Old Hat
Editorial
While road testing the impressive Kawasaki Versys 1000 for this issue, I found myself at Kiama, so I zipped up to Sugarloaf Lookout to take in the vista. It immediately reminded me of an episode in the same spot, a long time ago. Back in those days there were several Reliability Trials for perpetual trophies that were very keenly contested, one being the Goodwin Shield presented by the Auto Cycle Union of NSW. This particular year, the Illawarra region was the venue, and the large field of contestants from various clubs scooted around the marvellous back roads through the hills and valleys that were virtually deserted and are largely untouched even today. One of the event’s sections concluded at the Lookout, but prior to that there was what was called a ‘Transport’ section, up the main road from Berry.
We had been instructed by the head official that this section was untimed and we were to strictly observe the road rules and speed limits, to which we all nodded in tacit agreement. The reality was somewhat different, as we headed north towards Kiama, around the glorious sweeping bends with the ocean on our right, I found myself in the company of some noted ‘scratchers’, such as Garry Thomas, Paul Giles, Laurie Alderton and a few others. Needless to say, all thoughts of gentlemanly conduct vanished and the race was on. It was thrilling stuff, flat on the tank, footrests dragging the bitumen despite the grip-less tyres, with very little in the way of traffic to impede progress. In short order we arrived at the lookout, removed helmets and all had a great laugh, when we perceived the sound, rapidly growing in intensity, of a car engine at full throttle. Seconds later, the vehicle appeared, vaulting the cattle grid across the lookout entrance with all four wheels off the ground, then locking up and coming to a tyre-smoking halt.
The vehicle, a plain coloured Morris Cooper S, had scarcely stopped when the driver’s door burst open and out leapt a uniformed policeman whose face was the hue of ripe beetroot. Apoplectic with rage and hardly able to form words, he demanded to know who the motorcyclists were that he had been trying (unsuccessfully) to catch for the past 20 minutes. We all gazed about innocently, with much scratching of chins and shrugging of shoulders, until Sergeant Plod demanded to be told who was in charge. The hapless head official appeared almost simultaneously, to be furiously lambasted about the flagrant flouting of the law and endangerment of the general public. After a great deal of discussion he managed to calm the officer down, and following a vehement lecture and threats to shoot on sight should the behaviour be repeated, he got into his little car and drove off. Then it was our turn to cop it from the official until, suitably admonished, we meekly departed to commence the remaining section of the rally. It was tempting to resume the ding-dong – it was after all unfinished business – but we thought better of it since many of us needed our racing licences and could not afford to run foul of the ACU. Pity, there was some great roads ahead just aching to be thrashed upon. And there still are...