realThe flea has bitten, the tail has wagged and the dog is smiling....
The politician without a seat and a reduced majority has decided on the future of all Kiwis for the next three years. The benefits of fiscal wisdom, perhaps too boring for those liberals looking for change, will help fuel the spending and promises by Jacinta and her cabal. These promises made whilst prostituting themselves, initially to the nation, then more recently to a poison dwarf with more baubles than the farmer from Dipton. - shades of Rumplestiltskin... As in any battle, there is typically a winner and a loser, but in this instance I'd suggest that there are two or even three losers, one whose loss will be long term and fatal, the other a brief interlude, and really so a question of who has lost by more. Again, the Greens (or the melons, ostensibly green with a very red centre - (the bit that counts), again relegated to impotence, their radical social ideology overwhelming any real environmental relevance for another term. After Winston had manipulated every last moment before deigning to appear, we mere morals watched and waited trying to suppress the bile even before hearing the protracted outcome, watching the train wreck as it happened, Intriguing that Peters slagged off both parties, then stressed that regardless of whatever happened in the months and years to come, it was neither the fault of him or his party - at this point I would appreciate a psychiatric qualification. I read earlier in the week a statement made by a banker noting that the last two coalitions involving Peters had seen interest rates increase to over 11% - I hope those bored liberals who allowed this to happen have the wherewithal to pay their future mortgages. A reminder that change inevitably comes with a price tag, perhaps one that the lovies will have cause to sweat on, In July Peters told Newsroom the public would know about NZ First’s decision by “Writ Day”.
“I make this guarantee that whatever decision New Zealand First arrives at post-election, it will be made public by the day the writs are returned, which is within three weeks from polling day,” Peters said. . "You can't dance with the devil without surrendering your soul." Whilst the date the country will know which direction we’re heading is fast approaching, we already know who is holding us to ransom, and who will be paying for whatever is being extracted at the negotiating table. Regardless of who promises the most, and whether National or Labour/Greens become the successful suitor, the taxpayer will foot the bill and pay the price for the vanity and avarice of an old man, leader of a party of misfits and no-names. Much has been made of the ability of a minor player, one rejected and deemed unworthy to hold their sole electorate seat, to dictate terms to the 93% of voters who preferred other options at the ballot box, but such is MMP, and to quote ex-Prime Minister David Lange, “It is not the tail wagging the dog, it is the flea on the tail wagging the dog”. Perhaps not his most eloquent line, but poignant none the less. Whilst a coalition of Labour, Greens and NZ First would provide plenty of grist to the mill of commentators everywhere, and like an impending car wreck, irresistible to watch, it would have the merits of using $20 notes to light a bonfire made of $100 notes, incredibly foolish, incredibly expensive, inevitably short lived, and with absolutely no benefit to anyone except those selfish few close enough to the fire. To misquote JFK, “We will not prematurely or unnecessarily risk the costs of a bastard coalition when even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth”. In any such coalition, as a matter of expediency the Greens must again be consigned to the wilderness and anonymity of the Back Benches, excluded as a pawn to accommodate the demands of the kingmaker, unable to effect any traction other than carrying the taint of a party who condone fraud, and whom perpetual failure is the accepted and expected norm. It is apparent by the sneers and vitriol of the vanquished that many “Die Hard Greens” place their extreme socialist views well above any desire to protect the environment, unwilling to even consider an arrangement that may offer them a seat at the table, and the genuine opportunity to really effect change in a positive and powerful manner. The trendsetters, the true environmentalists, and the doctors wives in Remuera who voted Green typically don’t espouse, share or intentionally vote for these socialist ideals, and would gladly make some practical and pragmatic accommodation. If for no other reason than to see the Kingmaker thwarted and again consigned ignominiously to obscurity, I’d really enjoy a coalition of National and the “Green” faction of the Greens. Alas, we’ll get what we’re given, we’ll survive the consequences whatever the outcome, and three years hence we’ll have the opportunity to reassess and address the matter once more. Whilst bed time and waking up time seemed very close together, and while a dull ache was gradually being soothed by a handful of nurafen, Sunday morning in Napier was a treat. Our beach front Motel offered unobstructed views of the water, and the early risers, the joggers, the walkers, and those being dragged along on a lead, were all enjoying the boardwalk.
