Around 80km/h on the stretch of road between McLaren Vale and Echuca, the bike started misfiring. I stopped in a paddock to let it cool down, and talked to some nearby horses for a while. It was time to take a break, anyway. Screaming down country roads, leaning into turns, and my inextricable connectedness with the bike was beginning to overload my senses. I didn't know then that a combination of riding habit and worn piston rings had caused residue to gum up the sparkplugs. No wonder opening up the throttle on the freeway seemed to fix things. At high revs, the residue was getting burned away, coughed out the exhaust pipes like phlegm.
Earlier, I was marvelling at Maslins beach, my first stop after roaring off the Southern Expressway. For years, the once-remote beach was restricted to nudist hippies. But with suburbia spreading there and beyond, these birthday-suited baby-boomers now take their bareness somewhere else. And for that, I am glad. Not the least for the view of the cliffs - a secret for so long - or the air, which is still clean despite the frenzied building activity. Crumbling air filters are the major cause of engine wear, so I make sure my bike's is spongy and well-oiled. Even with pristine filters, clean country air makes the bike friskier by letting it breathe easier. Same effect on humans. A cold day at home, surrounded by traffic sounds was beginning to get me down. 15 minutes out of Adelaide, breathing nothing but O2, and I was a different person.
So I swung east, and followed the road to McLaren Vale. Rolling over the crest of the ranges surrounding it is like surmounting a desert dune to find an oasis - so drastic is the contrast between the Vale and the neighbouring scenery. Wines from the area have recently become popular, so apart from a gentle ride between the vineyards, I stopped in at two wineries, Chapel Hill and Paramimma, to stretch my legs and 'lubricate' my throat. For bikes, expensive lubricating oils don't make a difference - ordinary 20W50 off supermarket auto shelves will do. Likewise, buying at the cellar door need not break the bank. I didn't taste as rigorously as I would have if I weren't driving, but I made sure to rinse my mouth between each taste - just as I would drain the sump before loading in new oil - and I tore away stone-sober with two fine bottles of plonk.
Cold and fear are the only limits to your speed, even on a 250cc - a 'miniature' motorbike by today's superbike standards. Bikes do not burn enough petrol, or run hot enough for air across the heat sinks to keep you warm. The air has the force of an ocean wave, once you hit 90km/h, and riding becomes a bit like waterskiing. You steer a bike with your body as well as the handlebars, and every move, every lean, is painfully stiff, making you realise how much more heat washes away with every km/h faster. Driving is like a spectator sport in comparison, with a view through a windscreen, and the sensation of speed through the instruments. The car is a cocoon, designed to preserve your comfort, even in a crash. Crashing a bike at country speeds means it's all over. Don't get an ambulance, get a spatula. It's this thought that keeps you from nimbly cutting around your clumsier, 4-wheeled relations.
I began hitting traffic coming out of the idyll countryside into the satellite town of Hahndorf. Taking the roundabout route back to Adelaide, I was now close enough to be considered in the suburbs. It was still far from the dreaded 3 o'clock, when street-blind house-mums come for their brood in huge Landcruiser herds, so I stopped to refuel the bike and myself with petrol and cake. Thankfully, time didn't permit me to stay and amass more food (like Bee Sting cake or German Sausages.) I had to make tracks towards the Hills tunnel, and Adelaide.
Forty minutes later, I flicked the engine cut-off. I peeled off my gear and stepped into the house, leaving behind the 'tnk-tnk' sounds of a well-exercised engine cooling down.
Weary but satisfied, I stowed away the wine, musing that along with air and fuel, both bike and rider need occasional running, as food for our most neglected part: the soul.
