Since 1907 Royal Enfield, the oldest motorcycle supplier in the world, and a supplier of rifles and reconnaissance motorcycles for the allied forces, has done basically the exact same thing. Whilst the Japanese were revolutionising motorcycles so that they could filter between traffic and brave the bold new world, and the Italians were considering the height of fashion to be the ability to turn on a dime, Royal Enfield refused to fall for these Axis tricks such as comfort or rideability. Instead, for the last one hundred years, they’ve made low-reving, high-torque stallions for carrying cartridge-boxes.
Right: What a motorcycle really is
As a Honda owner (Japanese), upon picking up the Royal Enfield 500 that I was to tour around the state, and subsequently attempting to ride it, I realised I do not know how to ride an actual motorbike; a motorbike without excessive tech, like a fuel gauge, or tachomoter, or gear indicator. A motorbike you can actually stall, or that is heavy enough to drop. A motorcycle with a kickstart.
“Oh well!” I thought, attempting to indicate left out of the rental depot and instead turning on the high-beams.
With my bike under-saddle, my panniers full, my scarf secured, I was finally ready to explore the open road, to breath deep, to see the asphalt filtering below my feet, to see some horses.
But first I thought I’d see more of Launceston.
When I set off to write a blog, I decided I would deliberately refrain from genuinely recommending locations to visit, because Tasmania is really just a thinly veiled excuse for me to talk about myself. However, showing great indulgence, I’ll make an exception to that rule…
The National Automobile Museum of Tasmania is (in my opinion as someone who has spent one-and-a-bit days in the state) the best bit of Tasmania. Ignoring their audacious use of the term ‘National’ (are you the national museum, or the Tasmanian museum, cause you can’t be both). Fourteen dollars buys you a washer (something that can be found in a car!), which can be placed in a turnstile, affording you access to a gigantic white room full of really, really cool cars.
Top Middle: The car Kerry Packer drove to work every day
Top Right: A copy of Mad Max purchasable at the gift shop
Bottom Left: Cars
Bottom Right: A 1951 Black Shadow. Thompson “If you rode a Black Shadow at speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die.”
The automobile museum is a must-see if you’re in Launceston AND (and this is important) have somewhat of an interest in cars. Otherwise, probably give it a miss.
After a really great time, I landed on the freeway out of Launceston. A1, the National Highway, truly this must be the life-blood of Tasmania. My Royal Enfield, because it is a real motorcycle, with a real engine, sends out some serious vibrations if you push it past 80kph, so I was on the highway for about three minutes before I took the first exit I could find – of course this is what the Royal Enfield wanted, for me to discover the gems off the beaten asphalt.
I landed in Longford, and after a quick once-over down the main street, where it seemed everyone knew everyone – they were all waving at each other in that country town way (or maybe they were waving at me? Is this blog way more popular than I anticipated?) I pulled into an espresso bar called Ernest and Ernesto.
The barista and owner, Phil, an ex-cuban cigar importer and fellow Brisbane ex-pat, who at the bequest of his beloved and armed only with a lifetime of regalia and a gorgeous 1950 espresso machine had converted their street-facing living room into an espresso bar and cigar parlour, told me how the name came to be:
“We called it Ernest & Ernesto. After Ernest Hemingway and..
“Ernesto Hemingwayo?” – I thought in my head, considerably later, because I’m not funny in real life, I’m only funny once I can draft and edit my content. And even then…
“Ernest Hemingway and Ernesto “Che” Guevara”
Che Guevara is probably my favourite socialist freedom fighter because he rode a motorbike like me, however I don’t like Hemingway because to my knowledge he did not ride a motorbike.
Amongst the other occupants of Ernest and Ernesto, was Tom, quickly appropriated as Tom Sr. (my name is also Tom, if you’re reading this and you’re not my mum, so I was Tom Jr.). Tom had lived in Tasmania for all of 80 years, and didn’t usually drink fancy coffee but was impressed by Ernest and Ernesto and thus more than willing to make an exception. He bought me my second doppio and told me about bushfires and floods, his deceased wife, his adult children, working across the nation and across the world. We talked about wars, Winston Churchill, Sugar Ray, and the black dog. Mostly we talked about beef and wool.
In a desperate attempt to seem knowledgeable on the topic, I tried to steer the conversation towards the one thing my dad had taught me about sheep:
A sheep’s penis is called a pizzle.
Tom Sr. : I worked in properties all across NSW. I wanted to fly spitfires, but one day Dad came home from town and told me I was going into the wool industry.
Tom Jr. : Hey Tom! You know how sheeps have penises?
After a considerable amount of caffeine and conversation, it was time to move on. My hands shaking too much to clamp my helmet, I headed south briefly, realised it was the wrong way, and headed West.
It had been almost 12 hours since I’d last had a burger, so I stopped in Deloraine, at a 50’s diner for one. I also had an affogato.
Leaving Deloraine, I arrived at a fork in the roads. To the right “Paradise -46km”.
“If that’s the road to Paradise” I said, out loud, in a dramatic voice, to myself.
“Then where’s the other road go?”
The answer? Cradle Mountain.
To your average motorist a mountain is a large natural elevation of the earth’s surface rising abruptly from the surrounding level; a large steep hill. But to a motorcyclist, which I am remember, you can’t take that away from me, it means hair pin corners, exorbitant road camber, hard riding, and a trail of cars stuck behind you contemptuously noting that you’re doing corners at a quarter of their speed, because for some reason you’ve chosen a vehicle with half the traction control.
It was half way through Mole Creek, a fraction of the way to Cradle Mountain when the fear began to take hold. Maybe it was the six shots of coffee in Longford, plus the affogato in Deloraine, or maybe it was the realisation that I hadn’t seen another person for over an hour, that I was isolated, alone, on a temperamental beast, and no-one knew where I was.
“Jesus! Bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing, intolerable vibrations in this place“
I pulled over and realised it was truly silent, except of course for the voices in the forests beckoning me. When was the last time I fuelled the bike? How much fuel could this bike even take? What if the low-fuel indicator was broken? And if my phone died? What if I dropped the bike on myself? How long would I wait before cutting through my own legs with the ignition key?
It probably didn’t help that my Tasmania playlist had just been The Deliverance soundtrack on loop for four hours.
Then it started to rain.
There was only one road to Roseberry; civilisation and fuel, a warm bed and a roof. Just a flat-out high speed burn through Cradle Mountain, West Coast, and Tullah. Teeth chattering, legs slapping the fuel tank, I road alone through wet gravel; my fear of scurvy replaced by a fear of frostbite.
I covered some beautiful country today – the sort of beauty that can’t be expressed in words. From a distance I saw clouds open and pour into valleys, wineries and grazing livestock upon greenery to the horizon.
I probably should have taken some photos.
I also saw this really pretty horse outside of Longford.
Again, I didn’t take a photo.
It was black and white, and shaped like a horse.
Fear And Loathing In Launceston 