The long anticipated and awaited Rusty Nuts 2016 finally dawned, the annual celebration of Greg Frittelli’s birthday which arrived as it does every year, at the end of September. As you’d expect mid spring, the weather typically plays its part and the forecast leading up to departure date was pretty dire, although bikers are optimists by nature, and we were rewarded for the most part. Mike Chatterley had been under the knife for shoulder issues a couple of months prior and eventually acknowledged that whilst he wouldn’t be able to pilot his Harley, he would be able to drive wife Jacquie’s brand new Jaguar SUV (Jacquie was out of town so probably didn’t know..), so we had a support vehicle – at least we thought we did. He’d volunteered to arrange T shirts for the trip – the bonus being they’ll be good for next year as well, his proof reading failing, 2016 substituted by 2017… We arrived at BP South in dribs and drabs, most long before 9.15 briefing and 9.30 departure (Mike M being the exception, blithely arriving just before departure,), keen to hit the road. Rusty Nuts 2016 - ready to rock & roll 11 bikes, mostly Harleys (with a Honda, BMW and Indian being allowed temporary Harley status for the weekend) and aforementioned Jag departed right on time, some dressed in wet weather gear, others preferring to take a chance. Long-time Rusty Nut Craig had finally acknowledged that his previously beloved Victory Jackpot was no longer up to the task had ordered (and paid for) a new machine more in keeping with the salubrious company in which he travels – a full blown American tourer, complete with panniers, windscreen and stereo – unfortunately he’d fallen for the wiles of advertising and bought an Indian… even more unfortunately, the promised delivery date had proven overly optimistic (now the 3rd October – the day after the end of our epic). A disappointed Craig convinced the dealer to loan him the demo bike, so whilst compromise, one Craig was happy with - well done CycleSpot! Up the motorway, over the Bombay’s into the ominous black clouds on the horizon, using the early kilometres to settle into the rhythm, shaking out the cobwebs and for those who are not regular riders to reacquaint themselves with their machines. As is usual at this time of the year, the Waikato river was running wide and fast, perilously close to breaking its’ banks, low lying land green or submerged, huge temporary lakes on farms that were soaked beyond absorbing and more, the cows and pukakos unconcerned. New born black faced lambs and white faced calves kept close to respective mothers, unaware of the trials ahead, some more ominous that being wet underfoot, pennants posted at farm gates, the signal for the works truck to collect unwanted bobby calves. Major roadworks at Rangiriri proved first navigational challenge, but we took a chance and followed the signs, soon over the Glen Murray Bridge and on the quiet side of the Waikato, and an early opportunity to blow out the cobwebs, quickly ticking off Huntly and Ngaruawahia, before stopping at Te Awamutu to gas up. It was here that Mike C advised that he’d broken Jacquie’s brand new Jag, the computer and flashing lights warning that he urgently needed to head to the nearest dealer, so off he went, despondent, Hamilton bound. Apparently a valve in the turbo had failed, and a disappointed Mike eventually made his way slowly back to Auckland, under emergency power, plenty of time for impure thoughts, unhappy, frustrated questioning his choice of cars…. We pressed on, more quick km’s, enjoying the opportunity to enjoy the fairly deserted quiet backroads of the Waikato, 8 howling machines (Richards Honda, Mike J’s BMW and Craig’s still factory muffled Indian being the exceptions ) awakening the countryside. A small café near Karapiro proved lunch and coffee, our large group being a bonus to the days’ takings, then on to Taupo for gas before the run across to Napier, the volcanic plateau then rugged hills of the high country providing magnificent scenery. My radar detector proved its worth time and time again over the ensuing couple of days, ensuring that we didn’t cause the local constabulary to trouble themselves on our behalf unnecessarily, the red light on my dash flickering periodically, urgently suggesting an immediate speed realignment. A mass of motorcycles arriving anywhere is by necessity a noisy business, and our arrival at the Beachfront Motel was no different, but we were soon parked up, rooms allocated, bikes unloaded, some looking for a snooze, others a beer to wash away the road dust and to swap a few stories of the day – how close the big dog at the back of beyond got as he attacked each bike, the odd slip as a rear tire failed to bite through the wet moss growing on damp corners, and how to covert 90mph into km… The Rose Tavern had provided great service on our last visit, and was our first port of call – beers and hot chips being preferred by most as a starter, although new boy Tony impressed us with his appetite for margaritas. Boddingtons and Guiness gradually gave way to shorts, our table having to be cleared of glasses all too often, before the decision was made to return to Trattoria alla Toscana, another previous haunt, for a nice meal, half a case of Sam Neill’s Two Paddocks pinot noir, and far too much limoncello. Most elected to wander back to the motel, but the Irish band at Rose’s beckoned and a few hardy souls turned left instead of right, a couple of roaders in mind. Jeff made it back to the motel before realising that his roommate (that would be me) had the key in his pocket, and so was pleased to accept the hospitality of Richard, watching a bit of rugby before finally relenting and tracking us down – wise move. Our prearranged 9am departure meant breakfast before we left Napier, and the walk proved just the restorative some of us needed. Moth was the odd man out, opting instead for a handful of nurafen and an extra hour and bed. A very rough weather forecast for the west coast had encouraged us to flag New Plymouth, deciding instead to review our situation once we’d reached Taihape. The famous Gentle Annie lived up to its reputation as a “must” on any keen motorcyclists bucket list. Whilst the first 30-40km’s were damp and greasy, we got into a groove and enjoyed the ride, ever mindful that the “Gentle Annie” was once a rugged and unsealed dirt track and one of the most remote and inhospitable regions in the country. We stopped periodically and took in the scenery, Mel, Tony and Butch taking the lead, providing a master class for those following, great riders having a ball. Photo Opportunity Gentle Annie 2016 For those with an eye to the past, this region is a reminder that so much of what is New Zealand’s landscape was literally hacked and burned from native bush by hard men desperate for a better life, where mighty totara and kauri once stood, where tui, bellbird and kiwi flourished, sheep and cattle now graze, slips scarring the sides of hills – funny how values change. We safely emerged from the guts of the Hawkes Bay having completed 140kms of pretty wind roads, looking forward to gas, coffee and one of BP’s fabulous pies in Taihape while Greg worked the phone trying to find accommodation in Rotorua, a point we’d decided would not be too onerous to head home when the weather turned bad. Not to be, school holidays and sporting events had filled the town, confirmed when Greg followed up when we reached Turangi after a cold and wet crossing of the desert Road, wet weather gear being struggled into just before the heavens opened, slowing our progress slightly. A pow wow at Turangi saw a decision made to head for home, based largely on the imminent foul weather so off we went, back into the rain, showers all the way to McDonalds at Tokoroa for burgers and coffee – funny how caffeine and grease work well together. More gas and farewell handshakes in Matamata, the worst of the rain behind us, and only 200kms from home. The leg from Tahuna to Ohiniwhai was a treat, a guy in a VW Tourag determined to break some kind of speed record, so we tucked in behind him, happy that he’d draw the attention of the law before we did, a final thrill as Rusty Nuts 2016 drew to an end. So, about 1100kms over 2 days, everyone safe, and other than the Jag, no equipment failures. Roll on Rusty Nuts 2017. here to edit. 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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