Read Online Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means by Charley Boorman - Free Book Online
Authors: Charley Boorman
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with the trip barely a week old, it was a dumb thing to do. On top of that I had damaged David’s bike for no good reason.
We patched up the bike and I rode on with my confidence a little rocked and feeling annoyed with myself for being so foolish. It didn’t get any better when a couple of hours later we arrived at the Bloomfield River car ferry. We wanted the truck to drive on first so we could film the bikes as we rode on. It wasn’t an outrageous request, but the crew were having none of it. They told us we couldn’t do that - the bikes had to go first, because those were the rules and rules were not to be broken. Up in his wheelhouse the driver had a loudspeaker and all the way over he kept chirping away at everyone.
‘Stay with your vehicle. Do not get out of your vehicle. Stay with your vehicle.’
Claudio walked a few yards from his bike to get a shot of the river and all I could hear was the whine of the fucking Tannoy. ‘Stay with your vehicle. You there: stay with your vehicle.’
I thought the whole thing was ridiculous. I mean, this wasn’t the Titanic , it was a tiny little car ferry and all we were doing was crossing a bloody river.
Then I crashed again. I couldn’t believe it - it’s years since I came off twice in the same day. I don’t know what happened really. I took a tight bend on some pretty glassy mud and the next thing I know I’m picking myself up, having lost the front this time. Of course the others got to me before I’d got the bike fully upright, so I couldn’t even get away with pretending it hadn’t happened. David slithered to a halt and cast an anxious glance across his machinery. ‘Charley,’ he said, ‘you keep on like this, mate, and you’ll own that bike before the day’s out.’
Eventually we made it to Wujal Wujal without any further incident and parked the bikes at the Lion’s Den. Max had bought the place just a few months previously and, together with his wife and two children, he was determined to make a success of it. It was a beautiful spot, close to Black Mountain, very tropical and very green. The pub itself backed on to farm land owned by an Aussie snake charmer called Jim. OK, not a charmer as such, but a guy with some land who liked snakes. The pub itself reminded me of the one in Daly Waters: inside it was covered in memorabilia, T-shirts, newspaper cuttings, bras and panties . . . Apparently it was a regular haunt for the 4×4 enthusiasts who took on the kinds of Cape York roads we’d just been riding.
The guys from Zero had got there ahead of us. They had two bikes which Phil (who ran the Melbourne-based operation) told me had come all the way from California.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘all for you, mate. Seeing as how you’re the icon of world motorcycling right now, we wanted your opinion.’
Me, an icon. Hmm . . . He’d got the wrong guy, hadn’t he? But then again . . . Puffing out my chest I shot Claudio a glance that said: keep your mouth shut about the two spills I had on the way up here, while I impress this gentleman, OK? God bless him, Claudio said nothing.
The bike was brilliant. It looked like a mountain bike, only bigger . . . which I suppose is pretty much what it was. On the dirt track in the snake charmer’s field, it performed every bit as well as the bikes we’d been riding all day. You could limit the speed to 30 mph if you wanted but it would hit 60. Phil explained that it ran on a lithium-ion battery and each charge lasted around two hours. It gave out zero emissions and was easy on the eye. As with the car I’d driven, I am sure that if you’re going to put forward an alternative to conventional vehicles, it has to look like something a customer is familiar with. And this one did.
We took them for a spin, Phil tearing ahead of me, sliding the thing across the dirt like a supermotard. He caught some air at the top of the rise while in the fields next door the horses went on eating. The bike wasn’t silent, it
We patched up the bike and I rode on with my confidence a little rocked and feeling annoyed with myself for being so foolish. It didn’t get any better when a couple of hours later we arrived at the Bloomfield River car ferry. We wanted the truck to drive on first so we could film the bikes as we rode on. It wasn’t an outrageous request, but the crew were having none of it. They told us we couldn’t do that - the bikes had to go first, because those were the rules and rules were not to be broken. Up in his wheelhouse the driver had a loudspeaker and all the way over he kept chirping away at everyone.
‘Stay with your vehicle. Do not get out of your vehicle. Stay with your vehicle.’
Claudio walked a few yards from his bike to get a shot of the river and all I could hear was the whine of the fucking Tannoy. ‘Stay with your vehicle. You there: stay with your vehicle.’
I thought the whole thing was ridiculous. I mean, this wasn’t the Titanic , it was a tiny little car ferry and all we were doing was crossing a bloody river.
Then I crashed again. I couldn’t believe it - it’s years since I came off twice in the same day. I don’t know what happened really. I took a tight bend on some pretty glassy mud and the next thing I know I’m picking myself up, having lost the front this time. Of course the others got to me before I’d got the bike fully upright, so I couldn’t even get away with pretending it hadn’t happened. David slithered to a halt and cast an anxious glance across his machinery. ‘Charley,’ he said, ‘you keep on like this, mate, and you’ll own that bike before the day’s out.’
Eventually we made it to Wujal Wujal without any further incident and parked the bikes at the Lion’s Den. Max had bought the place just a few months previously and, together with his wife and two children, he was determined to make a success of it. It was a beautiful spot, close to Black Mountain, very tropical and very green. The pub itself backed on to farm land owned by an Aussie snake charmer called Jim. OK, not a charmer as such, but a guy with some land who liked snakes. The pub itself reminded me of the one in Daly Waters: inside it was covered in memorabilia, T-shirts, newspaper cuttings, bras and panties . . . Apparently it was a regular haunt for the 4×4 enthusiasts who took on the kinds of Cape York roads we’d just been riding.
The guys from Zero had got there ahead of us. They had two bikes which Phil (who ran the Melbourne-based operation) told me had come all the way from California.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘all for you, mate. Seeing as how you’re the icon of world motorcycling right now, we wanted your opinion.’
Me, an icon. Hmm . . . He’d got the wrong guy, hadn’t he? But then again . . . Puffing out my chest I shot Claudio a glance that said: keep your mouth shut about the two spills I had on the way up here, while I impress this gentleman, OK? God bless him, Claudio said nothing.
The bike was brilliant. It looked like a mountain bike, only bigger . . . which I suppose is pretty much what it was. On the dirt track in the snake charmer’s field, it performed every bit as well as the bikes we’d been riding all day. You could limit the speed to 30 mph if you wanted but it would hit 60. Phil explained that it ran on a lithium-ion battery and each charge lasted around two hours. It gave out zero emissions and was easy on the eye. As with the car I’d driven, I am sure that if you’re going to put forward an alternative to conventional vehicles, it has to look like something a customer is familiar with. And this one did.
We took them for a spin, Phil tearing ahead of me, sliding the thing across the dirt like a supermotard. He caught some air at the top of the rise while in the fields next door the horses went on eating. The bike wasn’t silent, it
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