My current bike, a 1962 Chang Jiang, near the tennis courts at Wahminda Park
As long as I can remember, I have been extremely interested in motorbikes. I have had other “Special Interests” too, especially trains, computers, typhoons, weather, but the interest in motorbikes has always been there. I never imagined that having an interest in motorbikes could have any sort of medical description or diagnosis, but I learned otherwise in the closing months of the twentieth century. This is how it happened:
“Of course you’re autistic, Phil Smith! I had you figured out years ago when I first met you. Why do you think you’re so good at fixing computers? Why are you so obsessed with typhoons and motorbikes? You’re a classic case of Asperger’s Syndrome!”
I was lying on my back poking cables into a computer under the desk in the lounge room of the home of Doctor Tim Trodd, an expatriate general practitioner in Hong Kong who was known as an expert in childhood Autistic Spectrum Disorders. Doctor Trodd had called upon Doctor Disk many times over the years to repair his computers in both office and home and sometimes to supply new computers. Tim’s verbal diagnosis confirmed for me what I had been suspecting for about a week: that I certainly had Autism Spectrum Disorder and was more than likely Asperger’s Syndrome.
A fortnight earlier, my younger son Benjamin had been officially diagnosed as Autistic and as probably being also Asperger’s Syndrome at the Matilda Childhood Development Centre located on The Peak on Hong Kong Island. I had immediately begun researching both Autism and Asperger’s on the Internet. As I began this research, I was immediately struck by how similar the symptoms being described on the web pages were to my own school days.
Memories of school reports came flashing back to me: “Phillip is always in a world of his own”, “Phillip is like an absent-minded professor”, “Phillip never seems to pay attention in school, but always tops the class in his exam results”, “Phillip is so obsessed with trains, that we get sick of hearing about them”, “Phillip seems to be able to focus on only one subject at a time.”
I began to think, “If Ben is autistic, then so am I!”
About a week into my research, I serendipitously stumbled upon a web site which carried an online test which could be used by web surfers to determine whether or not they had any autistic traits. I had taken the test, answering each question as honestly and carefully as I possibly could, and when the results appeared, they confirmed that, according to the test, 100% of my answers had pointed towards my having autistic traits.
This had all been related to Tim while I was fixing the computer. Tim’s response had hardly been a surprise. My quotation of Tim’s words at the head of this article might not be literally precise, but this is essentially what he told me while I was repairing the PC.
The computer was fixed, the invoice and cheque were exchanged, and I headed the Suzuki back towards my home in Sha Tin – deep in thought.
I knew it was true that I could easily become exclusively obsessed in any topic that really grabbed my interest.
Today, as the turn of the millennium approached and computer users worldwide needlessly stressed themselves over the End of the World which would certainly occur when computer systems collapsed in an apocalyptic, planet-wide catastrophe of death and devastation, my interest in computers was at a peak. I had been interested in computers on and off since about eight years of age when I had read about the first primitive electronic computers in a kind of kids encyclopaedia called The World of the Children. So computers became a subject that I studied enthusiastically and about which I had become very knowledgeable.
Throughout my school years one of my areas of special interest had been trains. Trains of all shapes and sizes. I could still recall that a Victorian Railways R-class steam locomotive had a weight of 187 long tons and 8 hundredweight (including the tender) while the B-class diesel-electric locomotive tipped the scales at 111 long tons and 17 hundredweight. Now we live in a metric world so those figures should be quoted as approximately 190.4 tonnes and 114 tonnes respectively. My mind could still recall every inch of all the tram tracks that had existed in Geelong before the trams were scrapped in 1955. What use are all these facts and figures today? My school teachers had nearly been driven out of their minds by my constant spouting of intricate facts and figures about trains and trams.
My Grandfather always used to say that I was so madly keen on motorbikes because my mother rode pillion on the Harley behind my Dad right up until a month before I was born. He used to explain that he reckoned the sound of the uneven beat of the Harley’s engine was somehow infused into my little brain while I was still in my Mum’s womb.
A second opinion on why I love motorbikes was put forward after I was diagnosed with Autism and Asperger Syndrome: I had a “Special Interest” (or something more like a total obsession ) in the topic of motorbikes that was a significant indication of Asperger Syndrome. The term “Asperger Syndrome” has more recently been replaced in medical literature by the term “Autism Spectrum Disorder” often shortened to “ASD”.
In the story, “Jack” refers to my late father, John Daniel Smith, who was usually known as “Jack”, “Wenche” (a Norwegian name pronounced like “Van’-ka”) refers to my mother, Wenche Smith, now in her 93rd year and resident in Geelong, and “Ottar” refers to my late uncle, Ottar Abrahmsen, my mother’s younger brother.
The article which follows is entirely fictional. It is my imagination picturing how my last motorbike ride before I was born might have happened:
“Potato, potato, potato!”
Can a story begin with those three words? Has copyright already been breached? The Harley-Davidson Motorcycle company attempted to trademark the “potato-potato” sound of its V-twin engine in February 1994, but after six years of litigation, withdrew their application. A multitude of motorcycle magazines has used these words to describe the sound throughout the twentieth century and on into the twenty-first. So it seems it might now be safe to start a story with these words. But just to be safe, the word will be repeated three times, rather than twice. Three times sounds better, anyway!
“Potato, potato, potato!”
The elderly Harley wheezed into life after Jack’s first kick.
Preparation had taken a while: grease the rockers with the flat cheese-head style grease gun; grease the fork linkages, grease the saddle pedestal, grease the steering head; check and top up the oil; check the chain tension and wipe off excess oil; give the whole machine a wipe over with a rag; open the fuel tap, tilt the choke valve in the carby, gently turn the motor to suck in some fuel mixture, turn on the ignition switch and then it was one steady kick on the bicycle pedal kick starter.
