Staring despondently at Diego, a light bulb went off. ‘You’re an educated man, Diego, you have a masters degree in mechanical engineering from one of the best universities in Argentina.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said proudly.
‘Can you hotwire a bike?’ The solution was so simple, so obvious, so desperate.
His brow furrowed like a cat who’s caught a sniff of something. ‘I weel try, let us go to the shed of Ed and I weel get some toolings.’
My phone rang as we finished off our third whiskeys and were leaving to steal our own bikes. ‘Is that Paul?’ said the voice on the other end. ‘It’s Ben from Australian Locksmiths here.’
‘Hi Ben, are you out and/or on the piss and calling to tell me that you can fix my problem on Monday?’
There was a pause. ‘No, sir, I’m calling you back to see what can we do for you tonight.’
Hope rising, I was almost too scared to say the next bit. ‘Ben, can you cut a key for a 2011 Harley Davidson Sportster and a 2011 BMW 650 GS before six tomorrow morning?’
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m on the corner of Gilbert Place and Hindley Street outside the pub.’
‘Yeah, I know the place,’ said Ben. ‘Just hang on while I check our stock.’
Diego was gesticulating madly doing his Argentinean pantomime of ‘What the fuck’s going on’ while I pointed at the phone and pantomimed back.
‘Paul,’ Ben’s voice returned and both Diego and I froze mid-mime. ‘We have plenty of blanks to fit your Sportster and just one blank left that will fit the BMW. I could be there in thirty minutes if you like.’
‘Shit hot, Ben!’ I thanked him, we exchanged a few details and I put my phone in my pocket. ‘We’re good, mate,’ I said to Diego, who was bouncing around so happily I thought he was going to have a seizure. ‘He’s on the way.’
‘This ees wonderful, Pol.’ Diego’s grin had returned. ‘I will get us some green beer,’ he said and rushed off to the bar again.
Ben was there, right on time; he had a van with a kind of mini lathe thing in the back and basically in one fell swoop destroyed my faith in the lock and key. He looked over Diego’s bike then stuck what looked like a magic wand with a flashlight on it into the slot where the key goes. Diego was fascinated, ‘Ben, wat dos dis thing do?’
Ben was very polite and explained he was taking measurements so he could build up a picture of what the key should look like. ‘Oh, I have a photo of my bike key on my phone,’ Diego said. ‘Would that help?’
Diego had grown up riding bikes with his mates all over his father’s property. The bikes they had were old and in a perpetual near-death state held together with hope and gaffer tape. As a kid he never dreamt he would one day walk into a BMW dealership and purchase outright a new bike off the showroom floor. Diego was so excited at the prospect of having a bike that started with the use of a key and electronic ignition, instead of a lot of kicking and praying, that he took a photo of the key to show his pals back home.
Ben looked at the photo, said ‘Perfect,’ and disappeared into his van, emerging about fifteen minutes later with a key that slid into Diego’s ignition and turned the bike over on the first try.
‘Amazing,’ said Diego over his green beer. ‘Ben, can you defeat any lock?’
‘So far,’ said Ben.
‘Sheet hot,’ said Diego.
Then I jumped on the back of Diego’s bike and we rode the few k’s over to Ed’s workshop with Ben following in his magic van. Ed was there with Simon and Tristan and they all laughed hard at our situation. While Ben went to work on my ignition with his magic wand, I moaned to Simon about the fact that along with my bike key I had also lost the padlock key which secured my saddlebags to the bike. While nodding and listening Simon casually pulled a small leather ziplock case from his backpack, wandered over and glanced at my bike, opened his leather case, selected two steel lock picks from within, and 30 seconds later both of the so-called unpickable padlocks were off.
‘Where did you learn how to do that?’ I was stumped.
Ben acknowledged Simon’s effort with a nod.
‘Sheet hot,’ said Diego.
Ben was done within the hour, and not only could I start my bike but I had two extra keys in case history repeated on me, so I later stitched one into the top of my riding boot and put the other on a string around my neck. It was almost 10 p.m. by the time our superhero locksmith left, with me calling out, ‘I love you, Ben.’ Diego was not feeling the love; he was paying the $1400 bill that Ben just handed him.
