from the daytime mid 30 ’ s , bringing condensation and water droplets . A heavy dew greeted the morning ’ s activities . Walking out on to the grand first storey verandah of the White Hart , the timber floor boards , as rough and as worn as some of the faces of the locals occupying the front bar the night before . The white blanket of fog visible up and down the adjacent New England Highway , 50 odd tonnes of truck shattered the serenity , as it rumbled south .
Work commenced at the shire building directly opposite , fossil fuel being converted to power a hedge trimmer , redefining a wayward group of trees . Hi vis clothing , witches hats and warning signs for the nonexistent pedestrians adorned the solo worker and footpath .
Loading my much-reduced amount of gear , in comparison to other trips , onto my body for the ‘ trek ’ to the car park , I closed the freshly painted room door , paint fumes competed tenaciously throughout the night with the odour of sweaty , day-old socks . Trying something different on this trip , I ’ d adopted a Rev ’ It Proteus Armoured shirt , worn underneath the Rev ’ It Element Jacket . While comfortable , and definitely protective , it was still hot . Perhaps it was a three-way battle between the sweat-soaked Proteus shirt , the dayold socks and the fresh paint ?
Without a doubt the air conditioner set to a comfortable 21 degrees contributed to a restful sleep . I was also very sure the 500 gram Angus steak , cooked to perfection , with juices oozing from the grain of the meat as it was served , along with the vegetables and mash , washed down with cold schooners of Toohey ’ s Old , also helped .
Straight lining to Tamworth would see a sedate slab of north bound New England Highway , completed in about an hour . With no time constraints , and no need for being anywhere in particular , at any particular time , straight lining was not on my agenda .
The morning dew shaken from the sheepskin seat cover , a single bag containing all of my required possessions clipped across the rear seat , camera secured in the top box , helmet dragged over my head , remembering to clip the chin strap this time , delicately inserting the arms of my glasses between the helmet lining and my skin , gloves pulled on to each hand , pressing the velcro closures across each wrist , I climbed onto my bike . It was an ok place to be .
I pressed the ‘ on ’ button , thumbed the starter and the motor shook from right to left , starting first go , settling into a rhythmic idle . Scrolling through the myriad of information on the LCD dash , the vital signs were registered and looked good . As I rolled out of the car park , my visual inspection of the tyres confirmed with a 36 and 42 showing on the dash .
Turning left , I headed in a southerly direction , after a brief time , taking another left onto Timor Road . Fog and fine water droplets remained my companion as the bitumen began to wind and climb . A bright dot in the eastern sky made a valiant effort to push through the fog as Mark Seymour lamented of his misspent youth and his experience on the ‘ Football Train ’. Cobwebs and grasses by the roadside were heavy with the overnight dew , the efforts of the sun to warm the day not yet rendering the fine droplets redundant , turning them to vapour .
Shafts of light pierced through the fog . Trees and branches mixed to work with the increasing sunlight , creating a light show to rival any New Year ’ s Eve . It served as a reminder that nature , and the little things around us everyday are the true wonders .
As bitumen broke away to dirt and gravel , dappled light and shadows hid potholes large enough to swallow a bike and its rider . Prose from Banjo Patterson rang in my ears as I viewed modern day riders mustering cattle , pushing them into yards , moving them into trucks for transport to market .
Reaching the quaint village of Nundle , nestled below Hanging Rock , a town with a rich history of gold and gemstones , I paused at the local park , seeking the shade of a large tree , taking the time to quaff water and a muesli bar . Townsfolk happily going about their daily chores , dropped children to school , collected a cache of caffeine , driving slowly , yet apparently purposefully around the block .
Cockatoos and magpies swooped and landed close by , picking through the pine bark , scratching , and biting at objects invisible to my eye .
Fog and dew long gone , the sun climbed higher in the now blue sky , the air warm and heavy with humidity . Gear donned for the ride to Tamworth , sweat quickly formed , pooling on my shoulders and chest , quickly absorbed by the singlet I wore . Tonight ’ s motel room could also be a smelly affair .
Arriving in the township of Woolomin , I was greeted by Humpty Dumpty and his great wall , a sausage dog and a meerkat , the ingenuity of a local ‘ crafts person ’ making a myriad of roadside sculptures from scrap metal . A talent in turning rubbish into art . I smiled as I passed them , and ventured a little further , deciding to turn back , stop and enjoy the creativity and talent on display , and an opportunity to appreciate something different .
Photos taken , I climbed on the bike and turned toward more dirt , a gravel road offering a chance to bypass the ‘ standard ’ route once again . Tight curves climbing a hill , a moment to appreciate the tractability and torque of the motor , the tight downhill curves reminded me of
TRAVERSE 156