The blue 1925 Harley-Davidson in the foreground is similar to the Harley my father, Jack Smith, would have been riding when he and my mother were first married.
“Potato, potato, potato!”
Jack looked down at the idling engine with a feeling of satisfaction as each pushrod did its job and lifted one end of its rocker so the other end could depress the inlet valve. “Come on, Wenche, we’re ready to go!” he called to his bride of eighteen months, now heavy with the weight of their first child, expected within the next month or so.
“Potato, potato, potato!”
Tiny puffs of dust erupted from the red scoria* of the Bloomsbury Street back yard a metre or so rearwards from the fishtail exhaust and drifted away while settling back into the scoria. Wenche’s younger brother Ottar stepped off the low, wooden back verandah and opened the unpainted paling gate, set at an angle of 45 degrees, which gave access to the short common driveway between this house and number 7, next door.
In moments, Wenche was out in the yard and carefully arranging her skirt as she mounted the pillion pad fitted to the parcel rack of the Harley. As she did so, the baby within her womb seemed to leap for joy at the sound of the bike. The baby had been moving inside her womb for months now, but always seemed especially excited whenever she mounted a motorbike. There were two bikes she rode: the Calthorpe belonged to Ottar and the Harley belonged to Jack. While the Harley clearly said, “Potato, potato, potato!” the best the slow-revving single cylinder engine of the Calthorpe could manage was an almost colloquial, “Spud, spud, spud!” Tonight was a night for potatoes rather than spuds! Clamping her arms around her husband she exclaimed, “Let’s go, Johnny!”
My mother Wenche Smith rides pillion behind her brother Ottar Abrahmsen on his 1938 Calthorpe
Balancing the bike and its precious cargo on his right foot, with his left heel Jack depressed the clutch pedal and smiled at the satisfying “clunk” from the gearbox as he pushed the gear lever forward in its gate to the first gear position. A slight twist of the right handgrip as his left toe gently pressed forward the clutch lever saw the machine begin to move towards the gate.
“Potato, potato, potato!”
Ottar closed the gate behind them as the Harley gathered speed down the drive and leaned right to turn into the street in the Chilwell dusk. This was to be his big sister’s last time going out together with her husband on the Harley to see the movies; the bike was to be sold this weekend to provide cash for baby necessities.
“Potato, potato, potato!”
The lamplighter from the gas company paused and watched longingly as the bike turned left into Fyans Street and then right into Pakington Street. Wenche smiled with delight as the little baby within seemed to be dancing in delight to the tune of the exhaust.
“Potato, potato, potato!”
Jack waits patiently as the Newtown tram screeches its way around the sharp curve across his path. It suddenly halts in darkness as the trolley-pole comes off the overhead wire and bounces about on its springs unleashing spectacular showers of sparks. The conductor alights and expertly reunites the trolley-pole with the wire, boards the tram and with two clangs on the bell lets the driver know he’s back aboard. The baby in Wenche’s womb gets all excited as he hears the tram: another sound which means adventure! As the tram grinds its way up Aphrasia Street, Jack releases the clutch and the Harley continues towards its right turn into Aberdeen Street where Jack must take special care while crossing the junction of the three tramlines.
Wenche has no way of knowing the baby she carried would turn out to be autistic. In fact no ordinary people even knew the word. And on that evening in August 1946, nobody in Australia had ever heard of Hans Asperger and the syndrome which would later bear his name. Jack would never know during his short lifetime. The baby himself would not know for more than fifty years when a diagnosis in far away Hong Kong would help him understand a peculiarly interesting half-century of life.
“Potato, potato, potato!”
The bike slows on the approach to the neon-bar traffic signals at Geringhap Street. Only one green bar remaining and it must turn to red before the bike can reach the intersection. The unborn one is still excited. Wenche has no way of knowing that this exposure to the “potato, potato, potato” sound will result in a lifetime love of motorbikes for this little one yet to be born. The set of green bars on the traffic signal flash on and the Harley continues along Ryrie Street. Right turn at the next traffic signal into Moorabool Street and pull up just near the cinema.
“Potato, potato, pot . . .!”
The ignition is switched off, the bike is parked safely, and the happy young couple enter the picture theatre. The baby within settles down for a nap after his exciting ride.
*scoria is a word, in common use when I was a kid, to describe a gravel made from very light-weight volcanic rock. The rock had been formed on the surface of lava flowing from a volcano, where the lava became filled with thousands of tiny bubbles which remained in place when the lava solidified. Scoria was commonly used for driveways, and many streets and country roads in Western Victoria were covered with scoria before the days of sealing roads with bitumen.
One incident that comes to mind again and again over the years occurred in Hong Kong over twenty-five years ago in 1989.
One Sunday we had been to church and were walking along Jordan Road in Kowloon to board the Jordan Road ferry to go out to an island in the South China Sea.
We entered a tunnel to pass underneath a very wide road to get to the ferry. The tunnel was very long and was lined with ceramic tiles which made it like an echo chamber. A group of young Filipina ladies was walking a few paces ahead of us in a straight line across the tunnel. I felt a sneeze coming on. I tried to suppress it but lost the battle. Suddenly a stentorian explosion of magnificent volume echoed throughout that tunnel.
All of the Filipina ladies instantly rose into the air in unison like a line of well trained ballerinas and we were able to see a lot of daylight shining through beneath their feet. Together they all landed again with a single click as their feet all touched the floor of the tunnel simultaneously. I have been to a great many ballets over the decades, but I don’t think I have ever seen a troupe of ballerinas leap in such perfect unison.
There was a moment of still silence followed by enormous guffaws from both the Filipina ladies and ourselves as we all doubled up with laughter.
