Land of Oz The Land of Oz, with its rain forests, pastures, and coastal roads, can be as different and climactic as the landscape in the Wizard of Oz! The terrain was ever-changing. Although covering over 5000km of asphalt on a motorcycle through New South Wales (NSW) of Australia, I saw parts of Oz that you wouldn’t click your heels over. I had imagined a land full of deadly snakes, spiders, deserts,and of course, a boxing kangaroo or two. I saw little of these. Admittedly, my first few days in Oz were on foot in Sydney. I figured that would give me time to see how the other side does it…literally…they drive on the left side of the road. The tourist bit in Sydney was fun, however, you couldn’t pay me to ride in that city. Everything is too busy and too fast. Fortunately the day came soon for me to pick up my rental. I had hired a Fazer 600 through Bikescape (highly recommended by ADVRiders and other Moto’ forums) from the US before I even arrived in Australia. Owner Selena was my contact person - she had purchased the company four years ago and loves what she does. When I picked up my bike I was one of nine people scheduled to drop in that day. I came early to find three others already waiting. Yet the whole process went without a hitch — before I knew it, I was in the left lane fighting through traffic to get the hell out of Sydney. The Blue Mountains were first on the agenda. Hiking out to Gordon Falls was rigorous, but the view was breathtaking. (So much so that I actually had to catch my breath before hiking back!) It’s hard to describe in words or capture in a picture; you need to experience it yourself. The canyon is the second largest in the world…behind the Grand Canyon. The next few days were spent counting species of dead bugs on my visor and cursing the rain gods. In case you ever questioned the origin of rain in rain-forests, don’t. Fortunately for me, kangaroos do not mind the rain much. I got my first kangaroo sighting as it gracefully hopped in front of me while its friend gave me stink eye from the side of the road. The wildlife is abundant and the best memory I take away from the whole trip was the hundreds of exotic birds flying freely around. I tried to convey the meaning of “getting out and seeing the world” to some local blokes at the TopPub in Uralla. It didn’t seem to sink in, but I think I struck a chord with Peter and Dale. The couple spends days (sometimes weeks) traveling the country on their GS1200. Dale rides pillon and takes care of picture duty while Peter’s job is to navigate through the mess of kangaroo carcasses. The problem is that so many kangaroos get hit each day, they can’t clean them up quick enough. At least, that’s what it looks like… My trip continued north to a much anticipated road erected by the Lions Club in 1971 to link NSW and Queensland. Lions Road, as it is called, was recommended over and over to me; everyone said I had to ride it but no one really explained why. I am not going to ruin tradition either, just ride it. Do note that stopping in the middle of the road because you saw something cool is highly frowned upon by the locals. Earlier in my travels I spent a day with local legend, Scott. Scott comes from a family of motorcyclists and you can see the history as soon as the garage is opened. Inside is a pair of ‘77 BMWs, a 1000 and a 750. The 1000 was owned by Scott’s father and has been beautifully restored to its original condition. The 750 was owned by Scott’s grandfather after his son convinced him to get back into motorcycling. Both bikes run very well for their age and carry a family legacy in the saddle. Scott showed me all the local roads and where the wanna-be fast guys go; in fact, we saw a wadded bike only about 10-Ks in on Putty Road. Kind of reminds me of a certain highway around here. The first half of my trip was spent north of Sydney zig-zagging between inland and the coast. It came to an abrupt stop when a rock shortened my day, though. Most riders will admit a flat tire can ruin your ride, especially when you don’t have a repair kit. It actually made mine just a little bit better. Up to this point, I had three days left of riding time, but since I was only three hours north of Sydney I thought I would just play around and kill three days taking it easy. That idea was tossed out the window when I picked up the repaired bike from Bikescape the next morning. Everyone there encouraged me to travel down to the south coast and over the Snowy Mountains. So I spent the last three days riding south on some of the best roads of my whole trip. I even squeezed in a track day at the Mt. Panorama Circuit in Bathurst. My travels always focus on soaking up the culture. I spent most nights in small towns (Uralla, Bega, South West Rocks, and others), trying to get as far away from the tourist areas as possible — with everything so stretched out, it wasn’t hard. The Australian beer is great! The food is even better; although I was only able to get kangaroo in Sydney. Do try! One question repeatedly asked at the TopPub: “Uralla…California. Uralla…California. Why Uralla? I just don’t get it.” The answer, I thought, was simple, but it didn’t actually come to me until I met Ethan 30,000 ft in the air. You have one chance to live your life…best live it right!

