AS I sat with a beer in the morning sun, I watched the fella who was preparing the spit for the afternoon’s feed. He was tying roast after roast of lamb, beef and pork onto the huge skewer, and all of a sudden, it dawned on me that I hadn’t had anything to eat since five o’clock the previous afternoon. No wonder I’m fading away to nothing!
My stomach started to rumble as the five minute call went out and soon we were lined up in the street outside the clubhouse and ready to roll.
As the pack roared past the parking lot, I cast a quick glance at the steadily rotating spit. The smell of the cooking meat filled my nostrils and the sight of the lightly browned roasts dripping juice into the open fire in the twin 44 gallon drums was enough to turn any vegetarian into a raging carnivore!
The first port of call was the Eagle Heights Hotel. Set high the hills of the Gold Coast Hinterland, this pub and its huge beer garden made for a great spot to kick back with a drink, soak up the Queensland sunshine and enjoy the panoramic views that were on offer.
I got my second card and I was now sporting a pair of aces. Today could be the day!
Back on the road, and after short blast down the highway, we took the turn-off to the remote Jacobs Well Tavern.
Some more cold beers, a servo to top the tanks up and 40 minutes later we were on back in the saddle and headed for our last pub stop of the day, the grand old Wallaby Hotel which sold its first glass of piss way back in 1883. Of course the current pub bares very little resemblance to its original from days gone by, but it’s still a great little watering hole for a pack of thirsty bikers.
The last stint of the run was a quick five minute jaunt up the service road from the pub, over the highway and back to the clubhouse.
A great run, not too long, not too short, with some awesome roads to blow the cobwebs out, and some of the best pubs you could visit in this part of the country.
Once back at the clubhouse I was overwhelmed, once again, by the aroma of all that freshly cooked meat, and by this stage, I could have chewed the maggot ridden crotch out of a low flying crow. Yes, I was fuckin’ hungry! One of the club members yelled to the crowd that the tucker would be served once all the last cards for the poker hands had been dealt and I quietly cursed all the stragglers for delaying my imminent feeding frenzy.
With the poker hands all sorted it was finally time for the grub to be devoured and an eerie hush fell over the entire site as the punters eagerly tucked into the lavish (help yourself) spread that was laid on.
With dinner out of the way it was time to relax with a beer or three while waiting for the presentations of the various winners of the poker hands and raffles.
It seemed like everyone who stayed on walked away with some sort of prize. From T-shirts, hats, helmets, bike shop and tattoo vouchers, the winners were more than happy with their scores.
I’d like to thank the cops who showed up on the dayl. Thanks for fuckin’ nothing! It’s one thing to go swooping in and out of the pack at regular intervals and disrupting the run, or the fact that they openly displayed what great burn-outs their tax funded cars are capable of. But, if they insist on partaking in this blatant harassment and interrupting a well organised ride, they could at least have made themselves useful and maybe helped out with a bit of traffic control when it came to intersections and roundabouts? For fucks sake, there was more than enough of them there! After all, their motto is “To protect and serve”! Well I’ll be fucked if I saw too much of that on the day.
Anyway, enough grumbling, it was still a top day! Getting out amongst it on the bikes with your mates, a few cold beers and a few laughs along the way—isn’t that what it’s all about?
Pics by Jo; words by Chuck U Farley