Death Or Glory

This entry is part 8 of 18 in the series Adventure Rider Issue #52

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There will be an occasion in every man’s life when he swings a leg over but can’t get it up. When that happens, don’t stress.
Rod Taylor explains how he coped with the situation.

The first time this happened to me I was on my way to meet friends at Hattah Lakes in Victoria and had stopped on a steeply cambered country road to do a map check. The DR650 wasn’t as heavy as some of the big lumps we ride offroad now, but it was fairly tall and I’d loaded up it up with panniers and strapped a pack to the pillion seat.

That was mistake #1.As I climbed back on the bike I realised the combination of luggage and sloping road meant I couldn’t lift the bike off the sidestand.

Then I came up with a brilliant plan (not). I hopped off the bike, walked around to the high side and pulled the bike upright. That was mistake #2.

At that point I should’ve realised it wasn’t going to end well, but as much as I’m shouting at my past self, I wasn’t listening. I swung my left leg up over the pannier until it hit the pack sitting on the pillion seat. That was mistake #3.

I can still see myself, standing with a tall bike precariously balanced on a country road while looking like a pork chop. If I’d dropped it I’d have been in all sorts of drama. I would’ve had to unload the bike so I could get it upright again.

Luckily I’m quite flexible and, despite some nervous wobbles, managed to wriggle my boot over.Chastened, I fired her up and rode on.Nobody was there to witness any of this (or help me if I’d dropped it). I tell you this as a form of group therapy.

Mounting a loaded adventure bike on a sidestand can be a challenge.

Pressure pack

Years later I was able to achieve some kind of resolution after my earlier trauma.

I was riding with a bunch of people over Mt Hotham and we’d made the obligatory stop at the Omeo bakery. It was fairly busy, with bikers sitting outside drinking coffee and eating cakes. At the pub opposite were a bunch of other bikers, Harleys and tar screamers.

Everybody scuffed around in heavy riding boots, eyeing off other bikes as they came and went. Each were scored with an admiring nod or a derisory ‘humph’ according to whether or not they’d made a good impression.

We were camping that night up near Benambra, so the bikes were again heavily loaded. When I looked at my 800XCA, I realised it was leaning over a long way and I’d have trouble getting it up.Long suppressed memories of those fearful moments on my DR came flooding back.

This time I could not afford to fail. I would not fail.

Author Rod Taylor believes riding has taught him every life lesson.

Dropshort

A great shaft of golden light appeared and a voice boomed out (nobody else seemed to hear it, but I could).

“Rod,” it boomed. “This is your day.

Remember the double jump. And don’t cock it up, ya great galah.”

I did remember.

I was transported back to the first day on my new enduro weapon, a Suzuki PE400. Quite a beast, it was, with gobs of torque and power right through the rev range. We picked it up from the dealer in Nowra and headed south to a super-cross track to see if I could ride the thing.

I zinged over jumps and around berms, having a ball, then pulled over to where friends Anne and John were sitting.

About 50 metres away was a double jump. Leaping effortlessly over the gap was a bloke on a 250 motocrosser, demonstrating that, with the right attitude, the jump was achievable.

“Go and jump that one,” John goaded.

“Jeez. I dunno,” I said. “It looks a bit serious.”

“Don’t give me that, yah big flaccid wuss,” retorted my friend. “Garrrn.” Well alright. Honour was involved.

I rode over and inspected the jump.

The ramps were tall…like, really tall.

They had to be at least 312-metre-high pyramid-shaped piles of dirt. But there was no backing out. I hit the first jump in third and, as the bike launched into the air, I realised I wasn’t carrying enough speed. I was going to spear straight into the second jump.

BANG. OOOFFF.

The front of the bike smacked me in the chest, but somehow I managed to bounce over.

There are a couple of unorthodox ideas floating around, but try pulling the ’bars full lock to the right before mounting.

High flier

John was unimpressed. “Go do it properly, yah fairy floss,” he encouraged.

I couldn’t let that go. I headed back and lined up the first jump, this time hitting it in top.

The bike leapt skywards with me attached, trying to calculate how long it would be before the descent stage commenced.

As I passed through the cloud layer I saw a passenger plane shooting past. I’m pretty sure there was a passenger, face pressed against the window, no doubt wondering what a motorcyclist was doing up there. Maybe he was musing, ‘Hmmm.

PE400. Nice. Running a bit rich on the top end. His landing will be interesting.’

Looking down I could see the curvature of the Earth and the second jump approaching. A voice came through my helmet, “Please return to your seats.”

And then it was over. I landed smoothly on the other side. I’d just perfectly executed the double jump.

Overjoyed, I spent the next hour doing it again and again, just because I could.

One small step

Back in in Omeo my heavily laden bike was leaning over too far on its sidestand and I knew getting it up would require something special.

“Jeez, I dunno,” I muttered. I thought no one was listening, but the golden voice replied.

“Garrrn, Taylor,” it echoed. “Wrap ya limp, floppy wrist around that throttle and wring its neck. And don’t use that language around me.”

‘Right, then,’ I thought. ‘That sounds like an order.’

I put on my helmet and gloves and sidled over to the bike with what I hoped was a confident air.

Standing beside the bike, I put it into neutral and started the motor. I had to lean quite hard on the bike to get it upright before flipping the sidestand up.

Now it was time: death or glory.

I grabbed the clutch, snicked the bike into first, then, with my foot on the left ‘peg, I eased out the clutch and, as the bike pulled away from the kerb, swung my right leg over the seat.

A failure just then would’ve left me sprawled across the road to the cheers of the many bystanders, but this was my day and everything went exactly as I’d hoped.

Triumphantly (literally), I rode the 800 up the hill as the crowd roared in admiration. Well, not really. While I was feeling pretty pleased, nobody noticed.

All or nothing

Looking back now, I realise riding taught me every life lesson. In granting a person’s life, God does not count days spent riding a motorcycle.

While there are plenty of things in life you can do half-arsed, there are others you do properly or not at all.

Watch any old crap on telly, but never drink cheap whisky. More importantly though, remember you can’t half-do the double jump.

PS: When the bike’s leaned over, try this simple trick: pull the handlebars to full right-lock. You’ll find the bike is much easier to lift.

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