Written by: Thomas Gray Date: Nov.06.2009

les scooters a Paris Paris Scooter Scene I had been touring the Dordogne and had seen scooters wherever we went, but I was still amazed by their number and variety when I reached Paris. Scooters were literally everywhere, in numbers far surpassing motorcycles and definitely beginning to rival cars. What would look like a scooter club outing or rally to us is simply the flow of everyday traffic in this city of crowded streets and scarce parking. Since I was last in Paris three years ago, the scooter scene has clearly expanded. And changed. Bigger, modern bikes have largely replaced the small vintage scooters that used to be seen—and heard—at every corner. You still see some dandy vintage two-strokes, but they are in the minority, outnumbered by swarms of sleek modern bikes. In a word, it’s all about choice And the choice is dizzying. Not only are there more marques to choose from, but there are more models from makers familiar in the US. I saw several Honda models I had not even heard of. And BMW’s C-1, the enclosed scooter that off ers increased protection from the elements; these are no longer being made, but I did see a number of “knock-off s” designed along the same lines. Piaggio’s MP3 is omni-present in sizes ranging from 125 to 250 to 400 and 500cc (this last marketed in Europe as the Gilera Fuoco). Burgmans and Majestys can be had in 125cc sizes, as well as the 400 and 650 sizes we see in the US. Gilera scooters from Piaggio are available in sizes from 50cc to 200cc. Honda, Suzuki, Yamaha and Piaggio/Vespa have dealerships in the City of Light (and the X9 is probably the most frequently seen scooter), as does Peugeot, which offers scooters in a range of styles and sizes. One that caught my eye again and again was the Satelis, which comes in 125, 250, 400 and 500cc versions. It’s stylish, supercharged and equipped with ABS brakes. Talking with a woman at Academy Scooter, I discovered that it’s distributed in Canada, but apparently there are no plans to make it available in the US. While the most popular size for an urban scoot is clearly 125cc, these scooters are larger in overall size than we are accustomed to, with some of them nearly as large as my Burgman 400. Maxi-scooters, though still in the minority, seem to be becoming more popular, and I spotted big Burgmans (even 650s), Majestys, and S’Wings—not to mention Piaggio’s 850cc Gilera GP800. Now, that’s a super scooter! Prices vary just as they do here, but in general, scooters seemed to be more expensive, ranging from about 1690€ (for a 50cc) to 8990€ (for a 500cc)—that’s about $2700 to $14,384. I saw some low-end Chinese scooters at 999€, but that’s still almost $1600, and I didn’t see that many cheap scooters on the streets. The one scooter I did not see in Paris was the Genuine Buddy. At least we have one bike they don’t. Sights on the street… As I was enjoying dinner one evening in an outdoor café, I could hardly believe my eyes when a scooter zoomed by, completely covered in what appeared to be lush,green, growing grass—too fast to get a photo, alas. Pooches tucked between the rider’s legs on the floorboards are a fairly frequent sight. Scooters laden with long loaves of French bread, as well as bags of produce and fruit from the street markets dangling from the handlebars, are a common sight on market days. In typical French style, Parisian scooterists accessorize their rides. Most common are extra large windshields, some of which are so tall they curve above and over the rider’s head. Many riders opt for what they call tabliers, or canvas aprons that attach to the scooter and cover the rider’s lap and legs, offering protection from cold, wind and rain, or to the riders themselves, like our scooterskirts. This is not so much a matter of fashion as it is of protection, as Paris scooters often substitute for a car, and scooterists ride rain and shine. Which may help to explain the proliferation of MP3s. As I watched the scooters streaming by in persistent rain (on cobblestones, yet!), I was thinking that the MP3 riders must be grateful for the extra traction and stability the three wheels provide. Almost every scooter has a topcase, which may hold a briefcase and laptop as well as the day’s groceries. Touring scooter shops In talking with a few riders and salespeople in the scooter shops, it’s clear that scooters in Paris are not so much a social lifestyle as serious transportation. I asked about scooter clubs and was told that there were clubs in the banlieues (suburbs), but not in the city itself. In