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#51
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Mar 02, 2026, 03:07 AMComing off the Keys, I missed the turn for Highway 997, to go back through Homestead and on up Highway 27. Neither of us noticed; we were just following the crowd. I knew something was wrong when I saw a road sign out of the corner of my eye that mentioned Miami, but I didn't notice the mileage. The next thing I saw was the Miami skyline. The traffic was picking up in volume and speed by the second. All of a sudden, the road had gone from two lanes to four. Now I'm on an eight-lane road, surrounded by cars and trucks running at seventy miles per hour. I had only experienced this type of traffic in a car a couple of times and found it scary. On the Goldwing, it was just plain terrifying. I had no idea what road this was, or where it was going. I just knew we had to get the hell off as soon as I could get the Wing safely in the far right-hand lane. This was not going to be quickly accomplished. The speed kept increasing, and cars were changing lanes with reckless abandon.
I am not an overly religious person, but I promised God if he would just let us live through this I would never come back to this place again. I knew we had to get off and head due west. If we could do that, eventually we would run into Highway 27.
After twenty or thirty terrifying minutes, I see an exit for a county road that heads west. I don't care how far west it runs. At this point, I just know it will get me off suicide alley and get me heading west. I hit full throttle, make a couple of moves, and make it to the exit lane. At the bottom of the exit is a stop light.
Stopping the bike for just a few seconds was a welcome relief. Marguerite and I had both worked up a sweat. The light changed and I made my left turn, heading west.
Winging It Marguerite & William Spicer p29
I am not an overly religious person, but I promised God if he would just let us live through this I would never come back to this place again. I knew we had to get off and head due west. If we could do that, eventually we would run into Highway 27.
After twenty or thirty terrifying minutes, I see an exit for a county road that heads west. I don't care how far west it runs. At this point, I just know it will get me off suicide alley and get me heading west. I hit full throttle, make a couple of moves, and make it to the exit lane. At the bottom of the exit is a stop light.
Stopping the bike for just a few seconds was a welcome relief. Marguerite and I had both worked up a sweat. The light changed and I made my left turn, heading west.
Winging It Marguerite & William Spicer p29
#52
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Mar 01, 2026, 10:44 AMWhen I returned from taking Tom home, I needed to find a place to park the Wing. We didn't have a garage so I parked the bike in our carport, in the space where my pickup normally sat. I did not want to leave it outside. Our house had a double front door and a large living room. Since Marguerite would be in Omaha for some time to come, and my son and I were the only ones home, I decided to park the Wing in the living room, right in front of the fireplace. As I rolled the Wing through the double doors onto the carpet, the words of my friend who told me to get a Goldwing, ran through my head. "They don't leak and they don't break." It took a little manoeuvring, but I finally got the Wing settled into a position and dropped the kickstand. A Goldwing looks a lot bigger sitting in your living room, than it does outside!
I found myself strangely tired, so I went to the kitchen and mixed myself a large drink. I returned to the living room, sat in my easy chair, stared at the Wing, and thought about what I had just done.
Winging It Marguerite & William Spicer p11
I found myself strangely tired, so I went to the kitchen and mixed myself a large drink. I returned to the living room, sat in my easy chair, stared at the Wing, and thought about what I had just done.
Winging It Marguerite & William Spicer p11
#53
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 28, 2026, 01:00 PMVictoria should be proud of itself. It has created the single most boring road in all of creation and stocked it with police cyborgs. I saw four different patrol cars taxing motorists for exceeding the 110 km/h limit on a road one could do 200 km/h on with absolute confidence. It's a road I have done 200 km/h on. It used to be the road you made up time on during your trip to Melbourne by putting your head down, your bum up, and aiming for the horizon with the throttle nailed to the stop. It was the done thing.
But not anymore. Now it's just a magically eternal cash register for the government.
But I grinned, I bore it, I agreed with Jon Bon Jovi that there should be no silent prayer for the faith-departed, and then I turned off the Hume at Euroa. The Merton Gap warmed the edge of my tyres, Marc Bolan informed me that Telegram Sam was my main man, and I pulled up outside the Country Club Hotel in Yea right on sundown. A light rain had just started greasing up the roads.