As the sun rose, two little girls from the room next door, perhaps 2 & 3 years old, played on their scooters while Mum and Dad watched on, pleased for the respite, and so doing, brought a chuckle to this expectant grand father’s face. We had agreed on a 8am start, with a Gas Station breakfast planned at the BP as we left town – however, Butch and Crads broke the tranquillity half an hour earlier, a warning to those punters trying to enjoy a Sunday morning sleep in that there was worse to follow. Harleys don’t do quiet, especially Butch’s, which has a very sharp roar. Despite the sunshine, we knew the ominous forecast would soon bring pretty shitty conditions, and everyone, even the ever optimist Garth and Angus opted for layers of wet weather gear. So, gassed up, with BP pies, sausage rolls and coffees to sustain us (my first pie was not what I thought was - Gourmet steak & cheese proved to be Butter Chicken, and still being slightly delicate, I binned it, unable to face the taste or smell, and was thankfully more successful the second time), we rolled out, Taupo bound. As usual, we started fairly slowly, and as man and machine slotted into the grove (perhaps as nurafen kicked in), we picked up the pace, keen to get as many km’s as possible under our wheels before the rain started. Fairly early in the piece our progress was impeded by a large flock of turkeys blocking the road - these buggers are solid, and to hit one would be to ruin everyone's day, with both bird and biker likely to suffer badly. The higher we climbed, the colder it got, with intermittent and sometimes quite heavy rain coming and going. The only policeman we saw was approaching us on a long straight, but he flicked on his radar a few moments too late, by which time 14 bikes had shed enough speed to cause little concern, our Sunday morning untroubled. More gas in Taupo, and an opportunity for adjustments to be made by those whose wet weather gear was not working too well. The stitching of the crotch area of wet weather pants is typically an area that fails, and this was the case with a few of our crew, (and no one likes a cold, wet crotch), but the oilskins I favour worked a treat. Jeff knows his boots don’t leak because when they fill with rain that has run down his legs, they stay full! I bullied the guys into pressing on – more heavy weather beckoned and menacing black clouds promised that conditions would worsen the further north we progressed, and with it any thoughts of stopping to catch the All Blacks – Argentina game went out the window. My new Avon rear tyre gave great comfort as Beyoncé and I aquaplaned at one point, knowing that eventually it would bite into something solid and we’d be away – the old Dunlop, whilst having plenty of tread, would have had me reciting Hail Mary’s knowing that a lot was riding on the next second or two, with an unhappy outcome a real possibility. But, we had places to be, so not slowing down too much (or not for long), we kept the pace on, quick but safe, next stop Putararu for more gas, and another gas Station pie (so how’s the diet going?). The long straight roads of the Hauraki Plains, whilst boring and featureless in the heavy rain, allowed us to make good time without having to worry about too many greasy corners, but as usual, the closer we got to Auckland, the more the traffic thickened. Last stop of the day, at least for those with smaller tanks and others keen to farewell buddies was BP Bombay, but most of the Northern contingent forged on, whilst another who shall remain unnamed, not willing to chance post lunch public toilets, rushed for the comforts of home. So, the 2017 Rusty Nuts has been ticked off, everyone home safe with more tall tales to store away until next time (especially the well-endowed but very smelly Helen). F rom my window I saw two early morning fishermen in an aluminium dinghy heading out just as dawn arrived, the magnificence of the rugged East Cape guaranteeing a great day. They'd driven their very old tractor down to the beach from where ever they'd come, no doubt no more than a few hundred metres away, lifted the dinghy off the trailer and away, no fuss, Te Kaha style.
