew snot out of nostrils you could fit a fist in. 'OK mate, we've seen the giant bull, let's move on,' Dan said nervously.
The bull turned and started walking towards us.
"Pauli, let's go, c'mon mate," Dan said. I pulled off very slowly. Dan didn't think it was funny.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p149

[Biggles]

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 bike would let me. We duelled, always within our lanes, measured, experienced fun, ripping through turn after turn, the bikes well over, jittery on the lean from the leaf litter on the roadside, into the centre line and back, always thinking ahead, always looking towards the exit point and the next setup. No looking back, or they'd know I was trying, no glancing down at gauges or mirrors. We were flying. 
At the first straight section we came to the duo pulled up, one on either side of me. I was hopelessly out-gunned, out-wheelied and out-braked. We rode on, three in a row down the straight, no hard-faced manly nods or piss taking, just big happy grins.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p141

[Biggles]

Rory had obviously done this kind of thing before [made custom leathers]. He talked easily to the camera, he spoke well and knew exactly what he was talking about. He described the ideal fit of a riding suit for professional racers and amateurs, and explained the difference from a rider's point of view in the different suit designs as well as different types of leather.
"Right Paul, if you could hold out your arms like said." I did as I was told, and Rory started taking my measurements, then entering them into his laptop. I was rather enjoying the whole thing, until Rory got to the crotch measurement. "OK, Paul, I need to get the tape directly on the skin here, so I'll need you to hop out of your jeans." There was a pause while my mind raced for an answer.
Rory grinned. "You're not wearing underwear, are you?" I shook my head. Dan looked up from the camera.
"Mate, who goes to a racing suit fitting jockless?" I tried to look penitent.
"Sorry, guys. I've been on the road and just ran out of clean undies."
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p156-7

[Biggles]

Stage three was a straight run up the Pacific Highway through Newcastle with a brief detour through Bucketts Way. It's a popular run for riders. Some parts of the road are not so great to ride on but at my speed and with all the vibration it didn't really make any difference. We meandered along with the Karuah River past wide paddocks and shaded forest, then turned left at Gloucester and on to Nabiac and the National Motorcycle Museum.
Our stop for the night was a small house in a paddock directly behind the museum. As usual we arrived late. Dad and Phil had spent the day on the road chatting and both looked tired, so Dan and I wandered over to the main entrance of the museum in the dark. A massive bike was displayed out the front. Dan lit up the camera, and its beam cut through the pitch-black interior, bouncing off hundreds of neatly lined up, polished handlebars. "Wow." It was an Aladdin's cave in there. I was like a drooling kid outside a toy store window at Christmas. I pushed on the door as if somehow by magic it would open and automatically all the lights would come on, beaming me through the looking glass and into Bike Nirvana.
The door of course remained locked, so I had to wait till morning, but as soon as the museum opened, I was there hopping about like a cartoon rabbit ready to spend my morning soaking up bikes, bikes, more bikes, bike stuff, bike trivia- bike everything. The place didn't disappoint. I have never seen so many bikes in one place.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p162-3

[Biggles]

By mid-morning we had crossed over into Queensland. By then we were back on the Pacific Highway and I was back to feeling silly each time a big, ballsy, hairy-armed biker sidled up for a look. As I sat in my upright bio-fuel typing-pool riding position, hairy-armed bikers glanced over at me with a mixture of pity and amusement. 
Seated astride their Harleys in that laid-back, reading-the-weekend-paper-in-the-armchair position they travel past me effortlessly, their bikes sounding like several howitzers going off in unison. Even when bankers, lawyers and brain surgeons skip a weekend shave, get up early, saunter into the garage and throw a leg over their Harley, they get that face on, that look-at-my-bad-arsed-substance face. When they go past me, I can practically hear what they're thinking: "I'm cool today baby, but next to this thing I'm really cool. Hey, I think it's a diesel." I knew that for the entire ride I was never going to bump into another twat riding an irrigation pump. I was never going to go fast enough for anyone to want to ride with me, unless I befriended a retired biker in a cart. I was never going to hear someone say, "Hey, you have a slow bio-diesel Frankenstein special, so do I- let's be friends."
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p165-6

[Biggles]

We met John Lloyd, an old Air Force flying mate of Dad's, and his wife Glenda. John's a great guy; I ran into him at the Brisbane Writers' Festival last year. He had me in stitches with stories about Dad, and told me lots of things I didn't know about him. John's memories of those days, long before I was born, were clear as a bell, and by the end of the night I started to look at my father in a new light, like a veil had been lifted. They were like two young blokes again, bouncing off each other, laughing. I hope Erwin and I will be like that in years to come.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p166

[Biggles]

Roma was the goal; Roma was a place to rest for the night. I focused on the road ahead, and forced myself to pay attention. You live inside your helmet on a long-distance ride, but it becomes Wally World after a while. You drift, way off into other times, other places. While I rode I made lists, thought about tits, planned extensions to my house. I thought about the past a lot, revisiting childhood streets and alleyways in Scotland, like a morbid Google Earth. I jumped forward and backward through my past, made lists of people I wanted to catch up with, then crossed off the ones who were dead.
The problem is, it you let your brain box wander. your bike will eventually follow, likely straight into an oncoming road train. Rule of thumb, as I was repeatedly told by mates who know, guys who are long-distance riders: expect the worst, plan for the worst, and know yourself before you go.
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p170-1

[Biggles]

There are countless disadvantages to riding an experimental bike like Betty around Australia, lack of power being paramount. Close behind is the lack of comfort- the vibrations had my arms feeling like they had just come from the dentist; I kept dropping things- and at this point, the lack of spares. We were down to the last CVT belt, and Roma was about 80 k's away. I waved to Geoff and took off, praying to the god of spare parts that my drive belts would turn up safely in Roma, all the way from Mexico.
Soon after Jackson, the road up ahead changed colour. I call that colour "Hint of Death"; its not quite brown, more of a reddish-brown mix. If this stretch of highway on my map was scratch-'n-sniff, then most people would vomit when looking at it on the way through Queensland. Plus, it looked like I was about to cross the frontline into some kangaroo civil war; littering the road before me were hundreds of stinking smashed carcasses in various stages of decomposition, from just splattered to bleached skeletons. I could smell it before I could see it, that rotting stink. Everyone else on the road was moving fast enough to rip through the pong before it made them gag- for other riders sitting on 130 kph it was just a matter of picking your way through the carnage and missing a breath. For me it was half a dozen breath mints and a prayer to the CVT belt: "Don't fail me now."
Is That Thing Diesel?  Paul Carter p172-3