Recollections of a special night ride

Pilks wanted to go fishing. On a cool, crisp autumnal evening I was riding into Carlton to pick him up after inter-varsity football. Despite his corked leg, he’d agreed to go pillion to our favourite camping spot in the mountains near Eildon Weir.

Our mount was my recently-acquired ‘56 Norton Dominator 99. Already 10 years old, it was in fair condition, running well, and handling beautifully with its Featherbed frame and Roadholder forks – a quantum leap up from my earlier Triumph Speed Twin with its sprung hub rear. A mate had told me his neighbour’s bike was for sale so I picked it up early one Tuesday morning on the way to Uni. I’d fixed several problems, including panel damage incurred when Dave hit a power pole while trying to outrun the cops after maxing the Domi up Studley Park Road hill, but the wayward Lucas electrics defied all understanding, and both battery and generator were suffering. At least the magneto ignition was independent and allowed the bike to run with or without lights.

We got as far as Box Hill when the faint stench of melting plastic prompted a stop to investigate. In the middle of the shopping centre under a useful street lamp, Pilks paced the footpath while I attempted to rewire the genny, recrimping and rejoining the links to the voltage regulator, battery and lights. Having lost an hour, but with renewed optimism, we pressed on past Coldstream, observing a beautiful Yarra valley stretched out ahead under clear skies, a rising full moon, and a layer of mist at the edge of the hills to come. In the increasing cool, both bike and motor hummed along effortlessly, although the flickering headlight was still a concern. Our euphoria was soon broken after a minor pothole set the headlight lens loose from its nacelle, and it clattered down onto the mudguard held only by the globe’s leads. I reached down and stuffed it back into place while slowing and pulling over.

Into the hills beyond Healesville with darkness closing in and the curves of the Black Spur beckoning, we reached Watts River. The mist seen earlier became thick fog and I suddenly realised we could not see the road at all. As panic set in the extent of the problem became apparent. With the poor battery almost exhausted and the generator only agreeing to donate electricity if revs were kept well up, we had two choices – speed up and face a wall of impenetrable white, or slow down and face total blackness. I settled on about 20 km/h in first gear, balancing the headlight output to not be too bright for the fog, but just enough for us to pick out the centreline and road edges. Fully scared now, appreciating the earth banks on one side and the precipice on the other, we crawled up the spur, peering through the gloom, and shouting to each other if a catastrophic edge looked imminent. The occasional oncoming vehicle scared the willies out of us as pale lights suddenly appeared out of the fog and I swerved left as far as I dared.

Half an hour of this slow horror and we finally reached the top at Dom Dom saddle, and with relief turned into the carpark for a breather. As we walked around, getting circulation back into the legs, and calming our fragile demeanours, we realised the fog curtain was behind us. Ahead was a view of astonishing clarity and brightness, with the huge moon now high overhead, and the Cathedral range dominating the northern plains. With newfound enthusiasm we continued on, leaving the fog and forest behind, and marvelling at the views all round provided by the extraordinary moonlight. And then the familiar whiff of burning plastic returned, and in frustration and despair I decided to fix the problem once and for all. Turning back to Pilks, I shouted “I’ve had enough, I’m turning the lights off”, and reached under the tank to switch off the generator isolator fitted a few months before. Thus began a 70 km ride lit only by the glorious moon.

They didn’t need much acclimatising, but our eyes quickly adjusted to the new reality. If anything, their acuity increased with each kilometre until it seemed perfectly natural to be cruising at 100 km/h, seeing every roadside detail and the countryside beyond as if in subdued daylight, but without the colours.

The Cathedral came and went in all its magnificent silvery starkness, and we turned off for Thornton. The grassy Goulburn River plains with their resting cattle provided a wonderful bucolic vista, until we turned for Jamieson and began the winding hill up and over Mt Torbreck range. In good daylight weather, I prefer cloudy bright to strong sun along this section as the dappled light coming through the trees hinders the setting of cornering lines and shadows can hide slippery bark and leaves, sometimes even branches. Despite this, the moonlit road seemed easily read, our progress undaunted, and a modicum of enjoyment and confidence built up as we realised we’d come this far safely, and our destination was within reach. Down the other side, the switchback curves with their 30km/h signs gave way to longer straights, and the bitumen surface to smooth compacted gravel. Throwing caution to the wind I wound the Domi up to 120 before realising the stupidity of such behaviour. We had seen no wildlife, but an errant wombat would have caused disaster. At Torbreck Station, I pulled over near the old homestead site for a leg stretch, and, again we marvelled at the crystal clarity of monochrome moonlight. Past Big River we began the 15 kilometres of bumpy dirt track to camp. At much reduced pace we trundled along the path cut by gold miners 100 years before, still with confidence, still able to see every pothole, and still admiring the beauty of the bush and the river beyond the cliffs below. Finally reaching the old township area, I trail braked down the steep rutted track and turned into the camp carpark. It was almost 1 am. Apart from Giuseppe Lucas’ “Prince of Darkness” efforts to spoil the party, the Dominator had performed flawlessly. It ticked away in the cool night air as we unpacked, walked into camp, and Pilks grabbed a couple of his brother’s beers, while I kicked the dying campfire back into life. Relaxing at last, we reflected on our amazing “Moonlight Flight”. It had been the ride of a lifetime.

And the next day, Pilks went fishing…

“With the poor battery almost exhausted... we had two choices – speed up and face a wall of impenetrable white, or slow down and face total blackness.”