The smell of frying bacon was a treat, the chef popping out from time to reassure us that the 8am breakfast call would be a few minutes early. Most were up, packed and bikes loaded earlier than a late night may have indicated, but any sore needs were kept quiet, and a hearty breakfast enjoyed before the obligatory pre departure photo signalled time to start the bikes - Mickey had decided to head home, so we bade home safe travels and were off. The roads we'd enjoyed the afternoon before we're just a precursor to what was to come, the rugged beaches strewn with driftwood and seaweed, the smell of the sea a million miles from the trappings of Auckland, almost a time warp. The number of churches is quite staggering, many old and abandoned, others close to it, although many pristine, well loved, well tended, the white paint fresh and glossy. Likewise the local schools, abandoned buildings indicating where there had once been a thriving community. Our pace was slower than yesterday, although only slightly, Just enough to take in the fabulous scenery, the small villages a mixture of kemp and unkempt, I suppose more a of reflection of values than an indication of the poverty that appears endemic. It is apparent by the number of white horses by the road side watching the world go by, some in paddocks, others tethered, that there was once a very prominent and favoured stallion, his offspring spread far and wide. Stock on or beside the road are a constant hazard right around the coast, wayward and unpredictable sheep, cattle that are as solid as a brick out house, goats with horns long enough to impale the unwary, hawks slow to rise after a meal of fresh road kill, each presenting their own challenges. We had a lot of ground to cover so stops were limited, usually regulated around the demands of an active bladder, and being mindful of our two smokers. The smaller gas tanks were on fumes as we passed several service stations either closed or with "No Gas" signs, eventually arriving at the infamous Ruatoria. Another enigma, churches on most street corners, the few shops either abandoned or close to it, those still trading almost in lock down. The lady at the small gas station told us she was not brave enough to stock cigarettes having been robbed so frequently. Having said that, we inevitably drew attention wherever we went and the locals were always friendly and interested, even the smallest child knowing what a Harley was. We were invited to come down to watch the local rugby team play, and used the excuse of a tight schedule to avoid what could only have been great training opportunity for the local St. John's ambulance volunteers. Gassed up many of us bought Lotto tickets from the only store in town that was open, second in importance only to the local WINZ office, promising the ladies serving that we'd "remember the little people of Ruatoria" in the event of a win - I have yet to check my tickets but suspect she has no fear of new found wealth troubling her any time soon. The wharf at Tologa Bay is always worth a look, and Butch who has seen more summers than most of us was pleased to tick that box on his bucket list. Both Butch and Mel belie their (in excess of) 3 score years and ten, both fabulous riders, fast, smooth and safe, both great guys, inspirational and stalwarts of our Harley community. Somebody put a hex on us by mentioning that we'd been lucky with roadworks so far... the next 50km saw us add layers of muck as we passed through one work site after another. My trip meter edged ever closer to 465kms indicating that we'd nearly completed another big day, eventually arriving at our beach side motel in dribs and drabs, Mike C quite rightly mentioning that our corner marking skills needed honing. An hour for a coffee and a shower, then we headed in the direction of local bars, the deck of The Gin Trap getting the first few rounds, The Thirsty Whale a few more, before settling into Paddy's Irish Bar. The Gin Trap will be remembered by us all. Mel, ever gregarious and friendly introduced himself to a young lady who had everything she had on offer, a big girl hardly restrained or fettered by undergarments she was certainly out there. We met Helen, and I fear that unless she addresses what is the worst BO I have ever come across, she'll remain forever single, but as some small consolation, she has entered Rusty Nut folklore and the story will be retold often in years to come. We very sensibly wandered back to a restaurant adjacent to our motel, enjoyed a great meal and a few Pinot's before a decision needed to be made. There the sensibility ended for some of us, whilst the still sensible turned left and went to bed - others walked back to Paddy's and stayed far too long, eventually realising that there was considerably less time before our 8am departure than we'd started with. The trip home will follow tomorrow. Rusty Nuts team 2017 For the past 5-6 years, The last weekend of September has been reserved for the Rusty Nuts, a bunch of old bikers who chose to celebrate the birthday of Greg by a few days on the road. Greg was committed for much of the year as a golf caddy on a professional tour for talented nephew Dylan, calling the shots at many famous courses and events, and so was pleased when Mike M offered to handle the Rusty Nuts - which, ever