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The steep learning curve….[ Part One | Part Two ] Through Barrytown and a wonderful section of fast long straights and sweeping corners, save the scenic software and click on ‘throttle’. The more I push the Indian, the more I am surprised by its ability to stick to the selected line, as we approach another coastal bluff indicating some more hillwork, I realize despite the uncertainty (always the fear that something fragile will break), I am really beginning to enjoy this bike. I still find it difficult to get gear changes exactly right for a sharp corner or steep incline, but when everything does come together, the bike lets me know, encouragement to keep trying, in sync, man and machine…..only those who search for it and, experience it will understand. Don’t get me wrong, this is not some arrogant pilgrimage, the domain of Indian owners alone, my situation arises because I have made the transition (some said ill advised) from a very modern motorcycle (BMW) to something of another era. its almost like learning another language, both exercises more difficult as the years increase. The gigolo (in all of us) encouraging me to rush into this affair, committed, head-on, irrational, exciting……. Ahead, I see the massive cliffs of Point Elizabeth, layers of mud and silt deposited at oceanic depths 60 million years ago, all surrounded by a landscape from which coal has been tunneled and scraped for a century and a half…..products of swamp and the abyss, juxtaposed, indications of the continuing dynamic of this Westland environment. Inland and through Rununga towards Greymouth, the weather still holds. As we approach the township, it is evident that the entire business center has been fenced off for the motorcycle races, Steve and I select a strategically placed carpark, and it’s a short walk to the ‘circuit’…….streets lined with deer-fencing, hay bales, race officials and spectators located at corners with potential, others taking advantage of the view offered by upstairs windows and verandas. The scene is set for a good days racing. Racing motorcycles on a circuit takes a degree of courage, racing similar machines around the streets of a small town in South Island is another step up. The more I watch, the more I realize this is something I could not have done, even in my younger days, punting a classic bike around at a more leisurely pace OK, but mixing it with the more serious riders would be like throwing a lamb to the wolves! It soon becomes obvious that Steve and my biological clocks are also synchronized…..we left Westport without breakfast and the engine room is signaling the bridge that the fuel level is getting low. I remember a pizza house on one of the main streets, walk a couple of blocks to the ‘Bonzai’. I order nachos and one very long black, then Steve and I select the best seat in the house, a window view with the start line 50 yards to the left, good food and great racing…..I order another coffee.
Despite the fact that I have converted the bike’s electrics to 12 volt, one thing I am sure of is the fact that the head lamp is still not up to much in the candlepower department. For that reason, we decide to leave Greymouth mid-afternoon, it’s a 3-4 hour ride back to Christchurch. The road south from Greymouth, again closely parallels the coastline, and for us the southerly wind is now cool, bordering on cold. Through Camerons and road signs suggest a rapid slowdown, believe it! Just ahead a one-way bridge which has not only past its use-by date, but functions as a rail bridge as well! At Kumara Junction we take a sharp left-hander and head east, inland towards the Southern Alps. Now Kumara itself, is a typical, small, seen-better-days westcoast village, but for the traveller an oasis….a pub, a gas station, we ride on through. About 2 miles down the road, the Indian splutters and I switch to reserve tank, retrace my tracks back to the oasis. As I pull out of the service station, I’m struck by the lack of evidence of anything…..look left no cars, look right nothing, left again and relief, the fear of being all alone extinguished by a lankey bloke, bearded and gaunt as his rusted bike, cycling an erratic westerly course down the centre of the road. That spectre disappeared behind a rusted, corrugated-iron wall, I’m left with a feeling of ‘Deliverance’ country which is reinforced as I catch Steve up. He’s about 300 yards ahead, clear road as far as we can see, bush up close on both sides, suddenly as Steve rides over a hump in the road, he begins weaving and waving his arms…….then its my turn, my arms and chest peppered by something big enough to see and hard enough to hurt. No sooner started than ended, no evidence anywhere of the cause, I gaze into the bush but by now, that loon LeRoy would surely have scarpered, back up the road the remains of a bumble-bee squadron regroup and head on home. This road (Highway 73) up the Taramakau to Jacksons and then Arthur’s Pass, is one of my all time favourites. It’s as fast as you want (accepting we do have a 60 mph speed limit in New Zealand) and the one after another corners inspire man-bike rhythms of the most memorable kind. A sweeping left-hander, over a railway line and immediately into an equally as fast right-hander, under power and leaned over the Indian does everything I ask, ahead Steve and the Ducati are playing similar music. As we pass through the small, village of Otira, sleeping at the feet of the Southern Alps, I have no indication of what lies in store for me. Progressively the Otira river valley closes and the bush-covered valley walls steepen; a couple of sharp, uphill turns, over an old bailey bridge and …..a queue of cars and trucks stopped, a red traffic light indicating as a result of some serious engineering works, the road is one-way and at that time those in downhill mode have right-of-way. After one phase of lights, Steve and I are at the front of the line, ahead a steep incline, and indications that the surface of the road is in bad shape. Green light and Steve’s away, I give the Indian a decent amount of throttle but the revs take too long to build…..something is wrong. Slip the clutch and climb the first section of about 100 yards and then lose power. Outside the wheelruts, the road is covered in angular, cobble-sized rocks and as I come to a stop, that loose surface ,the steep incline and the sloping berm almost combine efforts to dump me and then the bike on top of me…..cars and trucks pass (occupants gawk) as I struggle to keep the bike semi vertical and then complete a 180° turn and coast on back down to where I started. This maneuver is completed four times, and the physical demands on me (and the Indian) are beginning to show. Inside my jacket my body is leaking fluids of the watery kind, outside my Indian is leaking fluids of the hydrocarbon kind…. a pool representing a significant amount of that which I bought in Kumara is now under the bike and evaporating in the sun. As the cars continue to pass on my right, I have a vision of one loose-cannon cigarette smoker lobbing something red and hot in any direction, my direction. Decide on two things, firstly to get the bike to the shingled berm on the downhill side of the road and then to dismantle the carb and see if the needle valve or the float are stuck. A guy in a pickup stops and says he has talked to Steve at the top of the Pass, he then indicates if I can’t get the bike going, he’ll tow me up the hill! Nice of you to offer mate but, two things I don’t need right now…..a longer right arm, or one side of my bike ground flat!