general, equipment and apparel are sold separately from scooters, and there are whole stores full of jackets and gear and accessories, with other stores full of helmets— again, way more choice than is available here. One really nice man at Vintage Motors (yes, the title is in English!) on Boulevard Richard Lenoir told me that, despite the choice there is in Europe, he imports “leathers” from Vanson in the US. I discovered a marvelous shop called SDéese, on Rue Amelot near the Bastille, devoted entirely to gear and apparel for women and children. The owner said she had opened the shop five years ago, when she couldn’t find comfortable, stylish gear for herself. Naturally, I couldn’t leave without buying some summer gloves, which somehow are more fun since they come from Paris (plus chic, as the shop owner said). One thing I noticed: salespeople in Paris tend to be reserved, polite, but not overly friendly or talkative. This changed as soon as someone realized I ride a scooter, and we were soon chatting like old friends. Parking is where you find it In Paris, scooters park everywhere and anywhere, although less often on the streets among cars than congregated in groups at the open corners formed at street intersections, which become parking lots for scooters, motorcycles and bicycles. Parking on the sidewalks is common, especially in more residential areas. Sometimes you don’t even need to park. One morning, setting out from my hotel to the Metro station, I saw a good-sized scooter run up on the sidewalk, stopping parallel to an ATM, where he proceeded to transact his business without every turning his motor off , taking a quick look around when he was done and zooming back into the street. If you’ve got the nerve—I didn’t—to join Parisian scooterists on the streets, you can rent a scooter in Paris. You can arrange it in advance online through Auto Europe, who rents a Yahama Majesty 125 for $90 a day, or on the spot at Free Scoot, 144 Blvd Voltaire in the 11th, who rents 50cc and 125cc scooters with helmet, gloves and lock included. Allez, scooters!

Written by: Karryll Nason Date: Nov.06.2009

A New York Biker in London My words don’t do justice to the sight of cresting a hill and seeing a seemingly endless snake of motorcycles winding up the path before you. With miles of green landscape to your left and a majestic coastal scene to your right, if anything could be an adventurous petrol-head’s wet dream, this was it. Rubbish. Dodgy. Bollocks. All words that might describe English riding weather. That’s why I was surprised when I stepped out of Heathrow Airport on a March morning into 60+ degrees Fahrenheit and sunshine. Accounts of British climate led me to believe it could only be sporadic at best, changing quickly from a tranquil day into a maelstrom of hail, wind, shit, and piss. I recently took the opportunity to meet up with a SoCal friend for a week holiday in London and having never been to the renowned city, I was eager for a new adventure. Being the moto-geek that I am, while researching on the web I came across a community bulletin site for London motorcyclists. After introducing myself, the folks at LondonBikers.com greeted me with friendly posts and advice on what I could do during my trip. Some mentioned a big group ride planned for St. Patrick’s Day through French country roads, which caught my interest. After looking over the route and all the details, I must admit I was impressed. A fully planned, over 300-mile itinerary including organized fueling stops, corner marking, and even an official support vehicle. I was in. After more nerd-like researching I chose a motorbike rental shop by the Bow Road tube stop in East London. The guys at Superbike Hire were eager to help, easy to work with, and had the most reasonable rates I could find. I made my booking to have the bike from Friday to Monday, so I could spend the entire weekend getting lost in London. After picking up the rental SV650S on Friday afternoon, getting lost is exactly what I did. Even the natives have trouble navigating this city, so for a visitor riding a bike on the opposite side of the road it was “bloody awful.” As a New Yorker I believed my internal compass and navigation skills would be sufficient, but once I hit the road it truly felt like there was not a single straight street in the entire city. By some miracle of chance I did manage to meet up with friends later that evening for some amazing Indian food in central London. After a drink and a smoke, I made way back to my hotel. The 5-mile trip only took me the better part