Hells Angels MC Brisbane Good As Gold Poker Run

FROM ALL walks of life they came—down from the mountain hinterlands, across vast flat plains of our western regions, transversing the northern coastline, and even venturing from below the borderline from the southern states. The machines shimmering and gleaming in the sun’s rays from days spent washing and polishing by their proud owners. The brilliant chrome of older models mixed with the vibrant colours of the newest models—American, British, European and Japanese—all intent on participating in the annual Good As Gold Poker Run. Some with brand new motors, others with that original old reliable girl that had covered many miles together, all ready to spend the day riding with the Hells Angels MC Brisbane. They gathered like racehorses at the starting post, all biting at the bit ready to venture off to unknown destinations traditionally kept secret by the organisers.

In an attempt to appease the local wallopers and for safety reasons, the first T-intersection and the next traffic lights were manned by the local boys in blue, making for a good start on our merry way to the first stop, the Royal Mail Hotel at Tingalpa. This part of the ride took us along motorways through toll gates where the tolls were taken care of by our hosts.

At the hotel so aptly named (our journey not being that dissimilar to a pony express ride) we stopped for refreshments where the riders could enjoy shade, cool ales and barbequed snags; and our steeds cooled off momentarily.

With the crack of the first big inch motor, we were off on the second part of our gallop—through suburban backstreets like defiant bushrangers, we took to the hills and meadows past farmhouses, diaries and vineyards and found ourselves at a fine inn named The Warehouse Tavern situated just off the Pacific Highway at Yatala.

With the latest in plasma screens surrounding us in every part of this new pub, we were entertained and fed, and as the cool beverages of yet another drinking hole quenched our thirsts, the road beckoned us once again.

Over Highway One we travelled—the whole while our pursuers monitoring our progress with cameras and other devices that only the flatfoots themselves are privy to—we bounded through country sweepers with the hounds hot at our heels. Like Clancy of the Overflow down the mountain side, we gave our bikes their heads to find our way onto another highway not far from the warmth and comfort of the clubhouse walls where no prying eyes could intrude on the rest of our evening’s entertainment.

With the roar of music filling one’s ears and the passing out of cash prizes to the lucky winners, we partied the night away while those who would attempt to disrupt our gallant attempts at partying 81 style looked on with envy and bewilderment.

Once again the spirit and bravado of free men surmounted all odds to enjoy ourselves. Good onya HAMC Brisvegas—roll on next year.

words & pics by Jules @ Top Gun

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