Self Isolation Rally

By Jeff Eeles*

LIKE MOST PEOPLE, I HAD MADE PLANS FOR WHAT I HAD HOPED TO BE ABLE TO DO THIS YEAR, PART OF WHICH INVOLVED GOING TO THE 2020 VJMC RALLY.

As you’d know, in 2020 the rally was scheduled to take place in May and I could make that date! Unfortunately, worldwide events overtook the Club’s plans and the rally had to be cancelled. In the great scheme of things though, this was really a minor inconvenience. As we were shoved into lockdown and not supposed to venture out into the wide world, a cunning plan began to form in my mind. If I can’t go to a rally and socialize with my like-minded fellow club members, how about a rally coming to me? Organisation would be relatively simple … no guessing the number of attendees to cater for and, if the weather were to take a turn for the worse, the event could be postponed at the last moment and inconvenience no one. Attendance would be by ticket only and would only require one ticket as, due to self isolation and physical distancing rules, no one else could be there. There was no need for any promotion or advertising of the rally, and anyway, I didn’t want anyone else grabbing the only entry before I could get it … that would have been embarrassing! As a precautionary measure, I thought it wise to contact our National Committee to find out if there were any legal requirements to be fulfilled to cover myself and the Club. There were some Health and Safety requirements, but the thing they emphasised the most was ‘absolutely no bonfires’! This actually led to a slightly awkward silence as, down the back yard, was a large (approx.. 3m high by 3m diameter) pile made up of dried foliage and Blackberry cuttings from doing some tidying up in the garden and I was looking forward to setting that going on the Saturday evening – just like we used to do in the old days up on Mt. Panorama at Bathurst. I gave some assurances, without actually lying, just being evasive. On the morning of the rally, I thought it a good idea to mow the lawn, but a quick look showed the mower tank to be dry. Not wanting to leave home at this stage, I drained some petrol out of a bike to let me get on with the job. In the afternoon, preparations began. My tent was found tucked away in a dark corner of the shed, and duly erected in the garden. It looked a bit lonely, so several bikes were rolled out into the yard and left parked casually nearby. That looked better!

The evening was quite quiet; undisturbed by the sound of hoodlum biker scum arriving on their raucous machines to spend a debauched weekend with like-minded rabble. A bit boring really, which meant that it was time to grab a cold one and phone up some mates to talk inane rubbish. This was more like it, and a bit of a laugh. Only … it was interrupted by the sound of a police siren rapidly approaching down my street. It became very loud as the police cars screeched to a halt in our driveway. Two rather annoyed policepersons tumbled out of the car and, using a loudhailer, shouted that this was an illegal gathering, and everyone should immediately disperse. Rather amused, I asked them what the heck they were on about. Apparently, a ‘concerned citizen’ had reported seeing tents, motorcycles, and people gathering around talking, laughing and shouting. I did point out that there was only one tent, the motorcycles were mine, no one else was there and I had been talking on the phone. This cut no ice, they were on a mission, and kept shouting for people to stop hiding and come on out. Leaving them to it for a while, I finished my coldie, then tried to explain what was happening. After about half an hour, when the novelty had worn off and neighbours had started to gather to find out what the heck was going on, the policepersons took up my suggestion to check the bike rego numbers to find out the identity of the owners. It went a lot quieter then, and they started to flush a little red. They muttered on about ‘only doing their job’, jumped back in the car, and nicked off. This put a little bit of a damper on the evening, and as it was getting dark, I thought it about time to call it a day, but not before getting even with the sneaky neighbour who had tried to dob me in. I have a Japanese LP record which has the recorded sounds of a CB750, CL-72, Meguro SG250, Suzuki T20, Kawasaki Mach3, CB450, Yamaha DT-1 and Suzuki GT750 each doing hot laps of a circuit. I’d downloaded that to my iPod. So, I wired-up a remote speaker next to our neighbour’s fence, put the iPod on repeat at a robust volume, then went to bed listening to the beautiful ‘bird-song’ of the classic Japanese motorcycle exhausts. I woke up the next morning to the same lovely sound of bird-song, although, in the distance it sounded vaguely as if I was in the trackside campground at Phillip Island … better turn it off I suppose! Time for breakfast. At a rally, a full, cooked breakfast is compulsory to set you up for the day … but I couldn’t be bothered cooking that and made do with cereal and a coffee. I know – soft! To keep up the ruff-tuff biker appearance, the cereal and coffee were loaded with sugar and other dangerous stuff.

Soon, it would be time for the traditional rally ride. It had been decided by the rally committee, (okay, me) that the corner-marker system might not be practical this time and, as the route would not be long or particularly involved, it should be okay. In keeping with the ‘stay at home’ and ‘no unnecessary journeys’ theme of government advice, the ride would be around our yard. It started from just in front of the house and down the path on the west side of the house, then left turn past the back deck, right towards the bike shed, and another right turn before the back fence, past the shade-house and the Fig tree, right past the deck again, and left up the east side of the house to the front, a trip of about 100 metres. I was looking forward to this ride, as I had only checked the route on foot before. My chosen steed was the ‘Mach 4’, a recently restored Kawasaki H2. Whilst mechanically sound, its exhaust note is not as quiet as modern vehicles. Being a reasonably warm day, a vented jacket seemed best for comfort, in the hope that the weather wouldn’t change during the ride. The bike fired into life, and I was off!