Later in the afternoon, as we sailed smoothly across the South China Sea, we realized that the Filipinas and ourselves had all caught the same ferry and every time we saw each other after that we would all keep bursting into laughter again. It really was one of those moments that remains unforgettable throughout a lifetime.
Now, a quarter of a century later, when I sneeze, I often picture in my minds eye that line of ladies doing that perfectly-timed leap in that tunnel, and people around me wonder why the heck this crazy guy starts laughing at his own sneeze!
My longest ever continuous ride was a courier ride that went [VIC] Bairnsdale – Sale – Bairnsdale – Cann River – [NSW] Eden – Sydney – [ACT] Canberra – [NSW] – Cooma – [VIC] Cann River – Orbost – Bairnsdale – Melbourne – Sale – Bairnsdale all non-stop with four half-hour sleep breaks while papers were being signed. This was done on an old magneto-ignition single-cylinder Yamaha 250 fitted with a Tilbrook sidecar. All that riding was done to set up a company that needed papers signed by people in about eight locations in two days.
This is the tiny Yamaha sidecar outfit upon which I completed the Longest Courier Ride about 45 years ago. (Picture from Two Wheels magazine April 1973.)
This was first written out in note form a month or two after the ride working from the details recorded in my Shell Driver’s Log Book. Years later, I found the notes and wrote it up narrative style on a computer. In 2008 I re-wrote on a computer so I could present it as a talk to a motorbike club.
It has been presented again two or three times since then. Now, on with the story:
“Go to bed right now; you are about to have two days with no sleep!” ordered my father. On questioning why he wanted me to hit the sack at 10:00 am on a sunny day, I learned that a company was being set up. Papers were being drawn up at Sale and would have to be signed by many people before the job was over. I should expect to leave home about three in the afternoon and not see a bed for the next two days. I would be expected with the paperwork all signed, stamped and completed by nine in the morning two days hence. I knew that the Yamaha was full of petrol and I had just finished servicing it that morning.
I hit the hay and snatched a few hours sleep.
Mum woke me up with eggs on toast already cooked just how I liked them. I put some emergency camping gear, extra warm clothes, wet weather gear, and emergency rations in the sidecar. This was a Tilbrook Tom Thumb industrial sidecar fully restored and painted in brilliant Boeing Red, the same colour used on the tails and noses of air force training jets to make them very visible, a kind of orange red that had quite a glow about it. The bike was an air-cooled 250cc single-cylinder DT1 Yamaha two-stroke with almost indestructible flywheel magneto ignition and old-fashioned piston-port intake into the crankcase. It had “Autolube” lubrication system in which a pump was used to pump oil into the carburettor mounting tube where the petrol air mixture was being sucked into the crankcase. This bike was the first real “trail bike” or “enduro bike” that Yamaha had successfully marketed and mine had about 30,000 miles [48,000 km] on the clock.
Dad handed me a file of addresses and expected times of arrival at each address. He had phoned everyone to set up meeting times so that I could collect signatures and keep riding. I would even have to meet some company director at home in his pyjamas at 04:00 am! This was going to be a ride with a difference!
The bike started first kick and I pulled in the clutch, eased the hand gear shift lever at the right of the tank forwards, felt the satisfying “clunk” as first gear engaged, and soon I was motoring along Riverine Street Bairnsdale, headed for Main Street. I turned right onto Main Street and headed for Sale. Not far past the railway crossing West of Bairnsdale, half a dozen cows looking over the fence seemed to be saying, “What do you think you’re up to, you silly galah?” At Providence Ponds a green VW Kombi made into a camper van pulled onto the road from the rest area and came across to my side right in front of me. Nothing else on the road, so I went around him. It is a rare event indeed to pass other vehicles on this outfit.
As I pulled into York Street, Sale, I noticed I was ten minutes early for my appointment with the solicitors, so I filled up with petrol before going to the office. The solicitor spent about ten minutes going through the paperwork and showing me where each person had to sign it, and then placed it in the waterproof satchel which would take it half way round the East coast of Australia.
Back down the Princes to Bairnsdale, confirming the opinion of those same six cows as they saw me rocketing by in the opposite direction just over an hour later. I filled the tank again before stopping by my home to eat a meal which was already served up and steaming on the table before I pulled into the driveway. 87 miles [140 km] on the clock so far. Fifteen minutes later, I was crossing the Mitchell and headed East. More cows near Sarsfield also seemed to think I was crazy. Up the Omeo Highway to Bruthen, then East to Nowa Nowa and then down the Princes Highway to Orbost where the tank was filled again. Just past the Tostaree Roadhouse on the right, a kangaroo attempted suicide leaping across the road from the left. I missed the roo, but I’m pretty sure the semi going the other way probably made kanga carpet out of him. Orbost saw 142 miles [229 km]. It was 7:15 pm and getting dark. The most comfortable cruising speed of this outfit was about 38 miles per hour or 61 km/h. Near the turn off to Bemm River between Cabbage Tree and Bellbird, a semi was pulled up on the roadside with two flat tyres on the same corner of his rear bogie. I stopped and asked if I could take a message, but he already had help on the way. 8:30 pm saw me at Cann River, where there was a pie and coke for the rider and another tankful of petrol for the bike. 188 miles [303 km]. Eastward, ever Eastward on that lonely road. I exchanged a cheery wave with the officers at the border inspection station near Genoa. The road would have more Northerly stretches than Easterly ones from now on. It was cloudy, so it was very dark indeed. The lighting coils in the flywheel were doing their job well and the pool of light in front was adequate considering the modest speed of this machine. Eyes of some unidentified wildlife on the centreline of the road shone in my lights somewhere between Timbillica and Narrabarba, but whatever it was, it thought better of mixing it with a screaming Yamaha outfit, and bolted off the road to the right well before I got there.
