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#11
LD Ride Reports / How not to ride a SS1600
Last post by Tabledrain - Apr 13, 2026, 07:08 AMHow 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.
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.
#12
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 12, 2026, 10:21 AMIt was time to see if I could drive the bike with a cast on my leg. The cast had a small heel built into it so I could use that for pushing on the pedal for the rear brake. My toes stuck out the front so I put a sock over the cast. I had to make a slit up my blue jeans to get them over the cast. With the aid of crutches I got to the motorcycle. I attached the crutches to the sissy bar with all the other stuff using bungee cords. I got on the bike, kicked over the engine and away I went. It worked really well for a while. I must've looked like a wounded refugee on motorcycle, cast, crutches, and floppy jeans but I was putting some miles on the bike.
Probably about 10 miles. I heard some clanking noises from the housing below the engine. Then I heard a snap. The secondary chain broke. I had enough momentum to pull into a gas station. The gas station was more of a repair garage. It had a couple of bays with cars on the lift and people working on them.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p115-6
Probably about 10 miles. I heard some clanking noises from the housing below the engine. Then I heard a snap. The secondary chain broke. I had enough momentum to pull into a gas station. The gas station was more of a repair garage. It had a couple of bays with cars on the lift and people working on them.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p115-6
#13
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 11, 2026, 07:23 AMThere was a park on the right side of the road and a car pulling out of the park exit. It looked like a white, long, old Ford. It was filled with people and lumbering its way onto the road. There wasn't any traffic on the road except for us. He started his left hand turn to get on the other side of the road and continued his short but slow turn. I was pretty close to him but he still had plenty of time to make his turn. That's when he stopped.
His big old car was covering the whole right side of the road and came to a complete halt. Once again time slowed down to make a decision. I didn't have enough time or distance to go around in front of him. Nor did I know if he would step on the gas and I would wind up T-boning the car. The only choice I had was trying to get round the back of his car without hitting the dirt shoulder and dumping the bike doing 50 mph. I was closing in fast and I went to the right and hoped that I wouldn't hit him or the shoulder. Well, I hit him and the shoulder.
It was a glancing blow off the bike and to his rear bumper. That part of the bike had a foot peg with my foot on it. The hit threw the rear end sideways onto stones on the shoulder. I kept the bike from falling somehow but kept going from one side of the shoulder to the other until I managed to get it back on the road and stabilize the ride. I was almost to the top of the hill when I could finally stop. I looked up and I was about 20 feet away from a hitchhiker. He must've witnessed my entire daredevil, Evil Knievel ride.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p109-10
His big old car was covering the whole right side of the road and came to a complete halt. Once again time slowed down to make a decision. I didn't have enough time or distance to go around in front of him. Nor did I know if he would step on the gas and I would wind up T-boning the car. The only choice I had was trying to get round the back of his car without hitting the dirt shoulder and dumping the bike doing 50 mph. I was closing in fast and I went to the right and hoped that I wouldn't hit him or the shoulder. Well, I hit him and the shoulder.
It was a glancing blow off the bike and to his rear bumper. That part of the bike had a foot peg with my foot on it. The hit threw the rear end sideways onto stones on the shoulder. I kept the bike from falling somehow but kept going from one side of the shoulder to the other until I managed to get it back on the road and stabilize the ride. I was almost to the top of the hill when I could finally stop. I looked up and I was about 20 feet away from a hitchhiker. He must've witnessed my entire daredevil, Evil Knievel ride.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p109-10
#14
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 10, 2026, 08:23 AMSomewhere around Moose Jaw I caught up with a motorcycle pack going east along what I call Maple Leaf 1. I never rode with more than three or four other bikes. At the end of the pack was a single motorcycle and I drove alongside him and nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders and with my face gesturing, presenting the question: Is it okay to ride with the group? He shrugged his shoulders and gave me the yes gesture. Just like that I was part of the pack. There were a dozen or so motorcycles claiming authority over a half-mile stretch of the highway. A pack like this creates enough thunder to turn heads as you pass by or stop for a red light.