What a magnificent and heart-warming sight it is to see a convoy of triple smoking its way around – just a shame that no one did. Actually, I should amend that; my neighbour was scowling at me over the fence. He seemed unusually dishevelled and bleary-eyed. Maybe the ‘bird song’ kept him awake. The ride was epic, and I revelled in the warmth of the sun as I cruised around for almost 30 seconds. Arriving back at the front of the house, it seemed a shame to stop there, so the decision was made to repeat it, but in the opposite direction! Wow!! This was made a little awkward by the lack of turning room, but after a session of shunting around, I was ready to go again The trip was a little more complicated this time by having to remember to turn right instead of left. Then … disaster! I became a little confused, turning left instead of right by the shade-house and ended up in the wife’s recently planted back vegie garden! “Oh dash it!” I cried in a rare display of illtemper. A steady circle back toward the shed was necessary to avoid falling off on the slippery grass … then the bike died … refusing to re-start. I had to resort to pushing it back to the house, where it was discovered that there was no petrol in the tank. Ah, yeah, this could well be the bike that donated the petrol to the mower. Had it not been for the slight directional error, there would have been sufficient to make it back to the start. A little later in the afternoon, it was time to judge the bikes for the awards. To make things fair, I placed in the line-up some bikes currently residing here which belong to my son and grandkids (no favouritism – honestly). Judging in five categories (Best Kawasaki H-series; Best Twin; Best Single; Best 6-cylinder; and, Best Offroad) would be by voting slip. The judging took a little longer than expected due to the universally high standards of the bikes present, which made separating them difficult. Nevertheless, this arduous task was completed, and it was time to chill out for the evening. A BBQ seemed a little excessive, so I rustled up some bacon and tomato jaffles for the evening, and very nice they were to, even if I say so myself. There was no vegetarian option available,

but no one complained, thankfully. We then came to the presentation of the rally judging trophies, and I must admit that, just for a change, I was quietly confident that a bike of mine may feature in the awards. Just like the big showbiz awards, there were envelopes containing the results. An expectant hush fell over the proceedings as the envelope for ‘Best Single’ was opened … and the winner was … Jacob Eeles for his 1984 Kawasaki KD80! Eh? What the … ? There was a ripple of dissent from a corner of the room, but prizegiving carried on. ‘Best 6-cylinder’ – I snagged that for the Z1300 – result!! The atmosphere was starting to get tense, but turned a tad ugly when the ‘Best Offroad’ trophy went to Alyssa Eeles for her Honda QR50 over my Kawasaki KT250. It was really close to a fight erupting. This was very, very awkward, and some difficult questions would have to be addressed.

Things did calm down when I suddenly recalled an ancient local by-law, passed down by word of mouth and never actually written down, sadly. It stated that only bikes belonging to inhabitants of the suburb were eligible for judging. What a shame for the other owners, but I don’t make the rules. So, ahem, it meant that my bikes won all the awards. Nice! It was now time to

stand and admire the pile of garden waste that was to be the bonfire I wasn’t allowed to have. Unfortunately, I had been fiddling with some matches, and when one of them flared up, I was so startled that I accidentally dropped it onto the bonfire. It fell in amongst the foliage, and by the time I’d located it, some of the very dry material had ignited. Awkward! Being a responsible adult, I felt the safest bet would be to stay by the fire to monitor it instead of rushing off to get a bucket of water; and to prevent the possibility of myself spontaneously combusting … I had another coldie!

The bonfire burned quite quickly and fiercely, and I felt it was now wise to move back a bit to keep a comfortable temperature. Even from 200 metres away, the 15 metre high flames were quite impressive, but I was distracted by my phone ringing. It was fellow VJMC member Glenn Sides. “Hello Jeff, are you having a bonfire?” “Err, No.” “Um, I can see a plume of smoke from over your way.” (Perhaps putting old tyres and oil on the bonfire was a mistake). “I can see flames too.” He lives about an hour from me! “That’s the BBQ” I feebly offered. Although he didn’t actually accuse me of lying, he didn’t seem convinced. I was in the middle of a very detailed explanation of what was going on when the fire began to die down a little and it actually became safe to be in the same postcode as it, and the lack of smoke and flames settled Glenn’s anxiety. Best to avoid him for a while lest the subject should arise again. Returning to the bonfire that never officially happened, I concluded that it may have been wise to have erected the tent a little further away, and that I would be sleeping in my bed that night. Still, I might as well enjoy the warmth for a while longer and partake of some more refreshment. Sunday morning dawned sunny and warm, with the distinctive odour of singed tent lingering in the air. At least it would save having to pack it away, just chuck the remains on the fire. Cold bacon roll and coffee for breakfast, and then it was time to get my act together for the journey home … which did not take long being all of 20 metres. It was a weekend with a difference, but still enjoyable, and I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all most sincerely for not attending the VJMC Self Isolation Rally 2020. Jeff

*adapted from a story by Farmer John in the UK Triples Club magazine