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Not the Race
(by Guy 'Guido' Allen, October 2023, Travels with
Guido series #371)
The answer to a question
no-one asked
For those among you who want to cut to the chase,
I'll reveal the results: Spannerman came second – twice.
Right, now we've got that out of the way, I'll give
you a little background. Spanner was hosting a Lemmings
MC (motto: Death before courtesy) barbecue and, since we
had a quorum, he politely asked guest of honour Bill
McKinnon his thoughts on the riding abilities of
assembled dingbats. McK enjoys poking a sharp blade into
the balloon of life and scored the Lemmings from top to
bottom.
I came second and Mr S came equal fifth.
You'd think fifth was alright, until you realise the
Lemmings only has four members.
Spannerman was outraged and of course the rest of us
teased him mercilessly for a year over that one. I'm
deeply grateful to McK for the very large bucket of bait
he left us with (which has lasted well), just before
jumping back on a bomber to Lower Byabarra.
The depth of Spanner's anger didn't register on the
Guido emotional radar until lunch at Minh Minh – the
official club noodle palace – many months later, when,
while eyeing me over an unspeakably cheap glass of red
(must get the recipe as I have some wallpaper to strip),
he opined, "That piece of shit Valkyrie won't see which
way my GS went." Foolishly, I rose to his bait (this is
starting to sound like a fishing column), and suggested
he was in for a surprise and, by the way, he was full of
it and most of his family deserved to wear silly hats.
Of course Mr S wanted satisfaction, in the duelling
sense, and decided he had to take on all the Lemmings
(possibly including himself) – one by one. He failed to
slap yours truly across the chops with a gauntlet, throw
it to the ground, and spit on it (which is in the club
constitution, and richly deserved), but did reckon on
some salvation of his riding reputation via a challenge.
Or fake race.
A week later we were in Tintaldra, the official club
resort.
We navigated to a suitably
quiet place and upped the ante on a bit of tar which
would fit in well (for NSW readers) with the Putty Road.
He was up my tailpipes on the early tight stuff but,
once the road opened up a tad, dropped out of reach. It
took about 20 kays, but Mac & Co hosed him.
This seems as good a time as any to introduce the
motorcycles: I was on Mac the 2001 Valkyrie Interstate
full-dress tourer, and he on a 1981 Suzuki GS1000G, aka
the Lemmings-approved thinking man's sport bike. Talk
about a mismatched set...
The sad part was I couldn't get any decent music on
the Valk's radio. Triple J was out of range, so I was
forced to listen to the weekly sheep-crutching reports
on Local Yokel FM.
We had lunch at the King River pub and he grumbled
about the extraordinary horsepower advantage enjoyed by
the Valk. I'll get to that a little later.
So after a couple of Shirley
Temples, and a mixed grill, we headed off up the
mountain. Since I started the first session in front it
seemed right invite him to take the lead this time – but
he refused. A shame, as it's much easier to chase than
lead.
Off up the mountain and I had the radio on again. He
was in the mirrors most of the time, and was right up my
date when the advisory corner posts wound down to 20km/h
(like the really tricky corners on the lower reaches of
Mt Tambourine for Qld readers).
We
hit the top of the mountain and I, hearing the "This is
the Goon Show!" call sign trumpeting though the helmet
speakers (Radio National had finally kicked in), decided
to back off and enjoy. I can recommend listening to the
professional goons rather than watch the amateur version
in your mirrors.
Of course we've heard the excuses. Such as Mac had
an unfair horsepower advantage. Okay, here it comes: a
Valk Inter runs 100 horses while a 1981 GS has 80 (I own
two GSs, have owned a third, and know the series), so
there's a small power-to-weight advantage. An Interstate
weighs 100 kilos more than a GS, has half the cornering
clearance, much slower steering and a far longer
wheelbase.
Oh, I forgot excuse number three, which was, "I
couldn't pass because that thing's so effing big." Crap.
If he were any good, he should have nailed me by the
second corner and have had time to knit a jumper by the
top of the mountain.
Now here comes the worst part. We're both terrified
of the prospect that we ever meet on equal machinery –
like our GS Suzis. It would be a ride to the death, with
no financial reward, but plenty of bandages. And he just
might get me.
The fact is we're too tall, fat, slow, scared and
the other to be offered a professional race ride. Which
is fine – it would answer a question I never want asked.
(First published in
Motorcycle Trader magazine circa 2002)
More Travels with Guido columns here
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