Geoff Hall
Mac “Flat Top” Douglas muttered through the froth of one too many schooners. “Well you may as well have a go.” And another freelance motorcycle journalist was born. I had a column in Two Wheels. It was 1978.
Two weeks later he was hammering on my door demanding copy. “The first rule of journalism – be on time!” The first column appeared in January, 1979.
Within six months Boy Rollins delivered my first test bike, a Kawasaki Z1300 almost twice as big and much faster than anything I’d ridden. I came to respect this brute although in the initial stages it scared the daylights out of me. By the time we had towed a forest of firewood at the Alpine Rally I was ready to terrify people, passing Ducati Darmahs on the outside down Cotter Dam Road, sparks showering from the underside of the huge mufflers.
The journey ever since has always been interesting, as Two Wheels has grown in status enormously. Other magazines have attempted to claim the title of Australia’s premier motorcycle magazine, none has provided the consistent quality and ability to move with the times shown by the seven editors of Two Wheels I have worked with.
Of course motorcycling has changed greatly over these 24 years. Motorcycles and motorcycling accessories have become far more sophisticated and the roads have become better, if not safer. Fuel injection, radial/steel belted tyres, carbon-fibre, Kevlar helmets/fairing parts and riding gear with spine protection were unknown in 1979.
Good old flexing double loop tubular steel frames were standard fare. Carburettors which you could rebuild by the roadside, standard issue. In fact, mechanical miracles were executed by the roadside. Most suspensions only had spring pre-load; monoshocks were about to be launched (1981 R 80 GS BMW) along with single-sided swingarms. Both these items are, of course, now common on all sorts of machines.
The Ulysses Club had not turned a wheel in 1979, however the Motorcycle Riders Association was all the rage.
The profile of motorcycling has also changed enormously with greater acceptance at a business level that riding a motorcycle is okay. Perhaps the Ulysses Club has helped the swing to respectability. There have been very public” outings” of motorcycling chief executives of major public companies, media personalities and sports stars. Back in the past these people may have cringed at their association with motorcycling.
While I am sure modern motorcyclists have a tough edge these days, there seems to be a lack of the lunatic fringe who would tackle almost any route on a big touring bike. Often the domain of the dreaded BMW rider, there were riders who held down a full-time job and still punched out 50,000 km a year, and they weren’t couriers or rider trainers. I can remember attending three rallies in a (long) weekend toting up a couple of thousand kilometres and there were many far sillier. Of course speed limits were not as restrictive and revenue-raising from radars was not government financial policy.
Modern motorcycles with fat tyres are not conducive to sand tracks, bulldust and corrugations, the regular domain of the late 1970s too early 1980s rally-goer. The Bear (no relation to Peter Thoeming) toted up 100,000 km in 14 months on a R90S then used the bike (the “Old Girl”) to haul a sidecar across the Gunbarrel Highway in 1978.
Today we are a fashion-conscious lot with matching (or colour co-ordinated) leathers, synthetics, helmets, boots, gloves and motorcycles. This includes commuters, sports riders and some touring dudes. There are even women’s sizes, at last.
When I kicked off, disposal store fireman’s boots, gauntlets and a leather jacket/jeans were standard clobber. It wasn’t long however before I fell into the high fashion of Barbour/Belstaff waxed cotton in Henry Ford colours of black or – you guessed it – black! Functional they were (if you looked after them) fashion statements they weren’t. You could ride through rain and dust, certain to cook in the heat and potentially freeze in winter.
The motorcycling buzz appears to have moved towards the racetrack environment and short rides up winding roads. Tour operators are now beginning to thrive as riders allows others to plan their holidays rather than take the challenge of putting together the plan themselves. That is probably a factor of modern society.
Access to remote areas is much better these days. The challenge reduced is the price of development. While I commute daily on a variety of German machines, I no longer regularly get the chance to greet the dawn of a new day out the back of nowhere. The magic of sunrise and the satisfaction of rolling into town with the last glow of sunset caressing the horizons are still high points of motorcycling for me.
Unless you are into long-distance blasting you can’t appreciate the immense satisfaction of riding motorcycles fast all day over tar and dirt through scenery you have not seen before. Somehow we managed to sight-see and spend time yarning with local identities as well as pushing huge distances.
“Mate, the bulldust holes on the way to Sandfire Flat swallow Minis”.
“You will never make it, the mailman hasn’t got through for weeks.”
Of course officials often just resigned themselves to the advances of Belstaff-clad motorcyclists.
“Yeah, off you go. Just call when you get to the other end.” Boulia Police, Plenty Highway 1978.
Outback directions always crack me up, with turning points identified by woolsheds, broken-down vehicles, arrows and fuel drums. Now was that car blue or black?
Distance can, of course, be measured by slabs of beer. We monitored the performance of the one of our direction-givers and found that meant about 280 km on a tarred road. A trip that started at 10am in Frewina ended at Barry’s Cave. He had one can left!
There have been bikes that have touched the soul along the way, including the Laverda Jota with Slater Brothers pipes (an exhaust note to die for); the Laverda Corsa (the faster you went the better it got); the Ducati 851 (I bought one); the BMW R80GS (underpowered but versatile, bought one of those too), various V4 Hondas and big Kawasakis.
Although I have tested a dozen of them I have failed to recognise the attraction of Harleys or the lifestyle/individuality that is supposed to go with them. Let’s all dress in black! Yeah, right!
The ZZ-R1100 returned me back to the Z1300, years later reminding me of how silly I had been as a 28-year-old.
Ride experiences include eight Border Runs from Sydney to the WA/SA border on a variety of machines. It’s silly to ride 5200 km in four days to have a beer with some mates, but why not? Arriving back to find snow at Lithgow at night, wearing a full millimetre more off the right hand side of the tyre leaning into a booming sou’wester and being sucked within feet of an oncoming semi-trailer as I entered its wind shadow at 180km/h: Hairy! Smacking ‘roos at 110km/h is not advisable, nor is careering across the Eyre Highway with a rapidly deflating rear tyre to pull up in the table drain without falling off: Challenging.
I’ve ridden the Plenty Highway, Collinsville Track, Cooktown by the coast, the River Road and numerous dotted lines in between.
I’ve holed pistons, broken wheels, holed rocker covers, lost sump plugs, mufflers, fairing sections, and clouted ‘roos, birds and other furry things. I have lost count of the kilometres — 750,000-plus perhaps.
Through all this runs a single constant. There is very little to rival the sensation of a perfect series of corners on a sunny day …
By Geoff Hall. 35 Years of Two Wheels, 2003