Filled up the tank again at Eden where I also had to visit a private home one street back from the main road and get some papers signed.
As I left Eden it was 10:30 pm and 256 miles [412 km] in 7 hours 30 minutes including all stops. An average of around 34 mph [55 km/h]; not bad for such a small motorbike. It’s amazing how often my mind turns to calculating various mathematical figures as I do a long ride. This is always even more true at night time, when I can’t see much of the surrounding scenery. Mile after mile of bitumen road just races into my headlamp glow and vanishes away under the wheels. 11:30 pm and 292 miles [470 km] saw another tankful at Bega after passing through Pambula and the deserted main streets of Merimbula.
Brogo River, Murrah River, Wallaga Lake, the familiar landmarks followed each other from in front to behind. Tilba Tilba and Central Tilba. Beautiful cheese! When going through this stretch during normal daylight hours there is always a mandatory stop to enjoy some delicious Tilba cheese. Is it my imagination, or can I really smell it as I ride by after midnight?
At Narooma, I filled the bike and had a hot cup of tea at a truck stop. It was 1:00 am and 341 miles [549 km] as I headed North again. Dalmeny, Potato Point, Tuross Head, Meringo, one after another those skinny turn-offs on the right kept appearing. It always seemed a long time passed before reaching each landmark, yet it seemed to have passed in no time at all when it was behind me. Does my mind play strange tricks with time as I am riding through the night? Or might Einstein have been able to explain it? One thing I know for sure is that this bike is travelling at an infinitessimally small proportion of the speed of light, so its movement really should not have any effect on the passage of time. What strange things come to mind while riding! Who knows? Perhaps those cows had been right!
More petrol at 385 miles [620 km] and 2:10 am at Bateman’s Bay. No time for a snack. Across the Clyde River estuary. The Kings Highway on the left: up through Braidwood to Canberra; but not tonight. Northwards, ever Northwards. I had a frighteningly close near-miss with a wayward owl near Burrill Lake and was still shaking as I filled up with petrol at 419 miles [675 km] and 3:10 am at Ulladullah. The bike could have gone further on that tankfull, but I needed the break. Ever northwards through those yawning wee small hours to yet another petrol stop and legstretch at Nowra, where it was 4:25 am and 461 miles [742 km]. I could not remember Milton, Yatteyattah, Conjola, Wandandian or Tomorong, but here I was in Nowra already, so I must have gone through them. Whatever had I been thinking about? Had I been thinking at all? Is it possible to ride a motorbike and sidecar over such a challenging road in one’s sleep? Oh well, back on the road!
On through Berry, Kiama and the peculiarly-named “Albion Park Rail” to a truck stop in Woolongong where it was a cup of tea for me and another fill up for the bike at 5:45 am and 509 miles [820 km].
A lot of the road now became freeway. Traffic towards Sydney was already building up. More vehicles than ever were now passing me. Filled up again at 6:45 and 544 miles [875 km] at Heathcote and then it was a myriad of suburban streets to my Sister’s home on Auburn Road, Auburn, where she signed papers and cooked breakfast while I slept soundly in full bike gear lying on her living-room carpet for 30 minutes. It had been 7:15 am when I had arrived and I was on the road again before 8:15. 568 miles [915 km]. Thank goodness I was now travelling opposite to the peak hour traffic and had a very good run. I smiled inside my helmet as I observed Mr and Mrs Suburbia creeping unbelievably slowly towards Sydney. It felt so good to be heading the other way with such great freedom.
Filled the tank yet again at Narellan at 590 miles [950 km] and 8:55. So close to Oran Park, but not a chance of visiting today! Riding straight through Camden, Picton, Mittagong and Bowral, I make mental notes to come back and visit these historic towns one of these days. They look to be so full of rural NSW history waiting to be savoured during some future holiday.
631 miles [1,016 km] and 10:00 am saw another tank filling at Moss Vale. Onwards, onwards, motor humming a sleepy tune, ever onwards towards the nation’s capital. Sometimes I took the bypass freeway sections, other times I took the old road. A man needs some variety on a long ride!
680 miles [1,094 km] and 11:15 and another fuel stop at Goulburn. I bought an ice-cream cone and walked up and down the main street there stretching my legs for about ten minutes. Then it was back on board and pressing onwards. A few miles out along the Hume and then it was turn left onto the Federal Highway, a major intersection in the middle of nowhere. Skirting Lake George, I noticed that it was full of water, a very rare sight. It felt strange to have water lapping the very road side and yet to see the tops of lines of fence posts stretching for miles across the lake. Then it was the grin-making twisties of Geary’s Gap and on into North Canberra where I again refuelled at 736 miles [1,185 km] and 12:45 pm.
I soon found the office building on Northbourne Avenue and was shown to an empty conference room where a blow-up air mattress had been placed on the floor for me. For the second time that day I enjoyed a 30 minute sleep while papers were being signed and stamped. At 1:30 I was awoken by a loud knock on the door and a beautifully cooked lunch of roast beef, potatoes and vegetables was placed before me. I have no idea where they got it from, but I thoroughly enjoyed consuming it and it was fully 2:00 pm before I hit the road again. Roundabouts. Long curving roads. Sufficient police vehicles to deter any enthusiastic enjoyment of them.
From an old colour slide, this photo of the Yamaha/Tilbrook outfit was taken in about 1972 or earlier.
Stopped at Michelago for fuel at 774 miles [1,245 km] and 3:00 pm and was given a free cup of tea, as I had known the proprietors there for many years. They told me I was five minutes ahead of schedule as my dad had told them on the phone that I would arrive at about 3:05. Twenty-four hours had passed since the beginning of the journey and I had taken only one hour of sleep. A brief chinwag and back on the road at 3:15.
