Wade is on holiday and with lovely girlfriend Nikita living in Wellington, occasionally finds himself at a loose end, and what better way to deal with this than encourage Dad to get our Harley’s out and go on a road trip.
Not too much arm twisting required, a couple of fine days forecast, and off, Coromandel bound. A leisurely ride, with the very limited range of Wade’s 7 litre “peanut” petrol tank, and about 120 kms between fuel stops front of mind. He now knows first-hand the location and price of gas at quite a few Service Stations on the Coromandel peninsula. It is great riding on roads that for 7-8 months a year are perpetually damp, some with a pronounced green mossy coating, inevitably greasy and waiting to claim victim any rider showing too little respect for the conditions – something we didn’t need to worry about at all, the afternoon progressing from almost dreary to very hot, perhaps the promise of a long hot summer. Just before leaving home, I opted for my leather jacket in preference to a summer, vented jacket (much cooler) – a decision I soon regretted. I noticed whilst spending 3 weeks riding in in the European Alps was an absolute lack of “road kill” – I don’t recall a single road pizza, which is a very significant contrast to New Zealand. Possums, some fat and fresh, others, flat and almost worn away, some grey, most brown, a few almost black, with the side dish of bunnies and birds, and in particular Pukeko’s, birds with very little road sense. Something I have never seen before was a litter of baby stoats (more correctly, a “gang” or “pack” of stoats), 3 long skinny and furry kits, each the size of an artist’s paintbrush almost shimmering across the road and into the scrub, destined to become ferocious killing machines. For motorcyclists, the roads on the Coromandel Peninsula are as good as just about anywhere, the main bug bear being motorists (most in rental cars or camper vans), who chose to ignore the build-up of frustrated travellers eager to pass. Having said that, the midweek holiday traffic was pleasantly sparse and mostly accommodating, certainly off peak. We stopped at the ever welcoming Bugger Café, as much for a pit stop as a late afternoon coffee, a great spot that pretty much marks the transition from Hauraki Plains to the Coromandel proper, a last stop before destination for the day, Whitianga. The final leg was icing on the days cake, more fabulous roads, tight corners taken leaned over until the scrape of foot pegs on road surface signals there is no more lean available, but not travelling at speeds that would concern attentive traffic cops. We checked into our motel, taking what was just about the only twin accommodation available online the night before, at a price that should have included a penthouse apartment with a baby grand, (alas, no piano or penthouse, just an expensive room). A call to my brother Wayne saw him and Mr Ted, (his constant companion and work truck security system), arrive with a much appreciated 6 pack of beer. Wayne wisely abandoned the rat race of Auckland for what he describes as the paradise of Whitianga 15 years ago and has never looked back. We only catch up once or twice a year, and it was great for Wade to spend some time with his uncle, listening to stories from our misspent youth. 6 pack gone, Wayne left for home, so we wandered across the road for dinner, the nearest restaurant offering an eclectic mix of Greek, Italian and European fare, of which we tried a little of each together with a nice Pinot – exceptional. Unfortunately our expensive room didn’t provide a good nights’ sleep. In lieu of aircon, I had a pedestal fan that didn’t work, and Wade found that he was kept awake by every noise (and in a big motel with noisy external staircases, thin walls and open windows). First world problems. The two buddies who’d readily committed to joining us to complete the circumnavigation of the peninsular had both withdrawn, so we left earlier than planned, headed for Luke’s Kitchen in Kuaotunu, 15 kms of nice windy road hence. Half a dozen lean backsides pointed skywards indicated that we’d arrived, a ladies yoga group complete with carved wooden Buddha statue doing their thing on a reserve across the road from the café obvious to the arrival of two rowdy Harley guys. The closest I could get to yoga would be as the Buddha, sitting with tummy exposed, watching the exertions and efforts of the practitioners with a good humoured smile. Coffee, a homemade muffin and a bacon and egg croissant later and we were off again, looking forward to the next 85 km, winding and climbing up the ranges, then down the other side, conditions perfect. This route can be quite dangerous, with wet corners, errant tourists and logging or mussel trucks cribbing more than their fair share of the road each adding to the fear factor, but today was ours, and we enjoyed every moment. Reality hit home at a gas station in Thames – a father fuelling up while his son, obviously quite handicapped rocked back and forth in the front seat, oblivious to we two leather clad road knights , spoiled by opportunity and the roll of the dice. Back to Bugger café for a cold drink and obligatory pit stop before the final run home, again, little traffic and no traffic cops to hinder our progress. A magnificent couple of days, father and son. Time to get Andrew on a Harley! Comments are closed.
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Don MalcolmA perfect day involves being on my Harley with a long ride ahead.
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