You have the feeling of being part of a powerhouse that is questionably legal. I was allowed into this group without initiation. Like robbing a bank or letting my girlfriend, if I had one, ride with the leadership for a few months. Actually, the group started with a half a dozen bikes and picked up more stragglers like me as they continued their journey.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p105
You have the feeling of being part of a powerhouse that is questionably legal. I was allowed into this group without initiation. Like robbing a bank or letting my girlfriend, if I had one, ride with the leadership for a few months. Actually, the group started with a half a dozen bikes and picked up more stragglers like me as they continued their journey.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p105
#15
All Events Calendar / FarRoad Tasmania - Swansea
Last post by Taffey - Apr 09, 2026, 11:02 AMEast Coast Lines
Some rides are about remoteness.
Some are about rhythm.
Swansea is the latter.
On 9 May, FarRoad heads to Tasmania's east coast. The Eastern Coast offers long coastal sweepers, measured elevation changes, and that rare combination of ocean light and open road that riders will find rewarding.
Positioned between sea and farmland, it draws riders north and south along one of the cleanest stretches of sealed road in the country. It is accessible without being trivial.
This ride finishes at Bark Mill Tavern and is coordinated locally by Carsten.
Ride Options
• iRode 1000 – 1,000 km in 24 hours
• iRode 1250 – 1,250 km in 24 hours
• iRode 805/12 – 805 km in 12 hours
• iRode my way – Ride rule free
Check-in window:
12:00pm to 12:30pm (local time)
Swansea in May brings cool air and lower traffic volumes. Ideal conditions for long-distance riding.
Plan deliberately.
Ride cleanly.
Finish well.
FarRoad.
If you intend to participate in this FarRoad ride, please DM Carsten so he knows to expect you. Those seeking recognition under other frameworks must register separately.
Some rides are about remoteness.
Some are about rhythm.
Swansea is the latter.
On 9 May, FarRoad heads to Tasmania's east coast. The Eastern Coast offers long coastal sweepers, measured elevation changes, and that rare combination of ocean light and open road that riders will find rewarding.
Positioned between sea and farmland, it draws riders north and south along one of the cleanest stretches of sealed road in the country. It is accessible without being trivial.
This ride finishes at Bark Mill Tavern and is coordinated locally by Carsten.
Ride Options
• iRode 1000 – 1,000 km in 24 hours
• iRode 1250 – 1,250 km in 24 hours
• iRode 805/12 – 805 km in 12 hours
• iRode my way – Ride rule free
Check-in window:
12:00pm to 12:30pm (local time)
Swansea in May brings cool air and lower traffic volumes. Ideal conditions for long-distance riding.
Plan deliberately.
Ride cleanly.
Finish well.
FarRoad.
If you intend to participate in this FarRoad ride, please DM Carsten so he knows to expect you. Those seeking recognition under other frameworks must register separately.
#16
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 09, 2026, 02:13 AMAnother event worth mentioning was the ticket I was issued in Washington State for not wearing a helmet while driving a motorcycle. Every state has different laws about wearing helmets. I dropped my bike often enough to always wear a helmet while driving a motorcycle unless it was 110° in the desert. The officer caught me in a state of unawareness and issued me a ticket. After I made it home and had been in college for a few months, I got a letter in the mail from Washington State informing me that I hadn't paid the ticket. They were right, I had not. I had good intentions but at the time I was in college without any income besides the G.I. bill. I received a few more letters without a threat to my license. Evidently there is no reciprocity between Pennsylvania and Washington. Finally they sent me a letter stating that my driving privileges in the state of Washington were revoked. I guess I'll always have to avoid driving through Washington State.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p94-5
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p94-5
#17
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 08, 2026, 02:35 AMI was having fun. As I approached one of the curves, which was a blind curve, all of a sudden a tractor-trailer cab coming the other way passed me on my left.
Following behind it was a large flatbed filled with redwood logs piled high. I was already into the blind curve and the cab passed me. I was looking at a very large flatbed and large trees charging at me with no place to go. This all happened in less than a second.
Perhaps you've had a similar experience when time slowed your mind speeded up the factors that were about to happen. I figured that if I went forward any further I would be run over by the attacking flatbed. The same would happen if I dumped the bike to the left. To my right was a sheer vertical hillside of dirt that would not allow me to dump the bike. All these options lead to death. I was about to die. Actually, I was okay with that.