4:15 pm and 808 miles [1,301 km] saw the tank topped up just on the outskirts of Cooma. Although I had friends there in Cooma, I didn’t call in, because that would have wasted too much time. Instead it was necessary to push on Southwards down the Monaro Highway through Nimmitabel to Bombala where another tankful of fuel was taken on at 5:40 pm and 861 miles [1,386 km]. The bloke at the servo seemed to want a yarn, but I had no time to stop, as I was anxious to do the 56 mile “horror stretch” of single lane corrugated winding gravel road on the Monaro and Cann Valley Highways before dark.
I used up so much fuel power-sliding the outfit around those gravel corners speedway style, that I hit reserve a long way short of Cann River and was rather glad I had a can of fuel in the sidecar although I didn’t actually need to use it. It was 7:00 pm and 914 miles [1,471 km] when I filled up at Cann River and immediately headed West on the Princes Highway. People were obviously eating at Bellbird and Cabbage Tree. I was feeling rather hungry, but I already knew what was ahead. Up and over Mount Raymond and down across the Brodribb River.
Dinner was already cooked and waiting for me at Orbost when I arrived there at 8:15 pm. As I ate dinner, my tank was refuelled and my bike checked over and the chain adjusted for me. It was 8:35 and 960 miles [1,545 km] when I pulled out of Orbost. Someone had all their earthly belongings laid out on the side of the road while they changed a tyre on their station wagon near Newmerella. Turn off the Princes at Nowa Nowa. Lonely, lonely roads. Singing songs inside my helmet. Anyone who could hear me would reckon I was a nut! Not long now and I would be passing those judgmental cows for a third time! Bruthen, Wiseleigh, Sarsfield.
It was 1,015 miles [1,633 km] when I filled up at Lucknow at 10:00 pm. I went around the corner to my home in Riverine Street, Bairnsdale and slept another 30 minutes on my own bed while paperwork was being signed and stamped. Fried eggs and bacon for supper along with another cup of tea and I was back out on the road by 11:00 pm.
While I would normally have saved both time and distance by leaving the Highway at Stratford and using the back roads through Maffra, Tinamba, Heyfield, Cowwarr, Toongabbie, Glengarry, Tyers, Yallourn North and Newborough, I knew that there would be no petrol open and I didn’t really want to be found filling my tank from tin cans in pitch darkness miles from anywhere, so I felt it was wiser to stick with the Princes Highway. It was 1,059 miles [1,705 km] and 12:10 am when I filled the tank at Sale.
At Rosedale it was absolutely freezing as I crossed the flats and billabongs of the Latrobe River, but it got warmer as I climbed up out of the actual river flats. For some reason, it always seems to be freezing on that stretch of road at night. The police were stopping and checking every vehicle which was travelling through Traralgon, but they recognised me and said, “You’re all right, Smithy” and waved me on my way, so I have no idea what it was all about. At Moe, I filled the tank again at 1,109 miles [1,785 km] and 1:30 am.
At Nilma, there was another police road block, but again I was waved through when they recognised my sidecar. Just after the railway bridge in Warragul I came within a whisker of skittling somebody’s cat which chose a most inopportune moment to scuttle across the road. I lifted the chair while missing it, so amused myself by flying the chair all the way through town, not that there was anybody about to see me doing it. I arrived in Pakenham at 2:50 am and 1,159 miles [1,865 km]. There I had a Chiko roll, a cup of tea and filled the tank. I walked about a bit and noticed that it was 03:00 am. Thirty-six hours on the road.
“Flying the Chair” on the flat flood plain near the Mitchell River in Bairnsdale close to my home at the time of this epic journey. (Picture from Two Wheels magazine April 1973.)
I left Pakenham and followed the Princes Highway through Dandenong and Springvale and then filtered through a multitude of suburban roads to an address near Doncaster where a company director had set his alarm for 4:00 am and I arrived at 4:05. I had another 30 minutes sleep on the living room floor while the director in his pyjamas and dressing gown did whatever he had to do to the paperwork. I had a cup of tea and some buttered toast before leaving at about 05:00 am. I worked my way down through the suburbs, glad that I was ahead of peak hour, and again filled the tank at Pakenham after running quite a bit of the way on reserve. 1,232 miles [1,982 km] at 05:55 am.
It was a relatively uneventful ride to Moe, although the rising sun became a real nuisance getting in my eyes on the last stretches of road from Trafalgar.
At Gunn’s Gully I filled the tank at 1,283 miles [2,064 km] at 06:20 am. A quick swig from the canvas waterbag on the sidecar and I was back out on the road. As I rode through Haunted Hills I found myself wondering where on earth this district acquired its unusual name. I travelled through all those familiar haunts of Morwell, Traralgon, Rosedale and Kilmany, arriving at Sale to refuel the bike at 07:45 and 1,332 miles [2,143 km]. The sun was a real nuisance for short periods spread out over most of the way.
It was about a minute or two to 09:00 am when I pulled up at home and handed the waterproof satchel of paperwork to Dad. He did whatever he did with the paperwork that day while I had a well-earned sleep. When I got up later that day, I figured out that I had covered 1,376 miles [2,215 km] in forty-two hours! An average of 32.7 miles [52.74 km] per hour including all stops! What a courier ride!
2008 reflection. The average speed may seem slow by today’s modern standards. The famous Iron Butt rides of today cover similar distances, but they do it in much shorter times. The above courier run was completed decades before the Iron Butt rallies were thought of. But for percentage of time spent in the saddle, I think my epic ride beat all those Iron Butt riders hands down. And for a motorbike with a flat-out top speed of a little over 40 mph [64 km/h], it was a truly remarkable achievement.
