A few weeks ago my Blue Mountains correspondent contacted me and demanded to know why I hadn't used any of her excellent contributions on my blog. I pointed out that the sole contributions she had made so far consisted of 283 different photos of leaf mould and a seventy six thousand word "manifesto" the most socially acceptable components of which included a demand that all lyre birds be rounded up and shot and that earthworms be given citizenship. I'm starting to think that all my correspondents are mentally unhinged. I tried looking for a pattern but the only thing they have in common is that they know me, so I guess it will remain a mystery.
"Why don't you come up and stay the weekend?" she suggested, "I'm sure you'll get material for a blog entry then. Against my better judgement I agreed, partly because I thought I might get a blog entry out of it but mainly because her husband is an excellent cook. I did entertain visions of bushwalks through the more photogenic portions of the Blue Mountains and brought my camera to capture such excitement.
I turned up on Friday night with rain descending in a distinctly unbushwalk friendly way. My correspondent greeted me with bad news.
"I won't be around tomorrow." (well she thought it was bad news). "But, I have good news," (well she thought it was good news). "Dave is riding out to a bike show in Bathurst tomorrow, would you like to go?" Dave is her husband and he sweetened the deal by cooking an excellent meal. My knowledge of motorcycles is limited to a knowledge of how many wheels they have and the last time I was on the back of a bike was thirty odd years (said bike being ridden by Dave). Dave assured me that he had got considerably more risk averse since the last time I'd been on the back. This happens as you get older, the less life you have left the less inclined you are to risk it which is odd because you would think it would be the other way round.
Dave also assured me that if it was raining we would take the car instead (another sad marker of mortality, thirty years ago Dave would have ridden in a hurricane and I would have been happy to be his passenger). I have never been to a bike show and only once been to Bathurst and a lack of interest in either didn't seem to be a great reason to say no, so I said yes. Dave promised to wake me at six the next morning if we were taking the bike.
I woke at eight the next morning to find Dave staring at the rain with disfavour. The weather seemed like a good reason to call the whole thing off but before I could make such a mealy mouthed suggestion I was showered, dressed and sitting in a car which Dave proceeded to point in the direction of Bathurst. We wound our way through and eventually over the mountains and headed for the Western Plains pausing only to have breakfast in Lithgow. Once out of the mountains the weather immediately improved and I could hear Dave grinding his teeth as we were overtaken by bike after bike obviously heading for Bathurst.
I say we headed for the Western Plains but Bathurst is pretty much where they start so we got to the edge of the Western Plains and then stopped. In actual fact there was still a fair bit of up and down along the way and once we arrived in Bathurst Dave suggested that before we saw the bike show we could head for Mount Panorama. If you're a motor racing enthusiast this is holy ground. If you're not its a hill with a race track on it. So anyway Mount Panorama is a hill with a race track on it. Nevertheless even I've heard of it and was quite amenable to a suggestion that we drive the circuit at a modest pace appropriate to our years and the condition of the vehicle we were in.
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| Gazing down on Bathurst from Mt Panorama |
Drive the circuit we did, we even paused for photos. The day wasn't exactly bright but it was pleasant by comparison with the Blue Mountains where the more religious inhabitants had started building arks. With our motor sport itch appropriately scratched we headed into the centre of Bathurst to find the bike show. At this point it was discovered that neither of us knew exactly where said show was located. Dave knew the street but it turned out to be rather a long one that went through the entirety of the town. He suggested we head for the heaviest accumulation of parked vehicles on the theory that the bike show couldn't be far away. I agreed that this sounded logical and towards an endless stream of parked cars we went. Certain we were getting close we rolled past what was essentially a huge parking lot scanning for a gap in the serried ranks of vehicles.
Then the road ended at a park where large numbers of children were playing sport. Weekend sport is apparently quite popular in Bathurst to the point where we wondered if anyone would actually be at the bike show. Reversing our direction we drove back through Bathurst and almost ran into the bike show which was being conducted on the street. A swift sacrifice to the gods provided a parking space not too far away and we alighted to walk in the direction of all things motorcycle.
But first we walked through a park. This wasn't exactly intentional it was just that the park was between us and the bike show. It was quite a handsome park however with an ornamental pond an interesting shade of muddy green.
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| In the park |
We're now about nine or ten paragraphs into this entry and you must be wondering if there is going to be a single photo of a motorbike. Yes, yes there is, your wait is almost over. Once through the park we stepped out of the tedious greenery and onto more appropriate tarmac and concrete. Stretched out along the length of the street were motorbikes all primped and polished and looking their best gleaming under the sadly overcast sky. One person had gone to the trouble of placing a chain around his entry and put up a sign imploring people not to touch. I had no intention of touching and I have Dave's word for the fact that it wasn't anything particularly special motorbike wise anyway.
Most owners were more relaxed, proud to show their charges and accepting the compliments that came their way with modest self deprecation.
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| Look, a motorbike |
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| And here's another |
We spent an enjoyable couple of hours wandering up and down the ranks of motorbikes. Or at least I did. Dave seemed to be muttering something under his breath. As he continued along the collection of bikes the muttering grew louder. Finally he could take it no more, having inspected what was on offer he announced his certainty that the bike he was planning on riding here would have won a prize. But sadly we had come by car and the potentially prize winning bike was back in his garage. Dave seemed inclined to blame me for this since he would certainly have braved the rain if he hadn't had to shepherd me (no he wouldn't). Things were a little awkward for a while and I left him to stew while I putatively studied motor bikes a little distance away. When I returned he had quite sensibly come to the conclusion that it was all my correspondent's fault and he would blame her extensively when we got home. That seemed entirely fair to me.
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| My particular favourite |
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| And for some reason a fire engine. None of the bikes caught fire while I was there |
In all honesty neither Dave nor myself were particularly impressed with the bike show. There were indeed some nice looking bikes there and all cleaned and polished til they shone but there wasn't as much of a selection as I was expecting and almost none of the vintage bikes I had been hoping to see. Dave picked out a few things which impressed him mightily but overall thought the selection a little lacking as well. I didn't suggest this was the reason he thought his bike might pick up a prize as Bathurst is a long way to walk home from.
After a couple of hours of not being quite as impressed as we hoped we jumped in the car and headed for home. Along the way we were passed by bike after bike and Dave's temporarily ceased muttering returned. Then we reached the Blue Mountains and drove into what was essentially a vertical flood.
"Oh shut up," muttered Dave when I raised an amused eyebrow.
When my correspondent and I were younger we shared a house where we partied hard, drank deep and stayed up so late that it wasn't worth going to bed before getting ready for work. We decided to revisit those glory days and indeed we did until 10.30pm when all three of us decided we needed to go to bed. The next day my correspondent introduced me to a selection of rubber snakes.
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| Two of the aforementioned rubber snakes |
I am not the person who can criticise a fetish but this seemed a little odd until she explained that they were there to scare the lyre birds away from her garden. I don't know if they were having any effect on the lyre birds but they were confusing the crap out of the kookaburras who kept trying to kill them. Fortunately they were a little too big to eat.
With my time coming to an end and no sign of a let up in the rain my correspondent showed off her garden. I wasn't particularly crazy about this because well, rain. My correspondent however would work in her garden if it was raining concrete so I smiled and took photos of some rather damp plants.
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| Damp plant #1 |
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| Damp plant #2 |
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| And so on |
All good things must come to an end. At least that's how I worded it to my correspondent who had unexpectedly produced some nylon cord and duct tape. Finally she agreed to drive me to the train station. Which was very kind of her or at least it would have been if the trains had been running.
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