Tour de Smith

Being as I spend most of my time on, under, dismantling, dreaming about, scheming about, lying about, lying next to, sliding next to, sweating over and swearing at motorcycles of one variety or another, Editor McKinnon has asked me to enlighten all of you tourers — prospective, current or past — with a few of the famed Mr Smith-type tips on touring.

I have obliged by churning out the following load of guff which covers a fair range of stuff. Now remember, Class, some of this stuff’s serious and some isn’t but none of it’s dangerous so today’s practical class is to try them all until you find the ones that both work and suit you. Let’s get into it.

I figured I’d kick off with a bit of advice on what to carry along with you, but in order to decide what to carry one must first know where one’s going and for how long one will be away. This can be a little confusing so I’ll let you in on a couple of true tales and let you work out things from there.

Several years ago, young Dorf (my little big brother) and I were standing beside the Great Western Highway heading toward Bathurst for the Easter weekend and the racing. We had been taking a short break and were enjoying observing the various two-wheeled devices which came rolling past. In the distance we espied a huge blob making its way toward us on two slow and uncertain wheels. As it passed we saw that the machine was a Bavarian Ural, absolutely festooned with tank bags, pannier bags, bed rolls, back-packs, side bags, billy cans, stuff strapped to the crash bars and even a couple of small rolls of stuff taped to the tail light. The barely visible number plate indicated that the machine’s home state was New South Wales.

Dorf looked at me. I looked at Dorf. Both of us stared back to the Munich M.

“Just the essentials?” ventured young Doorfiller as we both burst out laughing. We later decided that the Deutch Dneipr must have been the backup vehicle for a group of poor four wheel drivers away for the weekend.

“Just the essentials” has become my motto when I start thinking about loading up for a trip. If you’re only going away for a few days and your destination is at all civilised then all you’ll probably need to take away is a toothbrush, a toolkit and ten twenties. Here’s a classic example of a bloke going to a three-day rally in the middle of summer with “Just the essentials”.

Mac “Splash” Gurgle and myself were setting off for the Clubman Rally, three days of camping in the middle of a high Oz summer in the hot Oz bush. I had prepared well: a toolkit sufficient to remove the wheels of the machine and repair a puncture, my old and trusted bedroll, a cap sufficient to keep the sun from my bonce, spare socks, a hand towel, a pair of shorts and a toothbrush. Tucker and grog were to be available at or near the site so I relied on the very portable item known as cash to provide me with same.

Now Mac, au Cointreau, hadn’t loaded up when I arrived at his place in the At Emma so I was free to watch him go through the heart-rending process of deciding which pairs of boots to leave behind, how many eskies to take, whether five pairs of gloves would be sufficient, whether to take all four folding chairs, which end of the bike to strap the spare tent to, how to get all two kilos of par-boiled snags into the Gearsack … the list went on and on until, after two hours, the bike was packed. No wonder he needed a Suzuki 1100 to carry it all! Fortunately, Mac has since discovered the error of his ways by following one of these three methods:

Method 1: Gather together all the items that you deem essential to your trip, naturally bearing in mind the mileage and time extents of said trip. Now, sit back, have a quiet drink (tea, coffee, beer, wine, water, cola, ox blood or whatever) and relax for 30 minutes. Now divide the stuff into three piles: Absolutely Bloody Vital, Essential and Necessary. Have another drink and relax for another 30 mins. Take the goodies in the last two piles and put them back in the places from which they emanated. Take the Absolutely Bloody Vital pile and divide it into three piles as above. Have another drink and relax. Repeat the process once again. Finally, after three divisions, take the Absolutely Bloody Vital pile which you will find will just fit into two panniers and a Gearsack. That’s plenty!

Method 2: Gather your gear as above. Spread same in an even layer across a three-cushion lounge. Pick the centre cushion up off the lounge and only take the gear stacked on that cushion.

Method 3: Use Method One but also take a small can of yellow paint and a brush. During your trip place a small daub of yellow paint on every item you actually use (aside, of course, from your toolkit which should be taken regardless). Next time you tour take only those items with a yellow daub of paint on ’em PLUS a brush and a can of green paint. Next tour take only those items with both green and yellow daubs PLUS the brush and a can of red paint.

Continue the process until all you take with you is a VISA card and a multi­coloured toothbrush.

In common with the “Just the essentials” philosophy is the dreaded Concept Of Duality Of Purpose. This Concept (and, as concepts go, it’s a flamin’ little ripper) states that whatever you take away with you in the way of touring equipment should do more than one job. Let us have a squiz at this concept as it applies to the suburban kitchen and then we’ll compare it to touring equipment.

In the average upper middle class Oz kitchen we generally find a stove. Gas or electric, this device provides heat for cooking in its many forms and, despite what the admen tell us, most of ’em are quite similar in having a cooktop, a griller and an oven. (You may notice that I’ve ignored microwave ovens. They’re only good for drying children. And please don’t ever try that!)

Now however, these kitchens possess electric sandwich toasters (a job which can be done with a griller), electric frypans (cooktop), electric steamers (cooktop again), electric crock-pots (cooktop again, or even a fire and a cast iron pot in the back yard), electric toasters even and bloody waffle irons and auto cut-out kettles and flaming pizza cookers. All of these jobs and much more can be done with the ordinary kitchen stove.  

