1 On How To Overtake a Roadtrain. Sat Sep 25, 2010 12:47 am
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Ahead I can see yet another roadtrain. This one's hauling cattle to market. These beasts had a few years of open range to wander and feed from. They are close to feral and have recently been rounded up by stockmen. If you are the type to eat at Macca's then I suppose they could be your next Big Mac, or the leather belt that holds up your ever-expanding trousers. There are four cars behind the prime mover. In America I saw some 'big rigs' with 18 wheels. I lost count at 70 on one of these rolling mayhem machines of Down Under. The drivers appear to be under thirty years of age when I see them inhaling massive plates of tucker at roadhouses. They always wave and ask casually in that inimitable Aussie way, 'How ya goin, mate?' I always reply to them in an equally friendly manner as they could be a lifeline out on the lonely stretches if a breakdown or accident ever occurred.
The roadtrain is now just ahead of me and I am closing on him at 130kph (the speed limit in 'The Territory'). Most travel at or about 100 kph. I can feel the wind's wake already. I am now less than a hundred metres behind him and looking ahead to overtake. The rule is to give two kilometres of open road to overtake in, but we all know (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) a motorbike requires far less than that, even travelling fully-loaded. He indicates twice with his right hand blinker that the road ahead is clear. I take his 'word' for it and press on, downshifting to fourth for the extra urge. Once past the last car the wind decides to put on its steel capped boots and kick me in the side with a quick left, then a sharp right. Then it dons the boxing gloves for few one-two punches to the helmet and the ribs. Then it rips open the velcro closure of my jacket before bitch-slapping me twice or thrice and then booting me again a coupla times for good measure, show me just who's boss round here. I'm passing the wagging second to last car now and approaching 150 kph. The effect is of being sucked sideways into the jaws of some device on those '60s-era Bond movies, but you always know he'll get away before the gnashing teeth grab ahold and pull the hero in.
I can now see the prime mover ahead and am in the middle of a red dust storm that approaches cyclone level. The smell of the cattle shite permeates the helmet and invades my nostrils like a terrible biblical plague. I'm sitting on the 'ton' now and the faithful and mighty K bike is taching at eight grand plus. I burst through the torrent of wind at the front and into clear air, free at last, free at last, thank gohd almighty I'm free at last. The 160 kph rush feels so good for a few seconds that I keep it pegged and leave the lumbering behemoth struggling in my puny motorbike's wake. Ha ha, say I as I glide ahead, round the bend, past the sleeping roos and wandering emus at roadside, and am promptly slowed by the next obstacle: a four car fuel tanker sitting on 80 kph, following a queue of dusty red caravans towed by grey nomads, Australia's nearly-permanent army of sunseekers, Wintertime marchers, the 'gerro' set of pensioners who frequent the open road as much as the roadtrains do.
I'm thinking about a coldie and a campsite as the sun fades to golden red-orange in the drying, dessicated Western sky. A dip in the Indian Ocean is in order too. Tonight the billion star hotel will be my companion, the Milky Way in all its glory, without the backlighting of civilisation. Hoo roo, mates!
Last edited by Two Wheels Better on Sun Oct 03, 2010 11:42 pm; edited 1 time in total