Ed ordered a pizza and produced a six-pack of beer; by midnight everyone was full and happy, and every bike was ready for clutch-in at 6 a.m., destination Corowa some ten hours and 900 kilometres away. Diego and I grabbed a cab back to the motel. Hindley Street looked like a big-production zombie movie was being made, the premise of which involved a storyline based on the entire population of Adelaide being infected and turning into green-beer-swilling shuffling corpses for which the cure was apparently Hungry Jacks.
IT WAS STILL
dark outside at 5.30 that morning. I sat on my backpack at the corner where the alleyway that housed our motel met Hindley Street and surveyed the St Patrick’s Day carnage through the clouds of fog my breath billowed into the darkness. The odd zombie still staggered about in the middle distance looking for food.
Diego would be down shortly and our adventure would kick off. I checked my phone for emails and messages; there was one missed call last night from my dad in the UK. By the time Diego arrived my world had changed. He stopped where I sat, squatting down in front of me and smiling at first as he asked what I was doing. My face was blank; I found his eyes and saw his happy expression fade away. He watched me trying to find the words, any words, and waited, hovering there in limbo while rhythmical clouds floated skyward.
‘My dad’s got cancer,’ I finally said. ‘It’s serious, but he’ll know more later in the week after he’s had surgery.’
Diego sat down next to me and suddenly words poured out uncontrollably as I rambled, about my dad, about getting to the UK to be with him as soon as possible—all my plans including Corowa didn’t rate a mention anymore. I could have sat there talking about it all day but then our cab pulled up. The driver and Diego spoke briefly, my friend occasionally glancing at me still sitting on the corner. Diego threw his backpack into the boot and walked back to me.
‘Pol, your father would like to see you do this, eh?’ He nodded towards the cab behind him and extended his hand towards me.
I focused on Diego’s face for a moment, his eyes unwavering. I grabbed his hand and got myself together.
An hour later we were pulling away from Ed’s workshop in convoy. Associate Professor Colin Kestell, mechanical legend Robert Dempster and Ed were in the university vehicle, a V8 Holden, pulling the giant custom-made trailer that cocooned the bike, followed by Diego and me riding our bikes.
I sat at the back, my head burbling along on autopilot, thinking about my father and what he must be going through. I suspected he had kept his illness from me for some time, being the type who prefers not to burden his offspring with worries, but was now forced to tell us that he was facing an abyss. When we spoke he had been as resolute as ever, but I could feel the hollow unspoken rattle of doubt over the distance, a distance my heart wanted to cross now. As we passed through the outskirts of Adelaide, I saw a sign for the airport and I had to fight the urge to just peel off and get on a plane. But I knew that if I suddenly pulled the pin and fronted up at my father’s place, he’d just call me a muppet.
Before I knew it we had stopped in Tailem Bend and right on cue, the second I toed out my kickstand, the sky turned dark with ominous-looking clouds. We had some breakfast and talked about the journey ahead. Putting a call in to Howard and Simon revealed they had ridden into some heavy weather already as they tracked down towards Corowa from Brisbane. Brendan, who’d been out god-knows-where near Broken Hill chasing that mythical bird, had also pulled up because of rough weather. Ed got onto his phone straightaway to check out the weather sites and confirmed we were probably going to hit a massive front making its way down the entire eastern seaboard.
I know I’m not at all tech-savvy: the use of computers as a business tool is only seven years old to me, and I got my first mobile phone at 30, reluctantly. While several friends and colleagues swear by their smartphones, I’m embarrassed to say I struggle to use the Blackberry my business demands I carry around. But the ease with which Ed checked the weather bamboozled me.
I am usually the first to declare how appalling technology has made our ability to retain everyday slithers of information. My generation grew up without the internet or mobile phones, and we could remember everything; I can still pull up all my friends’ numbers, their birthdays and addresses, old passport numbers, bank account details in foreign countries, the lot. But in conversation with a twenty-something, it’s all gone; a twenty-something with a Mensa digit IQ and a masters in mechanical engineering has grown up in a system that remembers everything for him. We have outsourced memory and are forgetting how to remember. We can remember lots of different ways to access information quickly and little else for everyday life. I would imagine the education system these days is based on little of what I experienced; in my time, ironically, education was all about memory, the repetitive recall of spelling, multiplication tables, capital cities, the Latin word for shit. I believe that a good old-fashioned suitably absorbent memory gives you the platform for the production of creative ideas. While I’m riding my bike, doing the dishes or sitting in interminable legal meetings, I can wander off into my thoughts and memories and circumvent the now.
