IT’S SATURDAY morning, the sky is full of clouds but it’s not raining yet. Knowing my luck for getting caught in the rain, I put on my a wet-gear and soon I’m heading for Yass. As I’m leaving the gate, I put my mind on autopilot with the intention of retrieving it just before reaching my final destination.
Mother Nature’s erratic behaviour doesn’t bother me despite trying hard to unsettle my ride. For the next two hours she behaves like a woman on menopause: throwing rain, fog and scorching heat at me; sometimes all mixed together.
“Bring it on, babe!” I’m teasing her. “Is that the best you can do?”
My merry mood leaves me in Bathurst when, while stopping for fuel, I realise that due to some error in my autopilot, I’m further from Yass than I was at the beginning of my journey. I hit the panic button that sends me to the bathroom.
“What now. I’m in deep shit!”
My first idea is to call Skol (Ozbike Publisher) with some bogus excuses as to why I couldn’t make it, but calculating the health risk, I decide it’s safer to push on for Yass.
I make it to Cowra in record time. At the petrol station I meet some Rebels MC members from Dubbo and Cowra chapters who were heading in the same direction. I join the pack. We make it to Yass and I have enough time to change my wet-gear for some more comfortable jeans and T-shirt.
There are around 80 bikes on the run. After the first roll of the dice we are heading for Dalton where we have the second roll of the dice. Remembering my luck in the morning when I found myself in Bathurst, I decide not to roll this year but instead I buy myself a raffle ticket with nice black number 77. After all tickets are sold, the $200 fuel voucher is drawn and I am only a couple numbers away from winning.
Not trusting my autopilot anymore, I ask Comet to give me a guide as I want to go ahead to take some pics of the pack. My guide is the nom Mick who had sold me the raffle ticket earlier. Soon we are headed towards Gunning where we are supposed to have lunch and roll the dice again. I find a suitable place for taking photos, and once the pack is through, we jump on our bikes and try to catch up.
Just before we enter Gunning, I pass Mick who is frantically gesticulating—and as my wheels hit the gravel surface, I instantly understood what he is on about. I am fighting the urge to touch my brakes as the sharp bend onto the bridge races towards me; my front wheel refuses to take the direction I am pointing it.
“Don’t worry,” I scream at Mick, “I’ll drop it before I go over the edge!”
And I realise his worries are exactly that he believes I am going to do.
Just before sliding off the road/hitting the bridge/going over the edge, my bike stops sliding from side to side, grabs solid bitumen, and we safely cross the bridge. My legs are still shaky when I pull up in front of pub.
Mick goes off selling raffle tickets again; this time with red numbers. I buy one, he tears it and hands it to me; we just stare at the number with open mouths—it is number 77. It doesn’t win either and the winning ticket is only a couple of number away from mine.
We stay at the pub a little longer as Mother Nature hits us with a new dosage of rain. Among the 80 odd helmets, mine is the only one hanging upside down. I don’t bother to empty it before heading into the Australian Pub in Yass.
After a few drinks and another roll of the dice, we head to our final destination, the Rebels MC clubhouse, for more drinks, dinner and good music. It is a day I will remember for a long time.
PS: All the proceedings from the Yass Run were donated to the Yass Hospital.
Words & pics by George