of an hour after desperately trying to find a petrol station in the middle of the city. Sage advice, as a local cab driver so eloquently put it, “Don’t go low (on gas) in central London, otherwise you’re shit out of luck, mate.” Fortunately as a red R1 pulled up next to me at a red light on Oxford Street, I pointed to my gas tank, shrugged my shoulders, and gestured for directions. He made a quick “follow me” signal and proceeded to blast off the line when the light turned yellow (traffic lights in London turn yellow before turning green, to yield for pedestrians). After dipping past late night inner-city traffic at +60mph around several sharp blocks, we came upon my salvation, a Jet station hidden away on a dark side street. I beeped my horn in appreciation and off he went in a tumult of dust and exhaust-dark fumes. Thanks, suicidal R1 rider. With a full tank, I finally got back to my hotel across from the Marble Arch monument and passed out for a quick couple of hours until the ride early the following morning. I woke up at 5am to meet the London Biker “assigned” to me by MacP (the forum administrator at LB) to show me to the designated pre-ride meet spot, the legendary Ace Café. I met a young bloke atop a light blue streetfightered SV650 named Paul in front of the hotel, where we had a smoke and split for the Ace. I was in desperate need of a cup of coffee...until we hit the freeway. The steady blast of cold, foggy morning air filled my lungs at 80mph and instantly knocked the grogginess out of my head. We pulled off onto North Circular road, and the sportbike passing me on one wheel told me I was near the Ace. Although it was too early to be open, I got a sense of history emanating from the building as we pulled up. The spirits of long-gone BSAs, Nortons, and Triumphs seemed to linger, the roars of parallel twins and their leaky oil stains still haunting the parking lot. We pulled up to a dozen or so sportbikes and their riders in front of the cafe. I didn’t encounter any of the normal standoff-ish glares or elevator eyes that come with pulling up to a normal bike gathering, just fraternal cheers and friendly greetings. Everyone was here for a reason, the common goal of embarking on an international road trip. After speaking with the ride leader, I learned there were other meeting spots. Aside from the Ace Café, there was a large group assembling in Boxhill, a popular bike night location south of the city. These two groups were then to meet at a service station 40 miles southeast of London to form the caravan to Folkestone, where the entire group would take Eurotunnel trains across the English Channel. We were then informed that we would be taking a longer route than expected. Apparently local law enforcement caught wind of the big, status-quo disrupting group ride and had set up speed traps. One of the ride leaders from another group had already received a 150 pound speeding citation en route. The detour did almost double the time to get to the Maidstone service station, but I was happy to oblige. I was here to ride, not get accosted in a foreign country. The ride out of the city was fairly uneventful. No matter what country you’re in, highway riding can get pretty boring. I did notice and appreciate the level of lane discipline though, but then again, slower traffic knows to get out of the way on almost every single road on the planet except those in the United States. Sigh. Anyway, once we arrived at the service stop we saw that the main group had already left for the train station. The detour had taken a bit longer than expected, and now it was a mad rush for the last 40 miles. We dropped the hammer for the last stretch and made it just in time for our scheduled train. The station opened up and we packed the train’s vehicle transport cars with motorcycles, some of us going a bit faster from car to car than was advised from Eurotunnel staff, myself included. Hey, I’ve never done an international ride before, I was anxious. The excitement was shared by all, as was evident by throttle-happy bikers hitting their rev-limiters once parking their bikes in the train. Once the train arrived in Calais, France, the motorcycles spewed out of the locomotive. A quick count approximated around 70 motorcycles participating in the event. Although mostly made up of sportbikes, attendees ranged from fully modded streetfighters to British parallel twins. After a quick fill up of gas and coffee, we were ready to storm Normandy. I purchased a pair of souvenir ski pants that I wore underneath my jeans, which probably