How not to ride a SS1600

[Tabledrain]

How not to execute a Saddlesore 1600km.
You know those days when you bounce out of bed feeling like a bright eyed squirrel with a big flashy brushy tail and you are looking to get into mischief?
Yup, that was me at midnight as my trusty old FJR rolled along to the BP at Stapylton QLD to pull my starting receipt. I should have been on my GSA but I got beat up by an 8 by 6 box trailer a couple weeks earlier and couldn't bend my left knee for long periods, so the feej was used as it has pegs I can use to straighten my leg.
Completely unplanned, the receipt time was 0100:00 Friday 20 March 26. I kid you not. A sign from the road gods was my assessment, my weekend was going to be a roaring success and with the most certainty I have ever had since God invented circlips, me and the stock lights headed south, riding a plan double checked as I had no GPS and so, you know, added a bit to allow for speedo error.
Coffs rolled thru, fuel only, Heatherbrae, fuel again, into Pro Cycles in Hornsby for two pairs of Grip Puppies-currently unavailable in QLD. I'd spoken to the sales team the day before, the sale went smoothly, the receipt captured as a corner receipt and then into the traffic we went.
I really hate cities, like, if you could completely wipe out a city but leave the servos and ATMS intact, I think that would be a seriously happy win, my idea of over population is 1 person per acre. But we persevered, me and the Gen 1 fan working overtime, eventually connecting with the coast road to the 'gong and south to Moruya NSW, the southern most point of my days plan.
Moruya turned out to be pleasantly quiet, I sipped a cool drink, enjoyed a sandwich and with no particular rush required, enjoyed the scenery.
However distance is only ever covered if you are moving, so turning south, over the river, turning left, hang on, hang on, the other left - so turning right, the plan saw me riding through to Araluen, a small town, mostly uninhabited. The road through the valley is called the Araluen Rd, the National Park you travel through is called the Deua National Park  (I am happy to be corrected on that spelling). Its dirt, not serious dirt, but corrugated, sloped, angled, rutted in corners, some marbles, filled with the visions of valleys and mountains, farm gates and milk churn letter boxes. FJR's make decent dirt bikes so we slid and wobbled through simply enjoying being isolated and the peace and quiet – at 3000 rpm and 2nd and 3rd gear.
By now, in the late afternoon, the next to last fuel stop with documented receipt in Cowra faithfully recorded, the sun setting in my face, I meandered through the roads to Parkes and a final receipt in Parkes for near on 1700km for the day. My brushy tailed squirrel attitude was still intact, the last hour or so ridden in some of the darkest night I had ridden without Aux lights and then staying with family in Parkes was gold.
A quiet night with nephew and girlfriend, scritches on happy dogs, a shower and a solid sleep and then it was Saturday.
Parkes is a small town, its country. The Roasted Kombi coffee shop scouted by Kimmie served us well. The twenty or so of us that gathered there reconnected, the morning evaporating in ride stories from bad weather to closed freeways to perfect runs. I felt, sitting there, listening to these riders talk about their rides, that  I was fortunate to be here with them.

The day migrated to the local club, Crappy turned up with his cricket bat defying us to stop him knocking a six out of the dish. It seemed appropriate, it was appropriate, the dishes integral importance to the upcoming Artemis mission and the movies status in OZ brought it all together.
We gathered, discussed, enthusiasm in everyone's input to our version of an AGM.
But life called. I had a plane to catch out of Brisbane the following day. 900km away. So I bid farewell to his group of people that I admire, walked home to the nephews place and prepped for departure.
Hail was bouncing off the FJR as the panniers were packed. Thumb size stuff. Soft. Gearing up, bidding my goodbyes to family, the feej headed to the road for Dubbo.
It was rain and wind now, blowing blustery enough to slow progress to under the speed limit. But in one of those weather events we all ride through, the worst of it was done by Dubbo, by Gilgandra it was dry roads, no wind and a surreal atmosphere that is hard to explain all the way north to Goondiwindi and over the mountain to home.
We have all ridden through nights where you felt like the night belonged to you, like there was no other person in existence that could possibly feel this way. It's enough to make you stand up on the pegs gripping the tank with your knees, with your arms full wide and howling at the night. And so  I howled, helmet open, wind blasting past, stars and clouds and a weird blackness enveloping me.
Nights like this are only able to be described as spiritual, and even that is a poor descriptor.
Arriving home in the very early dawn light, FJR cooling in the shed, a coffee was brewed and with the house in silence,  I sat on the verandah and pondered my 2700-ish km weekend.
A couple weeks went by. I gathered the receipts proving my most definitely over the necessary km to secure Parkes Muster IBA certificate.
 
I submitted my ride, complete with Excel file proving I definitely rode 1700km to the muster. For whatever reason, google now told me i rode 995 miles....1601km, 9km short...

Missed by that much...But I actually don't care, the weekend on the bike was worth gold.

[Biggles]

How could THAT happen?  You did everything right, and missed by a measly 9 clicks.  Just don't seem fair.
But that's a nice stream-of-consciousness account, and as you philosophically recognise, that ride, capped by the inspiring night was what it was all about, not a certificate to file among the others ridden with less uplifting experiences.