What really happened without thinking was just instinctive. I leaned to the right and because the dirt was soft enough and I was going at the right speed, the hillside stopped the motorcycle without going another inch.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p90
Following behind it was a large flatbed filled with redwood logs piled high. I was already into the blind curve and the cab passed me. I was looking at a very large flatbed and large trees charging at me with no place to go. This all happened in less than a second.
Perhaps you've had a similar experience when time slowed your mind speeded up the factors that were about to happen. I figured that if I went forward any further I would be run over by the attacking flatbed. The same would happen if I dumped the bike to the left. To my right was a sheer vertical hillside of dirt that would not allow me to dump the bike. All these options lead to death. I was about to die. Actually, I was okay with that.
What really happened without thinking was just instinctive. I leaned to the right and because the dirt was soft enough and I was going at the right speed, the hillside stopped the motorcycle without going another inch.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p90
#18
General Discussion / Re: From Beyond the Library
Last post by Taffey - Apr 07, 2026, 05:02 AMQuote from: ZigZag on Mar 02, 2026, 09:08 AMIt's a broad church here FIXA. Feel free to contribute your own stories if you want.
Offending remark was removed and the contributor asked to show a little more civility.
Cheers
Taff
#19
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 07, 2026, 12:26 AMWhile heading back from San Francisco I was pulled over by Police in Oakland. After a show of the twirling lights on the roof of the Police car, I pulled over. I don't remember the reason they pulled me over except it had something to do with my license plate. I had a bad feeling about this because I never went for my motorcycle license test in Pennsylvania. I had a permit but it had expired a while ago. They exited the car and came over to meet me and asked for my license and registration and insurance card. The blinking lights drew a small crowd of black kids who were playing on the sidewalk.
The Police looked over my cards and examined them carefully. I tried to look casual while they circled around my motorcycle a few times. Evidently they don't require a motorcycle stamp on the driver license as they do in Pennsylvania. They found no fault with the paperwork. One cop walked back to the Police car, about 30 feet behind me, and told me to get back on the motorcycle. He then told me to look in my rearview mirror and asked me what his badge number was. If that wasn't entrapment I don't know what would be. I don't have eagle eyes. Fortunately by that time the kids were sensing a vehicle stop with the beginning of harassment. They got a little louder and I heard them remark with some phrases like, "He didn't do nothing," "Leave him go," "Wadda you doin?" I heard the word pig mentioned a few times.
The Police must have thought better of continuing the vehicle stop and got into the car after handing back my paperwork, and left the escalating scene. I got on my bike, gave the kids a thank you nod, and off I went.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p71-2
The Police looked over my cards and examined them carefully. I tried to look casual while they circled around my motorcycle a few times. Evidently they don't require a motorcycle stamp on the driver license as they do in Pennsylvania. They found no fault with the paperwork. One cop walked back to the Police car, about 30 feet behind me, and told me to get back on the motorcycle. He then told me to look in my rearview mirror and asked me what his badge number was. If that wasn't entrapment I don't know what would be. I don't have eagle eyes. Fortunately by that time the kids were sensing a vehicle stop with the beginning of harassment. They got a little louder and I heard them remark with some phrases like, "He didn't do nothing," "Leave him go," "Wadda you doin?" I heard the word pig mentioned a few times.
The Police must have thought better of continuing the vehicle stop and got into the car after handing back my paperwork, and left the escalating scene. I got on my bike, gave the kids a thank you nod, and off I went.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p71-2
#20
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Apr 06, 2026, 12:29 PMI was at a remote crossroads in the middle of Nebraska. It was a wooded area and I planned wait until a vehicle appeared to see if I could get help. It wasn't too long before a truck with a flatbed and several motorcycles on the bed halted at the stop sign. I quickly ran over to the truck to ask it he could help out with my dire situation. One of the bikes on the truck was a Triumph. Norton and Triumph, both English bikes, have interchangeable parts. I asked if he had a spare clutch and throttle cable, and he did. Now I wonder if reading this, you think I am making this up. What are the probabilities of spare parts for an unusual motorcycle finding their way to the middle of Nebraska at this exact time? Very, very, very remote. I like the word dubious. We fixed the bike. I gave him a few bucks for the parts and away I went. Sometimes you get very, very, very lucky.
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p27
Those Were The Days Edward Walls p27