This photo was taken while crossing the Alps from North to South while the road was officially closed due to heavy snow during a winter in the early seventies. (Picture from Two Wheels magazine April 1973.)
The 2015 Breakfast Run, organised by the HMCCQ (Historical Motor Cycle Club of Queensland), was set for Sunday 11th January 2015. The evening before the run, I checked the Weather app on my phone and saw that a rainy day was forecast.
Oh dear!
Should I chicken out?
No!!!
Why did I purchase my wet weather gear all those years ago?
My daughter was scheduled to go with me in the sidecar. Would she still come if it was raining?
The answer was a resounding “Yes!” Rosie loves going out with her Dad in the sidecar!
We left from our home in McDowall about 05:45 am in steady rain which caused the donning of full wet gear. However, 350 metres from home, we ran out of the rain and had a dry run for the rest of the trip.
We joined Samford Road via English street and proceeded to Samford where we topped up with petrol.
From Samford we climbed the Mount Glorious Road, having to select first gear on the steepest bits. We also pulled over a few times to let other cars and motorbikes pass us slow-pokes by.
We arrived at the Rally site at the Red Cedar Picnic Ground (29.5 km short of Fernvale) at about 07:15 where there were about another 20 or 30 bikes ahead of us.
Just while we were consuming our breakfast, more than 100 other historic bikes rode in. Barry Deeth’s 100-years-old 1915 Ariel that was ridden in while we were breakfasting, had recently returned from a trip where it was ridden from Adelaide to Darwin – not a bad run for a then 99-years-old bike, I reckon!
By the time we left at about 08:50 I estimated there were over 200 historic bikes present – maybe up to 300. I will find out at the next club meeting.
From Red Cedar Park we rode to Fernvale where it was necessary to consume the obligatory pies. The Bakery has a reputation for making the “best pies in Australia” and I reckon that reputation is well-earned. We observed many people taking phone-photos of our outfit while we were at the Bakery.
From Fernvale we headed towards Ipswich along Brisbane Valley Highway as far as Pine Mountain Road where we turned left. With a cruising speed of about 70 km/h, we like to avoid freeways as far as possible. However, some freeway riding was unavoidable: where Fotheringham Road petered out we rode on the M2 motorway until the Mount Crosby Road exit. From there we continued along Mount Crosby and Moggill roads, stopping at Kenmore Shopping Centre to cool off the bike and to cool off us by walking around in the air-conditioned shopping centre.
Avoiding the M5 Western Freeway (which was closed for roadworks anyway), we filtered through through the suburbs re-joining Route 5 at the Toowong Cemetery and following Route 5 and South Pine and Old Northern Roads to our home in McDowall where we finished our ride at about 12:35.
Our average fuel consumption for the trip was 9.935 litres/100km (just over 10 km for each litre) which is not bad for a 22 horsepower side-valve engine hauling well over half a tonne across the mountains and back again!
Now for a few photos we took at Red Cedar:
Barry Deeth’s 100-years-old Ariel had recently returned from being ridden from Adelaide to Darwin.
A beautiful BMW R12 built about 80 years ago.
Another view of the R12.
This R51/3 BMW was built in 1954.
The owner alights from a Moto-Guzzi powered three-wheeler which looks a little like the old British Morgan, but is in fact a recently constructed home-made vehicle.
The Guzzi three-wheeler is for sale!
A rear-end view of the Guzzi three-wheeler – a most unusual machine!
This 500cc Royal Enfield bike is fitted with a Dusting sidecar which is almost identical to the very first sidecar I owned back in 1968.
Here is another view of that Royal Enfield/Dusting outfit.
My daughter Rosie stands near my 1962 Chiang Jiang sidecar outfit.
Another view of Rosie and the CJ. Note that my sidecar is on the right hand side of the bike which means it is a “Left Hand Drive” vehicle.
I took this photo to illustrate the beautiful, clean, uncluttered lines of this side-valve engine in an old Sunbeam motorbike.
I took dozens more photos than these, but these shall be sufficient for now!
I decided to “Get a Little Help From My Friends” (to quote a Beatles tune we used to sing along with a few decades ago) and rode my bike around to Brian Harmsworth’s place a few kilometres from my home.There we removed all the old components and fitted the new kit and took enough photos to write up and publish a pretty good “how to do it” manual.
We first removed the negative earth wire from the battery terminal.
We drained and removed the fuel tank.
We removed the front crankcase cover.
We removed all wires from the alternator.
We removed the rotor bolt which fastens the rotor to the front of the crankshaft
In this photo we see the allen-headed rotor bolt almost fully removed from the front of the crankshaft and the alternator.
We removed the old stator unit.
Here we see the old stator being lifted off while the rotor remains in place on the front of the crankshaft.
We removed the old rotor leaving the front of the motor looking kind of empty.
Here the complete original alternator has been removed from the front of the crankcase.
We fitted the new stator unit
We fitted the new stator unit with the sender unit in about a two-o’clock position.
We ensured that the pistons were at TDC (Top Dead Centre)
We removed the spark plugs and used the kick starter to turn the engine until the “0” Zero mark on the flywheel was clearly visible through the peephole near the left carby, thus ensuring that the engine was exactly at TDC (Top Dead Centre).
We fitted the new rotor and lined up the timing marks.
We fitted the new rotor and carefully lined up the painted marks on the rotor and sender so that the ignition timing would be perfect and then tightened up the bolt which fastens the rotor to the crankshaft. There are a lot of steps here which are fully explained in the manual I wrote.
We removed the air cleaner and the plastic electrical box.
We next removed the air cleaner and the plastic housing around the various electrical bits.
This photo shows the original electrical components:
Here we see the starter solenoid (relay), the voltage regulator and the rectifier (diode board).