helped my numb legs from being amputated by the end of the day. Best 10 Euro I spent in my life. JimC from LB.com then led the way, a St. George’s Cross Flag flying from the back of his Piaggo. Granted the weather wasn’t perfect, but the backdrop definitely was. The overcast day and chilly breeze was overshadowed by the surreal realization of where I was and what I was doing. The first couple of miles seemed to go from round-about to round-about, which must’ve looked like a gigantic game of connect the dots if looking overhead. But then something amazing happened, the roads slowly opened up into long sweeping bends, up and down gradual inclines, until before I knew it we were traversing through lush French countryside. My words don’t do justice to the sight of cresting a hill and seeing a seemingly endless snake of motorcycles winding up the path before you. With miles of green landscape to your left and a majestic coastal scene to your right, if anything could be an adventurous petrol-head’s wet dream, this was it. The parade of bikes passing through tiny French towns was either a welcome sight or a nuisance to locals, usually depending on the age of the witness. Older folk would sneer and hiss, spitting French disdain in our direction, while younger townsfolk would cheer and wave enthusiastically as we rocketed past. Good or bad, we attracted a lot of attention traveling through the quiet French terrain, even as we arrived at our destination, a north coastal town called Le Touquet. Known as a vacation spot for rich Parisians, Le Touquet can be compared to what the Hamptons are for wealthy New Yorkers. Quaint shops set behind red tile sidewalks sold all manner of pastries, ice cream, and jewelry. The entire motorcade rolled up to the beachfront and parked their bikes on the boardwalk en mass. Everyone’s lids and gear was stowed into the LB support van for safe keeping. The group then split up for lunch so as to not overwhelm any one restaurant with near 100 bikers (counting pillion passengers). My group stopped into a small eatery, where burgers, seafood, pizza, and even steak tartar were inhaled in minutes to satisfy ravenous hunger from the morning’s ride. We killed the rest of the lunch break bullshitting over drinks about bikes and the vastly superior motorcycle licensing system in the UK (which limits the displacement size you can legally own/operate by age and experience). After lunch, we headed back out to conquer some more French countryside, but hit a decided bump in the road in the small town of Devres. Having taken the convoy on a wrong turn, we had to stop to sort out directions. Unfortunately, the logistics of halting so many motorcycles in a given space did put us in an awkward situation. Other French villages only had to put up with our noisy “motos” while we passed through, but here we were revving the piss out of our engines in eager frustration making a big mess out of quaint little country town. As recalled by ringleader MacP on a follow-up forum post, the villagers were surprisingly receptive; Here we were spread down a street surrounded by local people and not an angry face in sight. Small children placed on bikes for photos was the order of the day. A couple of burnouts outside people’s front doors had me cringing but this was met with a smile and even the sound of bikes bouncing on the rev limiter was welcomed. The townsfolk were delighted at the sight of this spectacle in their front yards, cheering and clapping for an impromptu stunt session on a side street no wider than an alley by our standards. After several snapshots and handshakes, the townspeople pointed us in the right direction and we were off again. Weaving through forest roads and rolling over endless hills for hours, we made it back to the Calais Eurotunnel station just as the sun tucked itself under the horizon. Once back on British soil, the main group split for good and all made their respective journeys home. The weather took a turn for the worst when cross winds picked up, and at the halfway point to London, rain started to fall. Once Paul finally led me back into the city the rain had chilled into a mix of hail and brisk snowfall. Bollocks! This septic had to bear dodgy weather while trying to filter (lane-split) through Saturday night, St. Patty’s day, central London traffic after a long day’s ride. What rubbish! Thanks to MacP, Lustfish, JimC, and the rest of the LB crew. A special thanks to Paul and Cathy.

Written by: Joonil Park, story & pics Date: Oct.16.2009

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