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directions or some-such. I could see the soldiers all trying to look without looking, all smartly at attention, heads straight but eyes swivelling. Through the soft sand I struggled, stumbling a little, taking the decision that the man at the front was ‘my man’.
“Aqua, por favor!”
The Major hesitated, then without smiling, snaps his fingers, and a minion trots off accordingly, returning with a glass of water. This disappears down my gullet almost instantly, not slaking my thirst in the slightest.
“Mas, por favor!”
Seven times this little interplay was repeated before I was no longer parched and aching for fluids.
… but this is mid-August 1977 and we had left London on Nov 27th 1976, a thousand memories back.
Not everyone travels, or has a youthful OE (Overseas Experience) … but it can be argued that those with any spark in their persona do. It is for many Antipodeans, a right-of-passage, a throwing-off of family-imposed conventions and influences. It usually also corresponds with the end of tertiary education or the attaining of trade qualifications. It was like being set free. For nearly 20 years there had been an over-arching purpose to your life. You went to kindy, school and then polytech or university and constantly a figure of authority told you things. Finally, you were deemed to know enough to be let loose on life. Of course, for some, there would be no escape, but simply a seamless transition into marriage, home-ownership, indebtedness, parenthood etc. It is a wonderful generalisation but dullards seldom travel and travellers are seldom dullards. To the contrary, they are often interesting, inquisitive, full-of-life figures in the full bloom of youthful vigour … in their prime, physically and mentally.
My OE (with two mates) started with a wonderful 6 weeks aboard the SS Australis with 2,250 other young escapees. From New Year’s Eve 1971, my real life as an adult began, free to live, learn and love … I was least accomplished at the last.
By 1975 a pattern had established itself — play rugby in London during the winters and travel the summers. We were footloose and fancy-free, bound by no constraints or parameters other than financial ones. In 1972, the ubiquitous VW Combi had taken five of us through Central Europe’s communist-bloc to the Black Sea, down to Istanbul and home up the old Yugoslavian coast. In 1973/74, Ernie the
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ES2 Norton had taken flatmate Anne and me from London to Norway (to near the Arctic Circle) and onwards to the Persian Gulf via more of the communist-bloc in a five-month saga of much drama and adventure. 1975 had incorporated a Russian Ural sidecar jaunt with my mate Brown Dog down to Spain to participate in the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, as well as a pilgrimage to the Isle of Man for the annual Tourist Trophy motorcycle races.
So what was I planning for 1976? My ride on Ernie had reaffirmed my attraction to simple, single-cylinder old British motorcycles. I’d loved my 1957 500cc Norton … but weren’t there bigger singles? I’d heard of but never laid eyes on the obscure, long-stroke 650cc Panther motorcycles from Yorkshire. As with a lot of things in life, a whimsical dream sometimes slowly moves along from the “I’d like …” over a period of time to “I must have!” And so it was that by mid-1975 I had the makings of a 1961 Panther Model 120, complete with a factory sidecar chassis. An outsider would have been a little bemused at my fleet of vehicles, seeing as I was not really in permanent accommodation, had no storage facility, garage or workshop. I had an old London Taxi, the Ural and sidecar that I used on a daily basis, a 1937 BSA Empire Star which I had thought I could go vintage racing on, and now I was the owner of a collection of Panther bits. Dreams are free and can give a huge amount of joy even if nothing eventuates. Already I could feel the evocative thumping of the 106mm long-stroke Panther transporting me along in exotic, faraway locales, the sun shining and a huge smile on my face.
Say it quickly, and it never seems too hard or unachievable. What about a ride from New York to Rio? I must admit that my default reaction to a suggestion like that (even if it is my own) is always “that’s sounds great … it’ll be awesome!” It is possibly a small character flaw that I don’t ever temper the thought with some balancing imagery, maybe some rain and cold, deprivation and misery? Gradually that wee burr under the saddle became something that had to be addressed. All I needed to do, was sell the dream to people I liked and wanted on the ride … competent mates, enjoyable and resilient. This often needs a bit of planning. You don’t just go off blurting “Do you want to come to South America on a motorbike?” over the first pint. Of course candidates have to also have their shackles pretty loose and ready to be shaken free. They had to appear to like me and not be too dominating or domineering, they also had to be prepared to waste a significant amount of money doing this. How much? Dunno, never did a budget, that would
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probably have sunk the ship before it was even launched.
Lawrie in some ways is the archetypal Aussie — tall, broad and bronzed. I've always described Lawrie as a chameleon because of his amazing ability to adapt to his surroundings. He would have been a great undercover cop. If a situation called for a gentle caring soul, Lawrie would be the most earnest thoughtful person that could be imagined. He was new age before new age was even thought of. If a boorish yobbo was needed, his depravity would be of paramount substance. Being at the opera with the chinless-wonders of English society was as much Lawrie's environment as a rugby club trip with semi-neanderthal drunks. Largely self-educated, his adaptability was awesome to watch. He is an honest and fun-to-be-with companion who must count hundreds as close friends. Lawrie makes friends as easily and often as most people breathe.
Lawrie had been travelling for six or more years by this stage and seemed like an ideal candidate for position in the team. I believe I’d spent some quality time with him in the bars of Pamplona but neither of us could recall this with any clarity. He was a good loyal man in my rugby team, always supportive, always fun and amusing in a self-deprecating way. Never ridden a motorbike … well neither had I before I rode one. There is always the first time for everything.
I didn’t want a big ‘gang’ but thought maybe two or three others along would make for group fun without the difficulties of large numbers. The earlier ride on Ernie with Anne had often been just a little too solitary. We’d had some amazing times but also squabbled a lot without any others along to diffuse tensions and minor irritations.
Around this time an American from my rugby team had asked “What are you doing next summer?” and when told, he’d said “Hell, I’d be keen!” I didn’t know him very well outside of our weekend interactions but he met my criteria … so we had a crew. This meant three bikes and it didn’t take long for me to decide that Bessie, the old BSA could be diverted away from a dream of vintage racing, into a reliable old road-warrior ready for the hard yards of a trans-continental adventure. Samantha, the 1961 Panther was soon joined by Penelope, a sibling from the same Cleckheaton factory but of 1965 vintage – one of the last made. It was all falling into place. There was a dream, there were three keen riders and three not-so-suitable bikes.
Again say it quickly and it isn’t hard … just a bit of prep, and we’ll be good to go! Simplicity is key … old bikes with uncomplicated low-compression engines,
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running the same magnetos, and all with same-size inter-changeable tyres. Such a great formula - couldn’t possibly go wrong.
Well it would help if there was stability in the lives of the intended crew and a nice warm workshop to prepare the bikes in. Lawrie lived completely the other side of town and had no mechanical skills. I didn’t even know where the American lived or what he did … and can no longer recall his name. A lot of the friends from our early