Jamie handed me a filthy scotch as I lurched through the pub doors, stiff from the road. We toasted my safe arrival, put on our gear and made for Uncle's house like vampires fleeing the dawn. One hour later, and ten hours and forty minutes after I left Sydney, I was in the warm embrace of good mates. There was a great fire, a functioning hot water system, several fridges full of beer, and a safe place to rest my head. Done right, this motorcycling caper rewards the soul on many levels.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p261-2
But not anymore. Now it's just a magically eternal cash register for the government.
But I grinned, I bore it, I agreed with Jon Bon Jovi that there should be no silent prayer for the faith-departed, and then I turned off the Hume at Euroa. The Merton Gap warmed the edge of my tyres, Marc Bolan informed me that Telegram Sam was my main man, and I pulled up outside the Country Club Hotel in Yea right on sundown. A light rain had just started greasing up the roads.
Jamie handed me a filthy scotch as I lurched through the pub doors, stiff from the road. We toasted my safe arrival, put on our gear and made for Uncle's house like vampires fleeing the dawn. One hour later, and ten hours and forty minutes after I left Sydney, I was in the warm embrace of good mates. There was a great fire, a functioning hot water system, several fridges full of beer, and a safe place to rest my head. Done right, this motorcycling caper rewards the soul on many levels.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p261-2
#54
Fuel and Rest Stop Locations / Re: Yamba SA. premium fuel no ...
Last post by ZigZag - Feb 26, 2026, 09:21 AMThanks for the heads up on this one Alan. My bike only drinks 95/98.
#55
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 26, 2026, 12:36 AM9 am to 10:30 am
The final forty kilometres. I don't know what they were about, and I don't care. If you want to find out, do the miles and see. All I know is I pull up outside Nambucca's V-Wall Tavern on a glorious sunny day. An immense feeling of achievement fills my sugar-crazed body. I have done it. I have challenged myself and been found worthy. I am unhurt, unbooked and so gloriously alive I almost kiss Thommo, the first FarRider to arrive just after me, but that would have been very strange for both of us, 'cos we've not yet met.
11 am onwards
That afternoon, I manage to eat two T-bone steaks (one for lunch and one for dinner), drink a metric shitload of beer to flush away the evil energy-drink gravy that has been coursing through my body, and indulge myself in some very appropriate self-congratulations. My sense of achievement is vast. I even manage to sing some Johnny Cash songs with the jukebox. When my buzzing, demon-filled head finally hits the pillow in the small, air-conditioned cabin I have rented in the caravan park behind the pub, I am sure I hear familiar voices whispering: "You done good, bitch. See you next time."
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p253-4
The final forty kilometres. I don't know what they were about, and I don't care. If you want to find out, do the miles and see. All I know is I pull up outside Nambucca's V-Wall Tavern on a glorious sunny day. An immense feeling of achievement fills my sugar-crazed body. I have done it. I have challenged myself and been found worthy. I am unhurt, unbooked and so gloriously alive I almost kiss Thommo, the first FarRider to arrive just after me, but that would have been very strange for both of us, 'cos we've not yet met.
11 am onwards
That afternoon, I manage to eat two T-bone steaks (one for lunch and one for dinner), drink a metric shitload of beer to flush away the evil energy-drink gravy that has been coursing through my body, and indulge myself in some very appropriate self-congratulations. My sense of achievement is vast. I even manage to sing some Johnny Cash songs with the jukebox. When my buzzing, demon-filled head finally hits the pillow in the small, air-conditioned cabin I have rented in the caravan park behind the pub, I am sure I hear familiar voices whispering: "You done good, bitch. See you next time."
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p253-4
#56
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 25, 2026, 05:49 AMAnd this is the Darkness before the Dawn, too. The time of night when people become werewolves and rip their neighbours' throats out. The time of night when nothing is possible but anything is likely. The time of night when you're most mortal, and yet feel immortal.
I'd consumed a Red Bull twenty kilometres back, and am now so wired I could do duty as a dingo fence. But I am comatose compared to the twenty young bucks having an ice-smoking party in the Kempsey servo I stop at. Three old cars, plastered with the Koori flag and various land rights logos are parked there. Around them, drinking and yelling and wrestling are some of Kempsey's more excitable residents. To have ridden straight out would have been an act of cowardly wisdom. To stop, turn off my bike and fuel up is the act of a crazed man - which I doubtlessly am by this stage of the game. The ice-smokers don't bother to stop smoking when I pull up, but since they only have one pipe between them, many of them are free to engage me in manly banter.