We removed the unwanted electrical parts:
We removed all attached cables and then removed the voltage regulator and the rectifier. The old wiring loom parts were discarded.
We fitted the new rectifier in place of the old voltage regulator:
We fitted the new rectifier using the screws from the old voltage regulator.
We made a metal tab to mount the new ignition unit in place of the old rectifier:
While we could easily have fitted the new ignition unit to the components board using plastic cable ties, we decided to make a tab to fit the back of the unit and we pop-riveted the tab to the board.
Everything in place ready to wire up.
We pushed the rubber mounting at the back of the new electronic ignition unit onto our new tab and now everything is ready to wire up.
On the new wiring loom sections we connected the two-pin connector between the stator and the electronic ignition and the three-pin connector between the stator and the rectifier.
The red wire from the electronic ignition unit is fastened to the positive terminal of the coil in addition to the wire that is already on that terminal.
The yellow wire from the electronic ignition unit is fastened to the negative terminal of the coil in place of the old wire from the points (distributor).
The red wire from the rectifier is connected to the left upper terminal of the starter solenoid which is where the positive wire from the battery is also connected.
The blue-white wire from the rectifier is connected to the wire in the old wiring loom which goes up to the charging indicator light in the headlight shell.
The black plastic housing is fitted over the electrical components and the battery is reconnected.
After checking that the engine could run we tidied up the wiring:
After running the engine for a few seconds using the fuel remaining in the carbies just to check that all is okay, it is time to tidy up the wiring using black plastic insulation tape and cable ties and making loops to take up the slack where the new wiring looms are too long.
The tank was fitted and filled and the bike was taken for a test ride.
During the test ride a long steep hill which used to always see the bike chugging slowly in first gear was breezed over easily in third and on a short stretch of highway where the bike was normally cruised at 70 km/h I was amazed to see that it was effortlessly cruising at 85 km/h, so the new computer is able to work magic with the ignition timing.
A couple of weeks after fitting the new system, the bike’s engine failed during a mountainous rally ride. It turned out that, because it had been driven consistently much faster than it had ever been ridden before, the petrol tap had vibrated around to a partly closed position which leaned the mixture which overheated the engine causing the petrol in the carbies to boil. Not immediately realising what the problem was, we trailered the bike home (first time ever on a trailer in ten years of riding!) where it had cooled enough to start instantly on the very first kick.
Every time I ride the bike now, I notice how much more power it has with the computer ignition system.
And my constantly-used old battery charger is now just a dust-gatherer!
The kit which I fitted was supplied by Sidecar Pro located in Beijing, China.
I used this experience to write a manual for use by other owners of Chang Jiang motorbikes who may wish to purchase similar kits:
Whenever I park my bike almost anywhere in public places, people come up to me and start asking me many questions about it.
In yesterday’s post, I answered some of those questions, such as “What is it?”, “How did you come to get it?” and so on.
Motorcyclists in particular, often ask me questions like “What capacity is the engine?”, “How fast can it go?”, “How heavy is it?”, and so on.
Today I am re-publishing the full specifications for the bike.
In the table, which was first published last year in Bikers for Christ Newslwtter, (original) indicates specifications for the M1 model, (modified) indicates specifications for the M1M model which are different to those of the M1 model.
As I have made further modifications since the original restoration to M1M specs which was completed during 2004-2005, some of these figures will no longer be correct, but I have no way to measure the differences.
The image below, taken by me in Beijing about ten years ago in January 2005, shows my bike under re-construction in the factory of Long River Motorworks. The engine and gearbox have never again looked so shiny during the ten years since then.
Basically it is a 1938 designed BMW R71 which was assembled in China in 1962 for the People’s Liberation Army where it was called a Chang Jiang M1. During its restoration in 2004 it was upgraded to M1M specifications (6V → 12V, reverse gear added, higher compression ratio, better lights and wiring, etc.)
Since I have owned it I have replaced its wheels with Chang Jiang M5 wheels to improve the braking.
In November 2014, I also fitted a new electronic ignition kit consisting of rotor, stator, computerised ignition timing unit, solid state rectifier and voltage regulation unit, and all the necessary wires and fittings to install it and set it up. I wrote a manual for anyone else who might want to purchase a similar kit from SidecarPro.
How did I get it?
1964: I picked up a copy of El Popola Cinio, a Chinese magazine published in Esperanto language, because I saw a motorbike and sidecar on the front cover. I read the article about the Chang Jiang sidecar bikes being used by the People’s Liberation Army. That night I dreamed that I owned one (my current bike at that time was a 1951 BSA C10 250cc side-valve single solo bike). The dream wouldn’t go away. Perhaps it was a vision from God?
1967: I discussed this dream (which still hadn’t gone away) with my fellow members of the Ballarat Rovers Motor Cycle Club while we were standing in the Stunt Team shed surrounded by the tools of the trade (stunt riding accessories) while sheltering from the rain. The general consensus was that I was absolutely crazy to even think of getting such a bike (too slow for modern roads, impossible to import or register, impossible to get parts, etc., etc.) So, I tried to get rid of that vision.
1968-1989: At times the vision kept coming back to me: I’d consider it a little each time and then put it right back in the “Too Hard” basket.
1989: While living in Hong Kong, my wife Wendy and I went for a weekend trip to Guang Zhou (Canton) in mainland China. This was immediately after the Tiananmen Square incident and there were hundreds of well-armed soldiers everywhere we went. Our train was stopped by the military and soldiers with machine-guns searched our carriages. While this was going on I was amazed to see “in the metal” the exact bike I had been dreaming about for a quarter of a century – and there were dozens of them circling around our train.
