The Rev takes a dump

It rained on and off during the night, mostly when I was trying to get between the tent and somewhere else. Weirdly, the morning after was the first to gift me a dry tent, so breaking camp was quicker than usual. I was bound for Queensland - my brother's house in Brisbane - for the night.

Before catching up with my bro, though, there was the small matter of choosing a suitably tortuous route through the hinterland and across the border. I have driven the Pacific Hwy across the border only a handful of times, but they were enough to convince me to find another way. On Ez's advice, my first stop was in Byron Bay.

I don't think I've ever been to Byron, so it existed in my head as a simple jumble of adjectives like 'chilled', 'green' and 'unemployed'. It didn't take much snooping around to add 'brain-haemorrhagingly beautiful' to the list, amongst others. I parked the bike near the southern headland of the main beach, grabbed the camera and went exploring.

Following the track around the headland, I immediately regretted embarking on a hike in my motorcycle clobber. Kevlar-lined jeans, knee pads, tall black boots and the morning sun do not mix well with steep walking tracks. Oh well. It's tough looking cool.

The next beach along was also beautiful; aided greatly by the quantity of naked breast-meat spread liberally over it. For my moral safety, I kept the camera at the wide end of the zoom range here.

Another sweaty hillclimb later, I was at the easternmost point of the Australian mainland. I forget what it's called, but it's probably Cape Eastylots or It's All West From Here Point.

So overheated that a Japanese tour group mistook me for the Shinto god of perspiration (the offerings were lovely, but unnecessary), I called the exploration quits and retraced my steps to the bike.

The road bent inland and I followed it to Lismore (home of the Lizmorons, according to Ez). It was my first visit to her home town. It was also the first time I've ever lost control of the Rev.

Rolling down the main street, dehydrated and looking for something to drink, I came upon the scene of a recent traffic accident. A small four wheel drive was marooned unhappily on the kerb with its front wheels jutting outward at sick angles. Bystanders paused to offer help to the distressed driver on his mobile phone. Taken by all this, I failed to register an equally distracted driver reversing out of a car park right in front of me. Easing on the brakes, I came to a safe halt and moved to put my foot down to steady the bike.

The road wasn't there.

Caught out by the steep camber of the street, I pedalled on air for a frantic second before the Rev - all 250 loaded kilos of him - gracefully subsided onto the bitumen for a short nap. When a bike leans past its balancing 'point of no return', there's only one thing you can do: swear loudly and let go. I did.

The bags took the worst of the impact, but poor Reverend suffered a snapped clutch lever in the fall. My injuries were limited to my ego, having just treated the accident-gawpers to a second, if less violent, episode of mechanical ineptitude.

I needed some time to calm down and plan how to deal this little setback. With the help of two other blokes, I picked the Rev up and parked him out of further harm's way. Using my laptop at a coffee shop across the road, I nearly wept with joy when a Google search for Honda dealers in Lismore delivered a result. A little phone-work and fifteen dollars later, I had a replacement lever in my hand. Thanks Ongmac Honda; you rock!

It took no longer than to finish my takeaway cup of bean gravy to get the new lever installed. I was grinning like an idiot. I had made impromptu repairs to a motorcycle on the road. My ego was restored: at last, I had truly become a man!