In retrospect, some interesting psychology zaps around one’s inner being on such occasions, rare though they may be. Each time the bike refused to take the pass, I got increasingly wilder, cursing that bastard of American industry as if it was in some way responsible. A friend Paddy rides up on his Chief and asks if I need a hand, by that stage I have figured I will have to break open the toolkit, I flag Paddy on. In the Otira Valley, the caw of the native, mountain parrot and my string of expletives were not heard, overwhelmed by the din of all manner of vehicles attacking that nemesis, that bloody road cut! Some of the extreme tension I have just experienced is to do with embarrassment, people in cages moving on through, looking at me going nowhere; but then the rational cells begin to work overtime. The bike has some small mechanical malfunction, the challenge should you accept it, is to figure out what that problem is and then fix it. As the hemisphere of logic exerts its authority, I begin to do things correctly. The Indian is pointed uphill on the most secure piece of berm, I put the bike on the stand and then check to make sure its stable, strip of the outer layer of clothing, get out the tools and begin the dissection. I had no sooner begun removing the screws holding the air cleaner backing plate when I hear the unmistakable beat of the Ducati on its way back down. The next lesson in human psychology is about to begin. When it comes to things mechanical most motorcyclists have an opinion and, in situations such as the one I was in, the last thing the fixee (me) wants to hear is there is an alternative and potentially simpler solution. Steve suggests the bike will probably clear itself if I run it downhill and wind it out a bit. Tools repacked, riding gear back on. Coast downhill, let out the clutch and the bike coughs then fires, then evens out. I continue for a kilometer or two by which time the Indian is revving freely, complete a 180 and up ahead, Steve is standing on the outside of a blind left hander and frantically waving me on. As I pass Steve, the bike is in 1st gear and on about three quarter throttle, ahead a string of about a dozen cars and trucks have stopped for the red light…..I throw caution to the wind and pass the assembled and just as I nose ahead of the first car take time to look left. At that instant, the light turns green and I have the perfect start, the bike is on song and I am about to take the '‘Widowmaker” GO! GO! GO! The first 100 yards is a breeze, then into a left hander and a sequence of potholes connected by ridges of coarse, angular cobbles….I quickly realize I’d be much better off standing on the footboards, the back of the bike bucks, then bites and I am further encouraged by the delightful exhaust noise bouncing of the surrounding rock walls. By the time I reach the top, I really begin to feel I have achieved something, drivers in cars waiting to go down, smile and wave, I wave back and then I feel a huge sense of elation, we’ve done it! Despite all the doubts of an hour ago, my Indian and I have done it, a yell and a smile, a private, helmet-constrained affair. Over the top of Arthur’s Pass and then down a steep section (more road works) to the village of the same name…..man and machine in need of a rest and a good drink. Having filled the tank, I then meet Steve in the small café, strip off the jacket and gloves and demolish a long cold drink. No sooner said than done, and a guy asks Steve who owns the Indian? For those who don’t have the pleasure, such questions usually indicate someone wants to either talk about your bike, a Indian he or his Dad once owned, or if the bike was for sale how much would it cost? Statistics is a funny game and in this particular case, all the guy wanted to tell me was that most of the fuel I had poured into the tank was now on the asphalt underneath the bike! Decide to turn the fuel tap off, start the bike and head for home. Its about 4.30 pm and with the sunlight on our backs as we head down the valley of the Waimakariri River, the scenery is just stunning. Over a relatively steep hill, across the Cass River and up a deceptively long, straight climb….a unique bit of topography, a heap of gravel which resulted from the combined effects of Ice Age glaciations and subsequent severe erosion of the surrounding mountains as the ice quietly slipped away. To the left, Lakes Grassmere and Pearson but, on this delightful piece of road I choose to concentrate on the ride because the corners around here are a motorcyclists dream…..I’m pushing the Indian quicker than I have dared before and the speedo is indicating a steady 65 mph and still some to spare. Over steep climbs between a couple of really tight, first gear corners and its into the Castlehill Basin, another unique bit of New Zealand high country terrain …..limestone ribbons draped over the foothills, closer escarpments eroded and etched into shapes for the imagination. Unfortunately, as we head further east across the basin the wind strength increases, the bike is beginning to have to work for its supper, and I am having to concentrate more and more. The clouds behind indicate the wind is from the NW, the consolation being after we negotiate Porter’s Pass and foothills leading to the Canterbury Plains both Steve and I know the warm ‘norwester’ wind will be on our backs.
The steep learning curve….[ Part One | Part Two ]
FIGURE CAPTIONS:
6. Nearing Lewis Pass, Southern Alps in the background. 9. Coastal road between Westport and Greymouth.
33. Trouble ahead! |
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