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The Beattie Files: The Battle of Daly
Waters
How a relatively
simple plan to ride Harley panheads across the
country turned into something way more dangerous
involving fireworks and a bus-load of Swedish
backpackers
(Ed's
note: These are excerpts from young Beattie's book on
some of the more colourful incidents in an action-packed
life. See the end of the piece for more info.)
(October 2024, Chris Beattie)
“Are you alright?” inquired the ageing American tourist.
“I could ask someone to come and take a look at you if you
wanted,” he said, a look of grave concern on his face.
While we appreciated the attention, all
we really needed was a rest, after what had been a
particularly punishing previous night in Alice Springs.
Someone had suggested that driving to
Ayers Rock the next day and going for a climb would be a
great idea. Now, lying on the rock, barely a hundred
metres from the start of the climb on a typically stinking
hot central Australian day, it didn’t seem like such a
good move. There were four of us panting, struggling and
sweating as we definitely paid a heavy price for the
night’s revelries.
Our intentions had been sensible enough
to begin with. The idea was to ride a collection of old
Panhead Harleys from Alice Springs to Darwin to mark 50
years since the introduction of the iconic Hydra-Glide
model in 1949.
The 50th Anniversary
Hydra-Glide Ride was the brainchild of prominent
enthusiast, collector and Melbourne Harley dealer, Dave
Reidie and fellow Sydney enthusiast Tony Blain. Between
them, the pair eventually attracted a mixed group of 17
Panheads, ranging in age from an original 1949 example to
1965, the last year of the model.
Riders came from around Australia, with one hardcore
enthusiast even jetting in from the US for the occasion.
With the bikes road-freighted in, all up we had around 30
people, including support crew, gathered in Alice Springs
for the start of the ride.
Riders varied from bike mechanics to
Jumbo pilots and company directors, but all with three
things in common. Every one was a hardcore Harley
enthusiast, they liked getting out and actually riding
their bikes -- and they all had an almost super-human
capacity to consume oceanic quantities of cold beer.
I was there to cover the ride for Heavy
Duty and was fortunate to be offered the loan
of a pristine 1952 FL Panhead by Dave Reidie, so lined up
with the rest of the convoy for our early morning
departure from Alice Springs. The plan was to head north
on the Stuart Highway, where possible stopping off along
the way to enjoy local features and hospitality. Our trip
would take in Tenant Creek, Mataranka Springs, Daly Waters
and Katherine, with Darwin our final stop.
The ride had been planned so the older
bikes wouldn’t have to work too hard in the desert heat,
with each day averaging around 300km on the road. Since we
left fairly early each morning to avoid the hot afternoon
sun, it normally meant we were at our next destination by
lunch time most days. And since each destination included
a bar or pub, invariably thirsts were quenched heartily.
Some highlights included Mataranka
Springs, where we relaxed in the thermal waters, sipping
ice-cold Coronas under the desert palms. Then there was
the Battle of Daly Waters, which began innocently enough
as we enjoyed a few refreshing ales after unpacking our
bikes for the night at the ramshackle and historic Daly
Waters Hotel.
As if materialising out of the distant
heat haze, we watched as a tour bus pulled up in front of
the pub, where all the bikes were parked. Quite a few of
the bus occupants were young, female and seemed
particularly interested in the bikes. And I swear to this
day, they all had Swedish accents. Purely by accident, we
had stumbled upon the proverbial holy grail – a busload of
Swedish backpackers!
Of course, we did our best to make them
feel at home, and I’m pleased to report many of them
experienced their first ride on a Harley that day.
The bus’s arrival seemed to lift the
spirits of our group somewhat, to the point where several
of us remembered that somewhere in the support vehicles
were stashed substantial arsenals of fireworks. Since the
ride would be largely through remote desert, a few of us
had taken the opportunity to pack a few pyrotechnic
devices strictly for celebratory purposes. As darkness
descended, a party atmosphere soon took hold. Our Swedish
guests were staying at a motel just down the road so
joined us as the festivities unfolded. Actually, unraveled would
be more accurate.
The first sign of hostilities occurred
when a small rocket traced a fiery trajectory through the
front door of the pub and ricocheted off the back wall in
a shower of sparks. There was a brief moment of stunned
silence, before riders and backpackers ducked under
chairs, tables or anything else that provided protection.
Suddenly, explosions were erupting all
around us as the protests of the publican were drowned in
a hail of fireworks. Two groups were now clearly at war.
Anyone inside the pub was deemed on one side, while beyond
lurked our enemy, mostly unseen save for the occasional
sinister silhouette sneaking through the bushes.
Soon crackers and rockets flew in all
directions. At one point I found myself in possession of
what looked to be a military-strength display rocket.
Ducking to avoid the incoming fire, I lined it up and lit
the fuse, my target being whoever was firing at us from
across the road.
Whooosh! It launched in a seriously
impressive cloud of fire and smoke, before spectacularly
spearing across the road, where it exploded in a burst of
white hot shards of magnesium. The flash of light was
bright enough to illuminate the “Shell” signage on the
side of a large truck.
“Fucking hell! That truck’s full of
petrol!” came a voice from somewhere out in the darkness
“Might be time for a beer break fellas.”
Fortunately for all combatants -- and
the cowering inhabitants of the Daly Waters Pub –
hostilities ceased as it became obvious that any further
pyrotechnics might result in a large smoking crater where
the pub and most of the town had once been.
After placating the publican with
enough money to cover a few scorch marks and other light
damage, we enjoyed a few more tranquil drinks while
regaling our Swedish friends with tales of firework fights
and other weird Australian traditions.
Each remaining day dawned under a harsh
sun and even harsher hangovers. The almost continuous
stench from road kill, with dead ‘roo and other carcasses
splattered on the highway, was a rude awakening as we hit
the road, but at least we had only two to three hours of
riding till our next destination.
As we closed in on Darwin, we received
word that news of our imminent arrival had spread. A
special Harley Owners Group rally had been organized to
coincide with our arrival – only first we had to negotiate
a reception of an entirely different kind.
Days earlier a member of a Darwin
outlaw motorcycle club had run amok outside town, shooting
several people before disappearing into the bush. The fact
that a large group of riders was now heading for the city
was enough to attract police attention so that we were
confronted by a roadblock, manned by several heavily armed
police, as we approached the outskirts of town.
Initially, the cops seemed on edge and
wanted to know who we were, what club we were with and
what our intentions were. Eventually, we managed to
convince them that all we wanted to do was drink the town
dry as we celebrated the completion of the Alice Springs
to Darwin 50th Anniversary Hydra-Glide
Ride.
The HOG rally put on a great welcome
and after a couple of hours of drinks and entertainment,
we found our way to the Darwin Casino for one last night’s
celebration, including a banquet dinner beside the pool.
Somehow, later in the evening hotel staff and some shocked
guests discovered a few live mud crabs and crayfish had
been let loose in the pool. Accusations were made. Denials
were issued. All I can say for sure was it was a suitably
festive end to one of the best rides I’d been on.
One of our group summed it up
appropriately on the night: “For a skinny bloke, I’ve had
a fat old time!”
I rounded off my coverage of the ride
in Heavy Duty with the observation that:
“My mind screams out for more, but the liver ain’t so sure
…”
More at The Beattie Files home page
The excerpt is from Beattie's wild and woolly book. So far as we know it's had one brief print run and he's threatening to do another. Watch this space.
In the meantime he can be contacted by email.
More at The Beattie Files
home page
Travels with Guido columns here
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