Age Shall Not Weary Them

This entry is part 9 of 18 in the series Adventure Rider Issue #52

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Trevor Gerdsen reflects on the meaning of adventure for the oldies.

Adventure doesn’t mean you have to be the thrillseeker, extreme sportsperson or risk-taker.

It was ‘the adventure of a lifetime’ – or so the story went for the thousands of healthy young men who flocked to enlist and set off to war in 1914, 1915 and conflicts thereafter.

Now, every April 25, we pause as a nation to reflect on those brave young men and women who followed and how their adventure turned out. For some it was the ultimate sacrifice. For others it was an irreducible memory that often defined them for the rest of their lives.

For those of us fortunate enough to have visited the war cemeteries at Anzac Cove, Flanders, the River Kwai or else-where, it’s sobering to see the graves of those who were little more than teenagers and to envision, or try to, the magnitude of their experiences. It’s easier now for me, having seen those battlefields and burial sites, to understand the passion of those who survived, to respect their memories, but also to understand that for many, the silence and stoicism they carried through-out life was born of hellish circumstances.

For most of us, looking back on those first ANZACs and the generations of men and women who followed through subsequent conflicts and engagements, it’s always comfortable to adjudicate with hindsight and with the benefit of never actually being put in the line of fire. The adventures and thrills we seek are more hedonistic and generally far less risky.

And I know many who read this magazine will be ‘veterans’ in all senses of the word; of war, turmoil or peacekeeping, and of life more generally and of adventure in all its forms, including quite obviously, the two-wheeled sort.

It’s sobering to see the graves of those who were little more than teenagers and to envision, or try to, the magnitude of their experiences. The Australian cemetery at ANZAC Cove.

’Fessing up

I’ll admit up front I’m not one of those people who, in pursuit of the adventure or thrill of extreme sports or daredevil exploits, will step out of a perfectively sound aircraft with little more than an oversize silk hanky strapped to my shoulders. I’m quite happy to stay belted in and wait patiently for the thing to land.

Safely. Nor will I contemplate leaping from a bridge at some scenic spot with nought but a rubber band around my ankles. I can get to the bottom and back again via the stairs without losing my eyeballs and still take in the view.

But what am I on about here? I’m well into my seventh decade on this planet and I often seek – and more lately just ponder – further adventures of one sort or another, and not just of the two-wheeled type. I can reflect on some great rides in the USA, NZ, Sri Lanka and India, and across six states and territories.

Equally, I’ve done my share of hiking and mountain trekking in the NT, Victorian high country, Tasmania, Nepal, Africa and Europe, lugging everything on my back rather than in panniers and a top box.

And it was every bit as challenging as anything I’ve done on two wheels.

What is it that spurs some of us to seek the thrill of the unknown, to take the risks (albeit quite modest in my case), to get away from the ‘great unwashed majority’ and to just want to do that one thing out of the ordinary?

I think I’ve come to the realisation that adventure doesn’t mean you have to be the thrillseeker, extreme sportsperson or risk-taker. Quite often it’s the most modest, unassuming and perhaps mundane experience we pursue, but for each of us in our own way it offers a richness of life equal to anything experienced on two wheels or even four,or leaping into the wide blue yonder or similar daredevilry.

Author Trevor Gerdsen can reflect on some great rides in the USA, NZ, Sri Lanka and India, and across six states and territories.

Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve

That brings me to an interesting observation from many years motorcycling and camping.

Many of us have been in this situation: we arrive late in the day at the free campsite or caravan park, thirsty, dusty, and saddle-sore, our ears still ringing from the engine and helmet noise.

All we want to do is rest, pitch the tent, clean up and refresh before the sun goes down. Surrounding our modest tent site are motorhomes and vans of all dimensions and sizes with an assortment of accessories that beggar belief, including,dare I say, portable picket fences.

But we have piqued the interest of the grey nomads, and over they wander.

They’re harmless, and given my age, baldness and state of blissful retirement I can hardly claim not to be one of them.

But after all these years riding out west and outback, pitching my tent in the bush or in a more ‘formal’ free campsite or campground somewhere, I’ve discovered there are really three types of characters who, upon spying the adventure motorcyclist riding in, will wander over for a chat and a sticky beak.

Basically, I would define them as those who could’ve, who would’ve or who should’ve.

Having wandered over and offered the quintessential Australian salutation – ‘Giddaymatehowareyaallrite?’ – the conversation usually covers one of three laments:

• “Yeah, got one of those in the shed,”
• “Yeah, had one of those once;” or maybe just
• “Yeah, would love to have one of those.”

Regardless of the opening salvo, the conversation (one-sided at this stage) tends to meander through nostalgia or remorse. Being of a similar vintage to my newly acquired BFF I can claim partial deafness as an excuse not to hear the middle part of the story. Mind you, deafness is only part of my distraction.

The tiredness and residual thrumming in my ears from the day’s ride, the back-ground ticking as the bike cools and the clack of the rock I use as a hammer to drive in the tent pegs doesn’t help either.

No offense intended to my inquisitive BFF.

But they get to the end of the story and invariably offer the reasons they couldn’t, wouldn’t or didn’t. It might be the dodgy knee (I’ve got at least two of those), the vagaries of ‘the ticker’, the new hip, ‘the arthuritis’ or myriad others.

More often are references to the absence of permission from a life partner before such an adventure could even be contemplated.

Just passing and saw you in trouble.

Let’s not judge others

I should be honest and note that, as a lone rider on many occasions, I’ve been the recipient of some wonderful hospitality, and some welcome refreshment and assistance from this very same grey army.

The offer of a cold beer or a campfire chat and just having someone to share tall stories with can be a wonderful way to end a long day on the bike out west.

The generosity of Australian travellers and their willingness to help is wonderful. Most particularly, I recall a lovely couple at Meadow Glen campsite out of Cobar on the Barrier Highway who – after watching me struggling unsuccessfully to position the bike on the kick stand in the soft red earth by moving a flat rock or crushed can to lean it on – brought over a plastic cutting board to put under the stand.

Problem solved and I use it to this day.

On more than one occasion I ‘ve been driven to the next town after running out of fuel, and then back to the bike by someone who was “…just passing and saw you in trouble.” On one of those trips I can thank the boys in blue from the Queensland police out of Roma. Even if their colleagues had booked me the day before on another matter (I never held that against them).

I think what I have come to appreciate is that it matters not what your form of transport is – adventure bike, road bike, 4WD or sedan, or even just two feet – or your standard of accommodation – tent, caravan, motorhome, motel – an adventure is just that: an adventure.

But it’s your adventure and whatever that means to you.

So, as I approach my dotage, I no longer (if I ever did) think heading off on the bike makes me somewhat superior to, or more adventurous than, someone else who hitches the van to the sedan or 4WD and heads out west or up north along the blacktop.

Getting to the top of the mountain, or just taking in the scenic view of it from down below, are one and the same to me now.

And I think back on those ANZAC Day marches I recall as a kid or young adult, with the old soldiers marching along festooned with medals and militaria, and what their adventures were to them.

I remind myself it wasn’t the tired oldsters of ANZAC Day parades who were flung onto the beaches of Anzac Cove or the Kokoda Track. It was youngsters in the prime of their lives. And thinking of that it’s easier now for me to understand the passion of those who survived it and subsequent conflicts.

And maybe by the time you’re finished reading this old bloke and his life partner might just have wandered down to the local dealer and checked out a caravan for the next adventure in life.

Not that the bike won’t continue to occupy pride of place in the garage, mind you.

The thrills we seek are generally far less risky