barriers need to be pushed—whether it’s a land-speed record at age 40 or peeing highest up the wall in the school urinal at age eight, it’s just the way it is.
In a corner of the pub we talked through the plan, the mood strangely subdued yet charged with excitement. Doug filled us in on what he’d been doing, a massive amount of work. All the various permissions had come in from the airport, council and army. The risk assessment, safety action plan, insurance and airport active radio divert plan were done. We had the runway to ourselves for the hour between 8 and 9 a.m., every box was ticked and the green light was on. ‘Sun-up is 6.50 a.m.,’ Doug said and went back to his Thai green curry.
Brendan was sitting next to me. ‘I’ve got all my gear ready to go, mate, and the weather forecast is perfect.’
‘The main runway is 1887 metres long, 45 metres wide, level asphalt oriented 050/230 degrees magnetic, and has a 200-metre run-off in every direction.’ Doug’s one of those hyper-accurate guys, it’s just his nature, which is great because accuracy is what he does for a living. As I’ve mentioned he’s also a pilot, and flew his own aircraft up to Corowa from his home. There was a pause as he picked up his glass of wine and downed the remains. ‘So that’s it, it’s all up to you now, Paul.’ He raised his glass at me and sat back in his chair.
‘Don’t come off,’ Colin added with a grin.
We all turned in early; luckily I was exhausted from the ride and just passed out. Until my alarm clock went off like a howitzer; one by one I could hear the other guys’ alarms going off in the thin-walled motel. ‘This is it then,’ I said to myself.
I stumbled into the shower then out into a glorious sunrise. Colin and Rob were hassling Ed in his room, Brendan was loading his camera gear into his car, Doug was on the phone and Diego was standing at the back of the bike trailer scratching his head.
‘Pol, dis bike ees huge,’ he said as I wandered over. ‘It weel be too heavy for your record, no?’
I shrugged. ‘We’re going to find out in a couple of hours, mate.’
He held up one of my armoured racing gloves. ‘Pol, I am so sorry, but I have lost the other glove.’
‘No worries, mate,’ I said. I was in a weirdly calm state, but by breakfast time a few minutes later my stomach was in a knot. I wasn’t game to eat anything after my last experience with the curry when I nearly gassed myself with my own fart and crashed the bike. So I watched the boys eat their breakfast and tried to clear my mind.
‘What’s up, champ?’ Colin slapped me on the back when we were out in the car park.
I held up the thin leather gloves I’d found to replace the armoured racing ones; I really wished I’d brought along an extra pair.
‘Oh,’ Colin said and nodded. ‘Don’t worry about it, mate. Believe me, if you come off, gloves are the last of your problems. Right, let’s get coffee.’
I rode my bike to the airport. The place was perfect, sunny, no wind and a dead-flat, dead-straight runway. We set about marking out the safe braking point with orange traffic cones; Doug prepared his speed data logging equipment and talked to the airport officials and the army parachute display team who were also going through their gear; Brendan set up his camera next to the runway. Diego, Rob, Colin and Ed pushed the BDM-SLS out into the sunshine and checked through all the pre-ride procedures before fuelling her up with Linc Energy’s Clean Diesel, while I went up and down the runway on my Harley noting where the slightest undulations were and finding the best line.
Doug waved me over to his spot, set up so he could see everything. ‘Okay, there’s no air traffic, the army lads are fine, it’s 15.8 degrees Celsius, the relative humidity is 79 per cent, there’s no wind, the sky is clear, it’s not raining, speed data gear is fine. Off you go then.’ He smiled, I nodded, pulled down my visor and rode
In a corner of the pub we talked through the plan, the mood strangely subdued yet charged with excitement. Doug filled us in on what he’d been doing, a massive amount of work. All the various permissions had come in from the airport, council and army. The risk assessment, safety action plan, insurance and airport active radio divert plan were done. We had the runway to ourselves for the hour between 8 and 9 a.m., every box was ticked and the green light was on. ‘Sun-up is 6.50 a.m.,’ Doug said and went back to his Thai green curry.
Brendan was sitting next to me. ‘I’ve got all my gear ready to go, mate, and the weather forecast is perfect.’
‘The main runway is 1887 metres long, 45 metres wide, level asphalt oriented 050/230 degrees magnetic, and has a 200-metre run-off in every direction.’ Doug’s one of those hyper-accurate guys, it’s just his nature, which is great because accuracy is what he does for a living. As I’ve mentioned he’s also a pilot, and flew his own aircraft up to Corowa from his home. There was a pause as he picked up his glass of wine and downed the remains. ‘So that’s it, it’s all up to you now, Paul.’ He raised his glass at me and sat back in his chair.
‘Don’t come off,’ Colin added with a grin.
We all turned in early; luckily I was exhausted from the ride and just passed out. Until my alarm clock went off like a howitzer; one by one I could hear the other guys’ alarms going off in the thin-walled motel. ‘This is it then,’ I said to myself.
I stumbled into the shower then out into a glorious sunrise. Colin and Rob were hassling Ed in his room, Brendan was loading his camera gear into his car, Doug was on the phone and Diego was standing at the back of the bike trailer scratching his head.
‘Pol, dis bike ees huge,’ he said as I wandered over. ‘It weel be too heavy for your record, no?’
I shrugged. ‘We’re going to find out in a couple of hours, mate.’
He held up one of my armoured racing gloves. ‘Pol, I am so sorry, but I have lost the other glove.’
‘No worries, mate,’ I said. I was in a weirdly calm state, but by breakfast time a few minutes later my stomach was in a knot. I wasn’t game to eat anything after my last experience with the curry when I nearly gassed myself with my own fart and crashed the bike. So I watched the boys eat their breakfast and tried to clear my mind.
‘What’s up, champ?’ Colin slapped me on the back when we were out in the car park.
I held up the thin leather gloves I’d found to replace the armoured racing ones; I really wished I’d brought along an extra pair.
‘Oh,’ Colin said and nodded. ‘Don’t worry about it, mate. Believe me, if you come off, gloves are the last of your problems. Right, let’s get coffee.’
I rode my bike to the airport. The place was perfect, sunny, no wind and a dead-flat, dead-straight runway. We set about marking out the safe braking point with orange traffic cones; Doug prepared his speed data logging equipment and talked to the airport officials and the army parachute display team who were also going through their gear; Brendan set up his camera next to the runway. Diego, Rob, Colin and Ed pushed the BDM-SLS out into the sunshine and checked through all the pre-ride procedures before fuelling her up with Linc Energy’s Clean Diesel, while I went up and down the runway on my Harley noting where the slightest undulations were and finding the best line.
Doug waved me over to his spot, set up so he could see everything. ‘Okay, there’s no air traffic, the army lads are fine, it’s 15.8 degrees Celsius, the relative humidity is 79 per cent, there’s no wind, the sky is clear, it’s not raining, speed data gear is fine. Off you go then.’ He smiled, I nodded, pulled down my visor and rode
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