the organiser, he duly flicked on to me. We decided on the reverse course of a tour we did 4-5 years ago, circumnavigating East Cape, and overnighting in Te Kaha and Napier, taking in about 1500km over the 3 days (and even more for those hardy souls who live north of the Harbour bridge). A record 15 good bastards signed up for the tour, each paying the deposit required to secure a spot and guarantee a highly prized Rusty Nuts souvenir T Shirt. As an added bonus those who came last year could trot out last year's sweat shirt, Mike C having thoughtfully added a year by way of a proof reading error to the date. As the years have progressed, the odds and sods of marques has whittled down, and no longer do we have Hondas, Boulevards or BMW,s, with just two dissenters and late adopters(Craig and Garth) on Indians, still unwilling to leave the "Dark side", the rest of us on Harley's - there really is no accounting for taste. A week out, the weather forecast was causing concern, but as the date drew nearer and with each progressive day the outlook improved sufficiently to warrant committing and everyone turned up well prior to our agreed departure time - a sure sign that even old buggers can get excited! The reality was that we knew we'd get wet at some point, but hoped that we'd dodge the worst of it, Garth and Angus working on the theory (and hope) that if everyone else had struggled into their wet weather gear, it wouldn't rain and they'd be sweet - logic that did prove sound, at least some of the time. The 5 minute call was given, coffees finished and last minute pit stops awkwardly completed, multiple layers of gear to be worked around, with the possibility of wet boots in the event of too much rush, extra layers dug out of saddlebags in deference to the decidedly untropical conditions and the very possibility of rain to factor in Just prior to mounting up a woman walking across the car park, coffee in hand was roped into taking the obligatory team photo - she being given instructions from her fella, wondering why she'd been accosted and not him. And then we were off, an impressive sight and even more impressive sound, 15 Harleys (and I'll generously extend this courtesy to our buddies on Indians) causing people at the Gas station to look up and wave as we formed up and departed. We quickly ate up the km's, the Hauraki Plains soon before us damp and dreary under an overcast sky. Small Jersey and large bony hipped Friesian cows relaxed in their respective paddocks, all bearing post calving chalk marks - some destined to be presented to the bull, others less fortunate, unwittingly waiting for the freezing works truck. Likewise, heifer calves happily enjoying spring, but farms almost devoid of bobbies, with all but a fortunate few perhaps kept for future duties as a prized sire, or the less fortunate as steers, gelded and raised for the table. Matamata for coffee then up the Kaimais, our anticipated fast transition over the ranges frustratingly slowed by logging trucks involved in passing manoeuvres, a truckie determined that his skill and the horsepower of his loaded monster, capable of 51km an hour at best, could overtake a mate who could only manage 50km... Somehow we lost Neville between Mt Manganui and Opotiki - we'd stopped at Whakatane for a late lunch, with the temptation of a match made in heaven being too great to pass by, a Guiness and steak pie - in fact 2 Guinness's for Craig, the youngest in our group, but a man with a prodigious thirst. As we mounted up to leave, a quick head count proved that we were one short, and found that Nev was 40km hence, waiting unsure as to whether we'd been and gone or were yet to arrive. Not to worry, a quick blast sorted that out, a tank of gas at Opotoki, then off again taking advantage of the lack of traffic (and traffic cops), to enjoy the final leg to Te Kaha, having ticked off over 400kms for the day. The Te Kaha Beach Resort motel is a bit of an enigma, built in the 1990's and evidently a "leaker", consequently never quite finished, (as is evidenced by the elevator shaft that rises to 4 floors, even though the building stops at 3), and is perpetually in receivership, struggling in a little slice of heaven but never having quite enough income to do more than barely survive, although apparently well run by fabulous staff. A quick shower and tidy up then off to the bar, only to find the early starters had already made a head start, attacking the rigours of the day with enthusiasm, our outside table ever expanding until the whole group was there, making buying a round quite a handful. We'd arranged a meal and enjoyed steak, chicken, fish, pasta and salad, something for everyone, with chocolate brownie, fruit salad and cream for those who needed it, accompanied by too many bottles of Pinot noir, too many Jack Daniels and coke, and not nearly enough restraint. Fortunately most were too tired to hang on much after 11pm (or was it 12?), so a fairly early night - but not before many tall tales had been told, tight and twisty corners relived, and the day ahead discussed at length. Tomorrow, Te Kaha to Napier. Opotoki - Neville found!
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Don MalcolmA perfect day involves being on my Harley with a long ride ahead.
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