"Heeey, bro!" one of them says, his eyes glistening with insanity, "Det your bike?"
"Yep," I lie cheerily, willing the petrol faster into my tank and spilling some because my hands are trembling.
"Heeey, bro," the lunatic smiles wickedly, "you're shaking .. hee hee hee . .. we'll hev to ride your bike for you ... hee, hee, hee."
Then he stalks back to the group to report that he's scared the motorcyclist so badly he is shaking like a leaf.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p249
I'd consumed a Red Bull twenty kilometres back, and am now so wired I could do duty as a dingo fence. But I am comatose compared to the twenty young bucks having an ice-smoking party in the Kempsey servo I stop at. Three old cars, plastered with the Koori flag and various land rights logos are parked there. Around them, drinking and yelling and wrestling are some of Kempsey's more excitable residents. To have ridden straight out would have been an act of cowardly wisdom. To stop, turn off my bike and fuel up is the act of a crazed man - which I doubtlessly am by this stage of the game. The ice-smokers don't bother to stop smoking when I pull up, but since they only have one pipe between them, many of them are free to engage me in manly banter.
"Heeey, bro!" one of them says, his eyes glistening with insanity, "Det your bike?"
"Yep," I lie cheerily, willing the petrol faster into my tank and spilling some because my hands are trembling.
"Heeey, bro," the lunatic smiles wickedly, "you're shaking .. hee hee hee . .. we'll hev to ride your bike for you ... hee, hee, hee."
Then he stalks back to the group to report that he's scared the motorcyclist so badly he is shaking like a leaf.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p249
#57
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 24, 2026, 12:19 AMI have always known there are demons in the night. Fanged, red-skinned horrors, playing at the edges of your vision and capering through your mind as you ride.
Hemingway, in 'A Farewell to Arms', understood the night to be a time and place of great 'otherness' and wrote: 'I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist...'
A mate sent me the above wisdom just before I set off at 11 pm one muggy Friday night on a run unlike any I'd ever done - and the words rang with a fierce truth. I am no stranger to night riding. I actually quite like it. I am also no stranger to banging out big miles, and I don't mind that, either. But doing 1000 kilometres in a twelve-hour period and riding 250 kilometres past my destination and then 250 kilometres back was something I'd never done before.
How this came to pass is not as important as the ride itself, though you probably need to know why I wedged myself upon a tiny, screaming 600cc Yamaha R6 and howled northward from Sydney through the murk. A man called Dave had invited me along on what he called a 'FarRide'. A FarRide is a type of ride undertaken by a group of blokes known as FarRiders. They are a unique breed of motorcyclist, for whom the ride is purity incarnate - the be-all and end-all. Some of them have accomplished distance-riding feats that beggar belief and which prompt the question, 'Why?'
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p244-5
Hemingway, in 'A Farewell to Arms', understood the night to be a time and place of great 'otherness' and wrote: 'I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist...'
A mate sent me the above wisdom just before I set off at 11 pm one muggy Friday night on a run unlike any I'd ever done - and the words rang with a fierce truth. I am no stranger to night riding. I actually quite like it. I am also no stranger to banging out big miles, and I don't mind that, either. But doing 1000 kilometres in a twelve-hour period and riding 250 kilometres past my destination and then 250 kilometres back was something I'd never done before.
How this came to pass is not as important as the ride itself, though you probably need to know why I wedged myself upon a tiny, screaming 600cc Yamaha R6 and howled northward from Sydney through the murk. A man called Dave had invited me along on what he called a 'FarRide'. A FarRide is a type of ride undertaken by a group of blokes known as FarRiders. They are a unique breed of motorcyclist, for whom the ride is purity incarnate - the be-all and end-all. Some of them have accomplished distance-riding feats that beggar belief and which prompt the question, 'Why?'
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p244-5
#58
Fuel and Rest Stop Locations / Yamba SA. premium fuel no long...
