Read Online Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means by Charley Boorman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charley Boorman
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gave out a slight clattering sound, but that was it. On normal dirt bikes those horses would have been at the other end of the field by now, frightened away by the noise. The Zero was nimble and quick, and it felt like a 125 or a 250 maybe. It offered 100 per cent torque, had no gears, no clutch and no foot controls. There was a back and front brake on the handlebars, just like on a mountain bike.
I was seriously impressed. Phil told me they made a street version, and I would happily use one of those at home in London. We made a point of sharing the dirt track with Max and David on the regular bikes and, I have to say, there was very little to choose between the levels of performance.
Jim the snake charmer came out to watch. He looked like some old drover in a beat-up cowboy hat with a sweat-stained rim.
‘G’day, Charley,’ he said when we pulled up. ‘Your mate Claudio here tells me you’d like to see some snakes.’
‘Snakes?!’ I squawked. What was he talking about? I hate snakes. Claudio knows that.
‘For the programme, Charley, for the BBC,’ said Claudio. ‘Jim told me he keeps more than thirty.’
‘Does he?’ I said. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t release them all at the same time then.’ Reluctantly I followed the farmer into a large shed where he had various glass cages, one of which was secured by a chipboard lid. It was screwed down and Jim had to undo it with his drill and screwdriver bit.
‘The fellow in this one is pretty venomous,’ he explained. ‘People get drunk in the pub next door and sometimes they wander in here. Wouldn’t want them putting their hand into the cage now, would I?’ He made a face. ‘I suppose I could put a lock on the bloody thing, but I’d only lose the key.’
In the bottom of the cage was a particularly vicious-looking snake that Jim called a speckled brown. ‘He can be pretty nasty,’ he said, giving the snake a prod. ‘When he gets pissed off he’ll flatten out . . . see there he goes now.’
The snake had lowered his head as if to strike and I was less than impressed. I really do not like snakes.
‘Yeah, you want to commit suicide? Just put your hand in there,’ Jim went on. ‘Won’t cost you nothing, he’ll do it for free.’
He also had a coastal taipan, the third most venomous snake in the world. It was a pale brown colour and could grow up to twelve feet long.
‘I’ve got a new one,’ he told Max, ‘a fear snake, caught her just the other day.’ He showed us another cabinet where a thin, black snake was lying on a patch of shingle. Opening the lid, Jim took his long-stemmed snake-catching device and went to move it. ‘Very fast striking,’ he said. ‘I’ll give her a prod, Charley, and you can touch the scales.’
I looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said.
‘You’ll be all right. I’ll catch her behind the head and you can see what she feels like.’
‘All right, go on then.’ It was for the show, I was telling myself. It was for the TV show.
‘There you go.’ Jerking the stick, he hoiked the snake from the glass case and tossed it right at me.
I nearly died of fright. A venomous snake hurled by a grizzled old Cape farmer, who clearly thought it was hilarious. It hit me in the chest and I leapt back, yelling out and expecting to be bitten any minute. But I wasn’t . . . the snake lay in the dirt where it had fallen, and the others were doubled up with laughter. It wasn’t real. It was rubber! They had set me up, the bastards.
The following morning, Max drove me and Claudio to a little airfield at Cooktown, where we were due to meet Graeme Normington, the guy from the Queensland Ship Surveyors. He landed at eight-thirty in a twin-engine Beechcraft Duchess.
‘There’s something about two engines,’ I said to Claudio as Graeme taxied along the runway. ‘I’m happier knowing there are two engines when you’re flying over the middle of nowhere. Do you know what I
I was seriously impressed. Phil told me they made a street version, and I would happily use one of those at home in London. We made a point of sharing the dirt track with Max and David on the regular bikes and, I have to say, there was very little to choose between the levels of performance.
Jim the snake charmer came out to watch. He looked like some old drover in a beat-up cowboy hat with a sweat-stained rim.
‘G’day, Charley,’ he said when we pulled up. ‘Your mate Claudio here tells me you’d like to see some snakes.’
‘Snakes?!’ I squawked. What was he talking about? I hate snakes. Claudio knows that.
‘For the programme, Charley, for the BBC,’ said Claudio. ‘Jim told me he keeps more than thirty.’
‘Does he?’ I said. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t release them all at the same time then.’ Reluctantly I followed the farmer into a large shed where he had various glass cages, one of which was secured by a chipboard lid. It was screwed down and Jim had to undo it with his drill and screwdriver bit.
‘The fellow in this one is pretty venomous,’ he explained. ‘People get drunk in the pub next door and sometimes they wander in here. Wouldn’t want them putting their hand into the cage now, would I?’ He made a face. ‘I suppose I could put a lock on the bloody thing, but I’d only lose the key.’
In the bottom of the cage was a particularly vicious-looking snake that Jim called a speckled brown. ‘He can be pretty nasty,’ he said, giving the snake a prod. ‘When he gets pissed off he’ll flatten out . . . see there he goes now.’
The snake had lowered his head as if to strike and I was less than impressed. I really do not like snakes.
‘Yeah, you want to commit suicide? Just put your hand in there,’ Jim went on. ‘Won’t cost you nothing, he’ll do it for free.’
He also had a coastal taipan, the third most venomous snake in the world. It was a pale brown colour and could grow up to twelve feet long.
‘I’ve got a new one,’ he told Max, ‘a fear snake, caught her just the other day.’ He showed us another cabinet where a thin, black snake was lying on a patch of shingle. Opening the lid, Jim took his long-stemmed snake-catching device and went to move it. ‘Very fast striking,’ he said. ‘I’ll give her a prod, Charley, and you can touch the scales.’
I looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said.
‘You’ll be all right. I’ll catch her behind the head and you can see what she feels like.’
‘All right, go on then.’ It was for the show, I was telling myself. It was for the TV show.
‘There you go.’ Jerking the stick, he hoiked the snake from the glass case and tossed it right at me.
I nearly died of fright. A venomous snake hurled by a grizzled old Cape farmer, who clearly thought it was hilarious. It hit me in the chest and I leapt back, yelling out and expecting to be bitten any minute. But I wasn’t . . . the snake lay in the dirt where it had fallen, and the others were doubled up with laughter. It wasn’t real. It was rubber! They had set me up, the bastards.
The following morning, Max drove me and Claudio to a little airfield at Cooktown, where we were due to meet Graeme Normington, the guy from the Queensland Ship Surveyors. He landed at eight-thirty in a twin-engine Beechcraft Duchess.
‘There’s something about two engines,’ I said to Claudio as Graeme taxied along the runway. ‘I’m happier knowing there are two engines when you’re flying over the middle of nowhere. Do you know what I
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