The same thing goes with touring. I often see people turning out the cooking gear whilst on the road to find that they’re carrying three or four different knives, a can opener and, when questioned, they admit to having a wire stripping tool in their toolkit. Sheesh! One knife is plenty. It is, after all, only possible (except in cases of great dexterity) to use one knife at a time. A knife is essentially a steel bar with an edge on one side and, if you have a goody, that’s all you really need for eating, can opening, cooking, building tents (more on that later), making toothpicks, opening bottles and many other jobs about the camp.

While we’re on the subject, here (for those of you who haven’t read about it before elsewhere) is a list of stuff I use to cook and keep myself generally organised. Remember that this stuff fits in a Bren gun ammo pouch measuring 75 x 150 x 225 centimetres  (that’s 3 x 6 x 9 inches … easier in metric, isn’t it). My eating kit contains two army dixies (double as cooking pots), an army spoon/bottle & can opener (comes in your rat packs), a few leather needles, 100 mert mtr mrtee … err 110 yards of fishing line, several fish hooks, some dried bait, a half a dozen OXO cubes, a tin full of wax matches, a couple of tea bags and some army water purification pills.

Oh, I forgot the salt. There’s a bit of that there, as well as a small bottle of OP rum which I keep filled with either Old Kedge or, if I’m feeling rich, Inner Circle 33 per cent OP. The rum doubles as a disinfectant and triples as a cauterising medium, honest! Just about everything in that collection has a double use except, of course, the water pills and the matches. Some items even have a triple use. The fishing line for example can become thread for clothes repair or, in cases of dire emergency, surgical repair, or I can use it to replace broken strings on my ukelele (which, besides providing me with entertainment — an invaluable asset — has come in handy as a magnet).

Some examples of other things I carry which have great Duality Of Purpose are my shorts (which double as swimming clobber in polite company and provide me with something to wear while I’m in a country laundromat washing two weeks of road grime out of my jeans), one of the blankets on my bedroll (which has a hole in it and, when I combine it with my kidney belt, makes a great and very warm overcoat a la serape) and even the bag I carry everything in (which becomes my pillow when I sleep).

One of the pieces of equipment that many tourers carry and which absolutely baffles me is the ubiquitous Tent. I have ridden motorcycles for well over 21 years now and toured much of Oz in the process (although I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t seen it all. It’s a Flamin’ Big Country) and I have never owned a tent.

I admit I’ve slept in the rain and under bridges (which is, incidentally, a Very Bad Move) and that, when offered by more comprehensively-equipped tourers the opportunity to share their tent in conditions of continual and perditious precipitation, I have accepted canvassed hospitality without hesitation, but the fact remains that I cannot see the point of encumbering myself with something which complicates travel so much.

Let me explain more fully. If you own a tent then you will need somewhere to pitch same. This usually implies a camping area in most of the settled parts of the country. Not using a camping area to pitch (I like that phrase “to pitch a tent.” I can imagine a Sixteenth century shipwright homing in on one of Paddy Pallin’s finest with a cauldron of steaming tar and a caulking knife) the tent causes, in these days of rainbow-hued cloth houses, the unwanted (and unwarranted) attention of the Scallywags In Skyblue.

I used to like kipping out in my hoochy, all cammo’d and below ground level with the bike hidden out under a pile of scrub, but that’s the old days. Here’s what I do now when weather dictates that I use a tent-like shelter.  

In every town in Oz there is a business which purveys black agricultural plastic. This stuff currently costs about 70 cents per metre. Since it is about two metres wide the cost per square metre is very low compared to the cost of your genuine tent fabric. Saunter into your Merchandiser In The Mulga and buy yourself four metres of the stuff. You will now see that it folds up about as big as a folded T-shirt. When you reach your picturesque camp site (not a bought one – they frown on people using this stuff – and by not allowing you in the camping ground they’ve saved you double the cost of the plastic) spread the sheeting out on the ground. You will have a very big, black four metre by two metre sheet.

Fold the plastic so that you have a two metre by two metre double thickness sheet. You will notice at this stage that you have an envelope which is only sealed on one side. Seal one of the sides adjacent to the sealed side with your two inch tape (It’s in your toolkit. Do I have to remember everything for you?) and reinforce all the corners you can find with the tape as well. Now it’s time to find some tentpegs and, when you’ve found enough sticks to do the job (hardwood’s best), find yourself a tent pole about a metre long.

Nail down the three closed corners of the envelope and stick the tent pole in the open corner using an ocky strap (the long one which held your bag onto the bike) as a tent rope. Stand back and survey your work. You should now have a creation of which even Mr Utzon would be proud.

Now it’s time to have a drink and you move over to your fire where the water’s boiling merrily in the beer can that you emptied and cut the top from. Carefully sliding the can from the small, rock enclosed fire, you crumble an OXO cube into the still simmering water followed by a couple of small, green eucalyptus leaves.

After the brew has cooled enough to allow you to pick it up with your gloved hand, you ‘sip the lerpy libation and inspect your campsite. A small bag of cooking equipment by the sheltered fire, riding gear inside a wind-and-waterproof shelter and your bike. Soon it’ll be time to cook the rabbit you killed at sun-up with the sling you made with the remains of the inner tube you blew just outside St George.

A vague memory flickers through your mind and you recall a tip a bloke once gave you.

“If you’ve never been touring, fer gawd sake give it a go. Anything over a 125 will do,” the man had said. You draw your harmonica — the lone rider’s companion — from your pocket and the evening bush stills a little as the first strains of the old Robert Johnson song cut the air …

“I’ve got ramblin’, I’ve got ramblin’ on my mind…”

By Peter Smith. Two Wheels Touring Guide and Bikers’ Atlas, 1987