But with Ed tracking the weather by the minute and Diego looking at his iPhone, which is telling him where he is, how far he has to go, how long it will take, and who is emailing, texting, phoning and generally thinking about him in real time, I suddenly felt left out. I want to join the Steve Jobs club and face-plant my wife or let random strangers know that I don’t like peanut butter on Twatter or whatever it’s called.
The rain really kicked in as the convoy drove away from Tailem Bend—Diego and I had to stop to get our wet weather gear on and, despite his heated grips, his hands were so frozen I lent him my racing gloves—but it gave way to sunshine as we threaded through the rolling green hills, passed Pinnaroo and crossed over the border of South Australia and into Victoria. I tried not to think about my dad, or leaving my own remains scattered over a bit of Corowa Airport’s main runway the next day.
Another fuel stop and phone call to Howard and Simon. The news wasn’t good: Simon had turned back, but Howard was pushing on. Howard is a great rider, albeit somewhat mental. A few years ago he was out alone on a quiet country back road on a Sunday morning; always curious about what’s over the next crest or round the next corner, honing his skills, finding that sweet spot when it all falls into place, he rode along in a trance—so far that he actually crossed the state border—and eventually came undone on the way home and stacked, though he walked away without a scratch. I saw his helmet sitting in the corner of his garage, the entire front half was ground away as he slid down the road on his face.
So anyway, Howard is capable of seriously hard riding and I could hear a storm in the background as he yelled excitedly into the phone. ‘I’ve never ridden in rain like this, mate. I’m at a truck stop in Murwillumbah, had to stop, the vis is, like, 30 feet, and there’s so much water on the road my bike’s aquaplaning . . .’
‘Fuck that!’ I tried to tell him not to push it, that it wasn’t worth the risk.
‘Bollocks, I’ll see you in Corowa,’ and with that he hung up.
Brendan was out of reach with no mobile reception so I left a couple of messages. I could only hope he would make it; without his talent there would be no decent photos.
Colin and Ed had been on their iPhones. ‘Call Howard back and tell him to stop and turn around,’ Colin said. There was major flooding all around the area he was about to try to ride through. But of course Howard wasn’t answering. I pictured him atop his heavily laden Buell, tucked in behind the fairing getting pummelled, and felt awful.
Especially because we were now travelling in perfectly balmy, sunny weather and really starting to enjoy the ride. At one point I pulled over and Colin hopped on my bike for a bit, then Ed had a go, then I jumped on Diego’s bike and he on mine. His bike is everything you would expect for an uber-engineered German motorcycle—quiet, reliable, very comfortable, plenty of power, whether you’re on a freeway or up a mountain. It’s shaft-driven with an ingenious rear-swing arm system and an equally clever adjustable suspension and steering dampening design that can be altered without the use of tools. It’s got huge luggage panniers that can be collapsed or expanded in seconds to house everything from a pair of socks to the kitchen sink, heated grips and seat so your hands and botty are always snug, a front fairing that deflects the wind and rain away from the rider, and mounting brackets for your GPS, iPhone and bike-to-bike comms system. It tells you how far it can travel on the remaining fuel, what your average fuel consumption is, how the engine is doing, how the oil is feeling, if the tyres are pumped to be here today. It will call ahead, introducing itself as Günter from Dusseldorf, book your dinner table not too close to the toilets and facilitate your hotel reservations, making sure the turndown maid leaves a rose on the pillow next to a card that will of course read ‘Love always, Günter’.
My Harley does none of those things. It hurls the riding experience in your face and through your body like a backhander from an angry 6-foot chain-smoking Milwaukee kickboxer. But that’s why I love it so much: it’s unsophisticated, uncomplicated and a joy to ride.
We had a ball swapping vehicles over the next few hours, but the best part for me was seeing the facial expressions of the guys as they climbed off my bike. Compared to the loving backward glance always delivered to Diego’s BMW, the reaction on dismounting my bike was more akin to one of pensioners who just got off a rollercoaster and are relieved they didn’t soil themselves.