Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means by Charley Boorman
Authors: Charley Boorman
Ads: Link
All the stuff I’d been fretting over was back in its proper perspective, and even more so as we landed back in Cairns. Another of the RFDS planes had just flown in with a man who’d had a heart attack. The aero retrieval plane is basically a flying intensive care unit. There was a doctor on board and the chap they wheeled to the ambulance had been in expert care ever since the pilot landed.
The following morning, 27 May, I woke up early. It was raining. Again. We had had a little respite up in the bush yesterday but this morning it was dark and overcast, and the clouds just seemed to dribble over the city. After a short drive north I was feeling much more positive. First there was David Williams, a cheerful soul with cropped hair and the kind of granite-like features I’d seen in Mark, the Diamond T driver. David was younger, though - in his thirties. He’d ridden with some serious dirt-bike riders and one wall of his house was devoted to newspaper cuttings of their exploits. He greeted us warmly and, better still, he had three motorbikes all ready and waiting - a pair of Suzuki DR Z400Es and a KTM 640 that he had borrowed from a mate of his. I’ll come to the KTM later but suffice to say I think I put the hex on it.
Originally the plan had been for Claudio to ride on the back of David’s bike, but with all this rain the dirt roads would be like an oil slick and with two up it would be very awkward. We decided the best thing to do was rig up a helmet camera for Claudio to use on his own bike.
‘So when was the last time you rode on the dirt, Clouds?’ I asked him.
‘ Long Way Down ,’ he said. ‘Two years ago.’
‘And how were you on the mud? I can’t remember.’
‘I was shit, Charley. I kept falling off.’ He peered at me over the top of the camera. ‘Have you got any tips for me?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hold on tight.’
We were planning to get as far north as Mossman by nightfall, where we would sleep over at my great friend Diane’s house. Diane is the mother of one of my oldest friends, Jason, who is godfather to my daughter Doone. I’d spoken to Diane on the phone and she had told me we were all welcome at the ‘Playhouse’, as she calls Karnak Farm. The Playhouse is a little home away from home - I’d been there many times before, the first time some twenty-four years previously. We had to make sure we made it for dinner - Diane was putting on a spread involving roast lamb and champagne. I assured her we would. Then, kitted up, at last I was on a motorbike.
‘We’re riding about twenty Ks on the coast road,’ David explained as we got the cameras sorted out and the bikes going. ‘After that we’ll cut inland and take the Black Mountain Road as far as Mount Molloy. It’s a forest road but it is public and people live up there, so make sure you stay on the left.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We ought to be in Molloy around twelve-thirty, maybe one o’clock, and there’s a neat little café called the Loco Lobo where they serve the biggest hamburgers I reckon you’ll have ever seen.’ He nodded to the two yellow Suzukis. ‘You’ve got brand-new rubber on those and with this rain the tarmac will be greasy. Watch the roundabouts, they can be treacherous.’
We headed up the coast to a sign for the Black Mountain Road. Then after crossing a soaking bridge at Duggan’s Creek we were on the dirt and I was up on the foot pegs. At last, some off-road riding. Don’t get me wrong, I love the tarmac and I love sports bikes, but the dirt . . . the dirt is fun, fun, fun.
Within minutes we were deep into the rainforest and the surface was alternating between mushy stuff, a little cindery clay and patches of hard baked dirt where the falling water had created just a few millimetres of mud. Those few millimetres were like sheet ice, and ahead of me on the orange KTM, David lost the back and was down.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked as Claudio and I pulled up.
‘No
The following morning, 27 May, I woke up early. It was raining. Again. We had had a little respite up in the bush yesterday but this morning it was dark and overcast, and the clouds just seemed to dribble over the city. After a short drive north I was feeling much more positive. First there was David Williams, a cheerful soul with cropped hair and the kind of granite-like features I’d seen in Mark, the Diamond T driver. David was younger, though - in his thirties. He’d ridden with some serious dirt-bike riders and one wall of his house was devoted to newspaper cuttings of their exploits. He greeted us warmly and, better still, he had three motorbikes all ready and waiting - a pair of Suzuki DR Z400Es and a KTM 640 that he had borrowed from a mate of his. I’ll come to the KTM later but suffice to say I think I put the hex on it.
Originally the plan had been for Claudio to ride on the back of David’s bike, but with all this rain the dirt roads would be like an oil slick and with two up it would be very awkward. We decided the best thing to do was rig up a helmet camera for Claudio to use on his own bike.
‘So when was the last time you rode on the dirt, Clouds?’ I asked him.
‘ Long Way Down ,’ he said. ‘Two years ago.’
‘And how were you on the mud? I can’t remember.’
‘I was shit, Charley. I kept falling off.’ He peered at me over the top of the camera. ‘Have you got any tips for me?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hold on tight.’
We were planning to get as far north as Mossman by nightfall, where we would sleep over at my great friend Diane’s house. Diane is the mother of one of my oldest friends, Jason, who is godfather to my daughter Doone. I’d spoken to Diane on the phone and she had told me we were all welcome at the ‘Playhouse’, as she calls Karnak Farm. The Playhouse is a little home away from home - I’d been there many times before, the first time some twenty-four years previously. We had to make sure we made it for dinner - Diane was putting on a spread involving roast lamb and champagne. I assured her we would. Then, kitted up, at last I was on a motorbike.
‘We’re riding about twenty Ks on the coast road,’ David explained as we got the cameras sorted out and the bikes going. ‘After that we’ll cut inland and take the Black Mountain Road as far as Mount Molloy. It’s a forest road but it is public and people live up there, so make sure you stay on the left.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We ought to be in Molloy around twelve-thirty, maybe one o’clock, and there’s a neat little café called the Loco Lobo where they serve the biggest hamburgers I reckon you’ll have ever seen.’ He nodded to the two yellow Suzukis. ‘You’ve got brand-new rubber on those and with this rain the tarmac will be greasy. Watch the roundabouts, they can be treacherous.’
We headed up the coast to a sign for the Black Mountain Road. Then after crossing a soaking bridge at Duggan’s Creek we were on the dirt and I was up on the foot pegs. At last, some off-road riding. Don’t get me wrong, I love the tarmac and I love sports bikes, but the dirt . . . the dirt is fun, fun, fun.
Within minutes we were deep into the rainforest and the surface was alternating between mushy stuff, a little cindery clay and patches of hard baked dirt where the falling water had created just a few millimetres of mud. Those few millimetres were like sheet ice, and ahead of me on the orange KTM, David lost the back and was down.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked as Claudio and I pulled up.
‘No
Similar Books