The next day there were military personnel everywhere and a sidecar carrying a general stopped only 15 feet from where I was standing. I talked to him for about 20 minutes about his motorbike. I specifically asked whether it would be possible to buy a used one when the army had finished with it and ship it to Australia. He told me there was no way the government would ever, in our lifetimes allow the export of one of those machines. Oh come on Lord, why do you keep giving me a vision that is impossible!
2003: I was eating fish and chips in a park near Sai Kung in Hong Kong, when I heard what I knew to be the sound of a CJ. I heard it stop not far away and I ran and found it parked in front of a pub. While I gave it a very thorough inspection, the owner came out to talk to me. He had bought the bike from a vendor in Beijing. So it was now possible to export these bikes from mainland China. Praise The Lord!
2004: Early in 2004, every time I knelt down to pray I was seeing videos in my brain of me riding a CJ sidecar outfit. As it was invading my daily prayer time I approached my pastor to discuss the problem. His response was: “I reckon God wants you to buy that motorbike.”
I still had my doubts, since Wendy was basically not in favour of me owning any motorbike (“Think of the children!”).
During the annual holiday of the Senior Pastor of our church, Pastor Jackie Pullinger from Hang Fook came as our visiting minister. After two of her sermons, members of her visiting ministry team, who had never met me before, singled me out and asked me to stand up in front of the church as God had given them visions for me. On both occasions the visions described exactly the surroundings of that meeting in 1967 when I had discussed owning a CJ sidecar one day. I had never described that meeting to anyone in my life, but these Chinese guys described in perfect precision two different items, tools of my trade (Stunt Rider), that were hanging in that shed that day. I was blown away! God really was telling me to get going and purchase that bike! But what would Wendy think?
I rang Wendy, who was then in Brisbane, and started reminding her that for many years I had been talking about getting a Chinese motorbike. She said, “You should buy a motorbike providing it has a sidecar on it!” Praise the Lord!
To cut a long story short, I ordered my bike from Long River Motorworks in Beijing.
It was almost forty years to the day since I had first got the vision.
2005: In January, I went to Beijing to look at my partly restored bike. It was very incomplete at that stage but it was beautiful to see it, touch it, feel it! I also observed many other partly restored bikes in the same factory.
By about mid-year the bike was ready so I asked Gerald to ride it to and from work for a week or two to give it a shake-down and make any setting up adjustments.
The shipping was sorted out and it arrived in Brisbane in September 2005 while I was working in Hong Kong.
I came home to Brisbane and registered it in November 2005.
The bike I like to refer to as “God’s bike” was finally on the road!
2005-2014: God’s Bike has been to church most Sundays. It has also attended a number of rallies, concours events and, of course, the annual Sidecar Circus conducted by the HMCCQ.
When people ask me why I bought such an unusual bike, I usually start my answer by saying, “God gave me a vision to get it …”
Many don’t want to know about God at all, some want to hear more about my bike, a few, a very few, end up asking me more about my God.
In November, I fitted a new electronic ignition system to my motorbike.
A side effect of the conversion means that the bike has a lot more power, more acceleration, and can go faster than it ever went during the previous ten years.
Going faster means higher revs. … On 14th December I went tearing up Campbell’s Pocket Road from Wamuran to the Mount Mee Road flat out in third and occasionally second gears, never having to drop back to first as I did for much of that climb on the same Rally the previous year. I even overtook two other sidecars and some solo bikes on the way up the hill! Turned left onto Mount Mee Road and was easily hitting 85 to 90 km/h on the straight sections between corners. Suddenly the motor just died and I coasted to a standstill.
“Bugger!” (I said to myself) “That bloody rotor has come loose on the front of the crankshaft and I have lost my timing!”
I was wrong.
Several other rally riders stopped and the back-up trailer arrived. We all tried to start it: we proved the spark was strong and bright on both plugs; it obviously had plenty of compression, therefore no valve or piston problems; I filled the tank with petrol from the drum in the sidecar, so we all knew she wasn’t out of juice. The consensus of all was that she was getting a great spark, but at the wrong time, so the ignition timing must be out. And as we couldn’t hold everyone up by continuing to try starting it, for the first time in ten years of regular riding, my bike came home on a trailer! How ignominious!
At home I whipped off the front crankcase cover and the timing peephole at the flywheel, and amazingly, the timing was perfect, the rotor was as tight as a fish’s anus (that’s watertight) on the crankshaft, and there appeared to be nothing wrong! I put the front cover back on.
I turned on the fuel, pressed each tickler three times, kicked it slowly over both cylinders (exactly as I would any day for a cold start), turned on the ignition, set the throttle at 3 mm past the little scratch mark, and gave it a gentle kick. It fired up first kick as it always does! I went for a test ride of about 5 km around our suburb and it never missed a beat!
So what was wrong with it on the side of Mount Mee Road?
On analysing what we had done at the roadside, I remembered two things that were different: when I had first pulled up, the fuel tap was about half-way around from fully open to fully closed in a position where it should have had enough juice but would have been running a little lean; when we tickled the carbies, the fuel was “hissing” as it entered the float bowls.
On looking back, and thinking logically about it, the higher than usual revs going up Campbell’s Pocket Road had caused excessive vibration which, in turn, had caused the fuel tap to begin closing, so that the mixture had become lean. Lean mixture means hotter running, so the motor had become very hot. Heat from the motor had overheated the carbies. The petrol in the carbies had boiled dry, so the motor had just given up the ghost. It was all so simple when I stopped to think rationally about it.
If I had just told all the other riders to head off to the lunch stop and I would get there in half an hour anyway, I could have avoided the ignominy of having my bike trailered home for the first time ever!
Unfortunately, although I had my iPad in the sidecar, I took no photos that day.
My bike is a 1962 Chang Jiang M1M 750cc side-valve boxer twin with a heavyweight military sidecar.
