The baggin' some people give Harleys reminds me of the time I went to the 'Combined Bikers' show at Manilla - 60km or so West of Tamworth NSW with my mates Bob and Al and Rusty.
Bob had a few beautiful Harleys, but for this 2,000km tour was on his Heritage Classic - I called it pink - he insisted it was 'Salmon'.
His completely hard case brother, Al was on his Heritage. Rusty was on his hotted up 1200 Sportster and I used to occupy the position one out, one back on my Thunderbird.
We used to ride in pretty tight formation. It's completely different riding to here - there are hardly any corners and the roads don't wash away and are more reliable - so you tend to ride much tighter.
Wazza was on his Fat Boy and Rusty's 'Cousin George' tagged along on his BMW R85 as well as a work mate of Bob's who I'll just call (and called) 'Pretty Boy' on a Ducati 916.
Manilla NSW isn't the end of the earth, but you can see it from there. There are 2 corners in the 60km from Tamworth and a sea of wheat.
The town was obviously once a reasonable centre of commerce as the Community buildings - post office etc are all impressively and incongruously grand. They probably once supported a busy community of tens of thousands - now 100 people live there - maybe.
It's a top 10 contender for 'the middle of nowhere'.
The show grounds are exemplary, 10 acres, full contained by a seriously high masonry wall and sturdy gates, big grandstands and outbuildings.
These remote fortress like surrounds are hired by the 'Combined Bikers' who put on bands, dirty girls, and an all bikers welcome $50 at the gate party.
They come from all over the north eastern seaboard on mainly BEARS - 70% and the rest on larger Japs. Plenty of different patches to 'Wings' and trailer types, kicking back and pretty cool.
Burn out comps (Won by a Triumph!), barrel races, dirt drags, etc etc - then grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and drink till you stagger back to your tent or just fall over and pissed and sleep where you are - type affair.
Full bar facilities operating or bring your own. Big sign on the front gate - 'No cops allowed' and enough patched intimidation at the gate to make the 2 poor blokes in the Patrol crew cab, sent out from Tamworth think it's not worth it anyway.
There's trade shows, the guy selling badges, the goths and the witches stalls and guys selling performance and NOS. Numerous other trade stalls.
I found myself chatting to patched up members of the 'Odins Warriors' about a Bonneville and had a serious rave with some Banditos about Nortons. I had my Triumph tee on and there's always one new triumph nut in all of them.
When the party did get to the dirty girls on stage in the wee small hours, Cousin George, Rusty and I had had enough - what's the point in getting worked up when wives or even a 'spare' girl for George is hundreds of K's away!
Nah - we actually headed back to the quiet of the tents, made a choice little fire and had excellent coffee from George's BMW doohickey kit and a packet of chocolate biscuits pulled from the saddlebags and pestered the little master to 'tell us about winning the 250 World Cup at Brands Hatch again, Rus'.
The big party was lost in the distance except for the explosion of 'thundering kings' - a type of pipe bomb firework favoured at such shindigs and the beat of the bands.
Bob, Al, Wazza and the Pretty Boy went and oggled the strippers and lezzo act on stage.
This may have been where Pretty Boy came unstuck.
It could have been the running his well lubricated mouth off about Harleys and those that ride them - just a bit too loud for the company. Many of it dressed for the set of Mad Max. Some you suspect were living it.
Bob had a quiet word - Al had a word and said to me earlier in the night - 'he's going to be in trouble if he keeps on like that' - but he was already too far gone to listen.
But really, all that was just drawing unwanted attention to himself. I suspect it was when he got way too frisky with several someone's 'real ol' ladies' that he subsequently went missing.
First thing Rusty or George or I knew about it was the kerfuffle Bob and Al were making after they got back from the hospital.
Someone had given 'Pretty boy' a right kicking and our boys were out to settle the score.
Considering they were having trouble finding the tent zipper, there was probably little chance of them locating an unknown assailant among 3,000 equally pissed candidates.
'Will he be orright' - we mumble from sleeping bags - (it's 2c outside by now).
'He'll have to be - I'm not riding that fuckin' Ducati 800km in a straight line.' slurred Al.
And they took our advice to follow it up in the morning.
Next morning Pretty Boy was discharged from hospital and made his own way back to the showgrounds with some of the worst facial swelling i have ever seen.
Watching him push and prod it into a tight AGV full face was perhaps some of the funniest stuff i have ever seen and not been able to laugh at. He didn't take it off all the way home. Hardly said a word either.
'Sure', I thought at the time - 'Harleys are for old soft cocks and accountants' mate - just don't tell the ones who aren't.
Never saw him again. I did ask Bob later - no significant injury.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by skidmark
Bookmarks