I've long since learned that one doesn't turn down ride invitations from a certain Paul in NZ chappy, especially spur of the moment ones.
There are are a number of reasons, one of which involve a horse's head, so I dutifully responded in the affirmative.
After confusing the War Memorial with the Cenotaph and being redirected by a totally random (and very nice) chap on a TRX, I found myself inserted into a mass of eclectic humanity, ranging in age from 10 or 11 through to about 111 (sorry Mr Huurdeman). I could get to like this. I'm younger than the average age of the group, and I'm "normal". Sweet!
Passing comments like, "This is the easiest group ride I've ever been on - just follow the old people on the weird bikes" seemed appropriate at the time, believe me. It may have been weird people on old bikes. Either way, the fact that the comment was greeted in good humour tended to confirm Paul's assessment of the average Classic Club run as being good fun.
The briefing was conducted by a chap in WWII Russian Army regalia. He rides a Ural outfit - ring any bells Wellington people? He's a bloody good MC and had gone to a lot of trouble preparing for today's themed ride, the theme of which was: Wellington's WWII fortifications.
The ride started with the Mt Cook Military site, which is basically the area immediately surrounding the War Memorial. Air raid shelters, command posts, Fighter Control centre's Prisons, Police Barracks, brick works, you name it, it's been on that site. HMNZS Olphert is of course the last active military site there, but the history and the hidden constructions in the area are fascinating.
So is a BSA Bantam with an X7 spannie and a GL145 front disc and master cylinder.
From there, the Commie in the Ural took us to Aro Valley.
We took in the Mitchelltown WWI Memorial too. Man those Petersen's were THE unluckiest family ever. Bugger Private Ryan, someone give these people a leg up! 3 Dead, one wounded. We got a quick lecture on Dr Bill Sutch (look it up - Google is your friend), the Russian embassy and how Taxis disappear in rain bursts.
The last time I went to Wright's Hill it was a total mess. The volunteers working on the restoration are working miracles though and the chap giving us the tour was very knowledgeable (if a bit cynical about Government support) and was so incredibly obsessed with Wellington's Military history he made the Classic Club guys look like people who were mildly interested in powered transport. From Blast Traps, to resin sealing, the workings of a magazine for a 9.3in gun, everything had an excellent tale attached to it.
From there we went to Fort Opau. Normally Coastal Battery fortifications are given a battery number, but for some reason, unfathomable to the modern civilian mind, NZ's WWII Army decided to call it Fort Opau. See? I learned stuff.
To get to Fort Opau involved the Makara rd. Sigh. What a damn shame. 50 km/hr. I haven't been out there since it was a mix of 70 km/hr and 100 km/hr. That road never used to be THAT long. It used to be fun and challenging on my RG250. The Zed just went "YAWN". Might be the rose tinted spectacles of deeds past making me faster and slimmer than I really was.
As usual the Makara Model School failed to deliver the expected result that name conjures; it isn't built to scale, nor is
Giselle Bundchen a crossing guard, Elle Macpherson the principal (bend over you naughty boy), and Naomi Campbell wasn't standing by the road side hurling cellphones at passersby.
Instead of turning right and heading to Johnsonville at the end of the Makara road we turned left, and then left again up Opau Rd. Which became Opau track, and then Opau there's a bit of sprinkled gravel and then Opau damp-grass-too-narrow-to-be-a-field-thing. Then it became Opau Oh-My-God that is beautiful. Two 6in gun emplacements, an OP (Observation Post) and plotting room, a Command Post, and a radar plinth. All looking out to the Sth Cook St, iron gray Tasman Sea, the South Island, and all around us the most beautiful, rugged landscape you could imagine. The Islands didn't line up "right" either, reinforcing the fact that after living here in the Wellington Region for 20 years I was somewhere I'd never been before.
I'd had a warning on the way up that damp grass, 100HP, and 180 section tyres don't really mix. A bike stalled in front of me, so I stopped 'til he got going again. We were on a slight uphill incline and when I went to pull away I popped the clutch and stayed dead still. That's not right. I little bit more throttle had me going sideways. Doh. Little bit of clutch and off we went. The guy two up on the Triumph America behind wasn't bothered about being sprayed in grass and mud, thank goodness.
On the way down. Classic bike to the left of me, Classic bike to the right, all of them going relatively quickly thanks to narrow tyres, low weight, and grunty little engines. I gassed it a little as I went over a lump of clay in the middle of the grass track. You know, bit of a jolt, throttle twitches. Twitched enough to throw the back out 20 degrees or so, the panic throttle off chucked it the other way and the throttle on (a leetle teeny beet) caught it and off we went. Really slowly. Classic bike guy behind me goes past laughing .
Got to the bottom of Opau Rd, and Paul in NZ says, "want a go?"
"What, really?", says I.
"Yes", he says.
"Hurry up and fucking get off", I say.
Kick starting. How many of you have ONLY ever kick started a two-stroke (I puts my hand up I does). Clutch in doesn't work. Paul reaches down and spins it over with his teeth or something. I'm not looking I just want to get going.
I stall at the first intersection. Kick start out, tweak, tweak, KICK, vrooom.
Told you I wasn't gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind.
Agggh, gear lever on the right, brake on the left, "ANTICIPATION IS YOUR FRIEND." I'm not quite sure how Paul manages to speak in capitals, but what is clear is that he loves this bike and I better not break anything.
I've never ridden a Triumph. Which is odd, because I'm of an age where everyone's first ride on a big bike was usually a Bonnie or a Commando. Not me. Kawasaki S2, followed by a Suzuki GS1000S. So I'm not tainted by the golden glow of "historic events".
I truly had no idea what to expect.
Reprogramming the feet was not as difficult as I imagined, so long as I took my time with things. Two fingered braking is a good way to crush the the first knuckles of your outside fingers flat. So don't do that. The foot massage was indescribably wonderful, though the vibes could probably get to you over time. Maybe not though. MMmmm massage.
You know how everyone goes on about Modern bike's handling being so much better than the old days? Rubbish I say. With a capital R. Paul's Triumph sways and dives up to, through, and out of corners in a way that modern bikes just can't. Too much weight, too high up. In fact the bloody thing goes around corners by itself, which is very useful when the pilot has a mental dialogue going on that is about using the correct levers and not lugging the engine and not over revving the engine, and why am I in neutral, and why do I slow down when I try to change down then accelerate (GEAR LEVER ON RIGHT MORON). Once the internal dialogue slowed down riding this bike just became huge fun.
I've ridden the Triumph. I didn't crash. Even though that lady at the Johnsonville roundabout thought I was going to. By gum, it was fun. Riding it puts the "Ton Up" boys feats in perspective. They really earned that appellation.
Thanks for the brilliant day Paul and the Wellington Classic Bike Club. I learned stuff about Wellington's history, hung out and breathed the same air as some pretty cool people, found out that Classic Club people are actually one hell of a lot less judgmental than you lot and had more fun than riding over the 'Takas. Again.
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Originally Posted by Paul in NZ
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