Moving
sheds
(First Travels with Guido column for Motorcycle Trader -- July 2002)
It's a hell of a job. Just
did an inventory and there's about eight motorcycles (the ninth is on its way),
two cars, four bicycles, a bunch of sleeping bags, couple of tents, the tools,
racks of magazines, a couple of cases of workshop manuals, some nuts and bolts,
the lawn mower, the whipper something, that inflatable boogie board (please
don't ask, but it has something to do with my days on Tamarama Beach and cooking
at The Waterfront restaurant on The Rocks), oh, and the oil filter for that
GSX-R1100 I never owned.
We've only been in that shed (with modest house attached) for a decade and,
despite some ruthless clean-ups, there seems to be a level of stuff which reaches
the knees as you wade from the front to the back - where the recently-purchased
bench grinder is.
It's a mix of emotions when you walk through the shedscape. The bikes Ms M senior
and I use day-to-day are up front. Then there's the Transports of Delight used
only on special occasions. Mac the Valk, Gerald the GS Suzi, and Doctor Gange
the sidecar, for example. All of them have a personal history - not just with
their riders, but with Misses M and A junior, the gals.
Something I love about that shed is it promises so much. On a good day, you
can hear the cheap tin on the steel frame warm and flex against its rivets -
it talks to you. As the sun climbs, when you stagger out in the morning, you
can almost hear it asking, "Which bike today?" in a mad tin litany.
It sucks you in, then presents you with a bunch of jackets hanging off hooks
from a rafter. Some basic leather, some full hollowed-out cow for the track,
some waterproofs of various sorts, all collected for different reasons over
the years.
It's hard to describe what that shed carries. Some times, after an entertaining
day at work, I hide in there with a large glass of giggle juice, a packet of
cigarettes, a lighter, and the omigawd tones of the ABC's PM current affairs
show. We don't seem to hurt each other. That's the day-to-day stuff.
What I remember and treasure best though is the adventures which have been launched
from it. As I write this, I can see the picture of M Junior on the Extraterrestrial
Highway in Nevada. We're waiting out a storm and about to get hopelessly lost.
She's sitting in the gravel, wondering why the hell I pulled up suddenly for
a photo in a flat and featureless landscape. Now she can see the fast-moving
thunderhead in the background of the pic I took and understand the drama.
Another is of Althea on the top of Australia, literally - it's of her and Shaun
the ST1100 (RIP) at Charlotte's Pass. Mount Kosciusko is in the background,
and there's a lot of snow in the frame. It was a big and fast ride, and she
never quite forgave me for selling that bike. Much of it had to do with the
fact it was our first proper adventure together after she grew out of kidship
and started to take control of her own life.
So the shed is just too damn difficult to move out of, at the moment. You never
know, though. An equally emotion-charged move has been from Australian Motor
Cycle News to the new home at Australian Motorcycle Trader.
I'm relieved it doesn't involve clearing out that shed and wonder what's in
store. Memories are wonderful things. But I reckon there's at least several
more decades to be built up. That wall above my computer still looks a little
bare.
Now I should mention why or how the name of this column came about. It's named
after John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley. Steinbeck, as you may know, is
best known for his heart-wrenching Great Depression novels such as The Grapes
of Wrath and Of Mice and Men. His Travels et al book was, by way of contrast,
a gentle review of a tour across America with his dog. The defining moment was,
from my point of view, his description of asking for directions from a local
when he got lost.
He absorbed the detail, decided that was not where he wanted to go, and went
in the opposite direction. What touched me was he felt a little guilty when
he took off, watched by the local, but stuck to his decision. You've been warned...
Guy "Guido" Allen
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