Last post by Large 2.0 - Feb 23, 2026, 06:20 AMAs per the title, there is only 91ULP sold at Yamba SA now. The premium hoses have been removed and the tanks are full of foam.
If you want 98/95 ULP it's either Renmark/Paringa SA or Cullulleraine Vic.
If you want 98/95 ULP it's either Renmark/Paringa SA or Cullulleraine Vic.
#59
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 23, 2026, 12:46 AM"You good?" he asked, helping me wrench my bike upright.
I nodded. I was okay physically - again a breathing, sweaty testament to the sanctity and glory of body armour.
"I'll ride it up to the level bit for you," Miles offered kindly.
"I'll have your flamin' babies for you if you do," I muttered, but I don't think he heard me. I then watched agog at the ease with which he did just that, with Ian right behind him. I took a deep breath and commenced to clump up the cliff face after them. In ten metres perspiration was cascading off me and I was puffing like a blown horse. In twenty metres black spots were exploding in my vision and there was not enough air on earth to satisfy my needs. I stopped, hands on knees and retched emptily into my helmet. It smelled like old lollies. Miles, Ian and Mick watched my glacial progress from above.
"When were you giving up the smokes, Borie?" I heard Miles ask from on high.
Since my remaining time on earth was measured in minutes, I didn't waste it replying. I resumed clumping up the hill, got on my bike and went at it again.
But the scenario I just described was to repeat itself several more times. Sometimes Ian helped me, sometimes Miles helped me. Once, Mick almost ran over me, which would probably have helped by putting an end to my misery.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p222-3
I nodded. I was okay physically - again a breathing, sweaty testament to the sanctity and glory of body armour.
"I'll ride it up to the level bit for you," Miles offered kindly.
"I'll have your flamin' babies for you if you do," I muttered, but I don't think he heard me. I then watched agog at the ease with which he did just that, with Ian right behind him. I took a deep breath and commenced to clump up the cliff face after them. In ten metres perspiration was cascading off me and I was puffing like a blown horse. In twenty metres black spots were exploding in my vision and there was not enough air on earth to satisfy my needs. I stopped, hands on knees and retched emptily into my helmet. It smelled like old lollies. Miles, Ian and Mick watched my glacial progress from above.
"When were you giving up the smokes, Borie?" I heard Miles ask from on high.
Since my remaining time on earth was measured in minutes, I didn't waste it replying. I resumed clumping up the hill, got on my bike and went at it again.
But the scenario I just described was to repeat itself several more times. Sometimes Ian helped me, sometimes Miles helped me. Once, Mick almost ran over me, which would probably have helped by putting an end to my misery.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p222-3
#60
General Discussion / Re: From the Library
Last post by Biggles - Feb 22, 2026, 05:34 AMIt was all I could really do, because I could certainly no longer ride a motorcycle properly. All my bastard shit hurt. My helmet ground into my thudding skull and the rest of my body throbbed with a strained ache I'd only ever experienced the morning after a big fight with angry bouncers. As I sourly burped my way past the Mount Stromlo turn-off and the bitumen got twistier, my riding skills deserted me altogether. I must have been about a kilometre behind as I saw the rest of the crew turn off onto the dirt and head up into the Brindabella Ranges.
The DR, its knobby tyres and I just could not get it together.
"Shit," I chanted over and over as I lurched and yawed up the winding track that had the traction of greasy kitchen lino. The dirt was hard-packed, but heavily peppered with shiny buried rocks that caused the bike to skitter alarmingly from side to side. I couldn't stand up on the pegs because I was too busy hanging on for grim death and it was getting colder the higher I climbed. Yesterday afternoon, I had been planning on entering the Dakar. Today I was planning on throwing up in my helmet.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p205
The DR, its knobby tyres and I just could not get it together.
"Shit," I chanted over and over as I lurched and yawed up the winding track that had the traction of greasy kitchen lino. The dirt was hard-packed, but heavily peppered with shiny buried rocks that caused the bike to skitter alarmingly from side to side. I couldn't stand up on the pegs because I was too busy hanging on for grim death and it was getting colder the higher I climbed. Yesterday afternoon, I had been planning on entering the Dakar. Today I was planning on throwing up in my helmet.
My Mother Warned Me About Blokes Like Me Boris Mihailovik p205