A New Day and an Old Tragedy

Sunrise was still an hour away when I woke; not that there was anything unusual about that. The house was absolutely silent; and dark, except for a faint glow that spilled into the room from the nightlight in the hall. I threw back the covers, jackknifed out of bed, shrugged on an old Boston College sweatshirt, grabbed my cigarettes, and moved softly down the hall, through Mel’s office, and out onto the back verandah; the lower one. I was looking forward to heading out and meeting Mel’s Sunday Ride Group at Browns Plains. Although this didn’t really qualify as a road trip, it was, at least, a bit of an extended gallop with a bunch of Mel’s friends; and for me, a chance to familiarise myself with the 100th Anniversary Low Rider. I revelled in the new day and its possibilities little knowing that an old tragedy would resurface.

Clearly, it had rained overnight; the verandah floorboards were wet and a little cold under foot. I lit up, drew deeply and, as I slowly exhaled, gazed southwest at the early light over Brisbane’s urban sprawl. There was cloud cover but, in the predawn half light, it was difficult to judge whether this was a harbinger of wicked weather or just a benign altostratus blanket that would fragment and dissipate during the day. Whatever the case, the cool of the early morning was a pleasant break from the oppressive heat and humidity of the Top End; we’d had weeks of 36 degree days and 32 degree nights when the humidity had rarely drifted below 80 percent.

The Iron Horses

Eventually, after soaking up pre-dawn’s tranquility, I slipped back inside and wandered along the hallway towards the front of the house; and the garage. Once inside with the door closed to quarantine light, I flicked the switch. And right there, in rank order, were the motorcycles; each one tethered to its respective battery tender. Nearest to the garage door was Mel’s 100th Anniversary Road King; almost eighteen years old but gleaming and immaculate under the light. Furthest from the door, a much newer Honda CBR that belonged to Mel’s daughter, Jasmin. At centre stage, a 100th Anniversary FXDL Low Rider; veteran of our first road trip together in the US back in 2013 – and my ride for the next ten days.

Now, there are some exceptional things about this Lowrider. First is the fact that it is one of Harley Davidson’s 100th Anniversary stable of motorcycles. That year marked a hundred years of uninterrupted production since the first Harley rolled out of the little Milwaukie shed in 1903. The badging and colour schemes were unique, and the range of models represented the culmination of a hundred years of continuous development.

Customising . . . and then Some

Mel had bought this FXDL out of Delaware early in 2013; complete with plates and registration. He’d managed to get a pretty good deal, he said. But it was not until I saw the motorcycle when we met in Vegas, that I realised what a great deal it was. 

With alloy wheels, braided clutch and throttle cables, stainless steel brake and oil lines, it came with every possible chrome accessory that could have been bolted on to a bike without destroying the lines and stance of the machine itself. The billet wheels and other accessories must have cost as much as the bike itself. On my first walk around it, I’d turned to Mel, and said:

‘Mate, I think what you paid for was a whole catalogue of genuine Harley Davidson accessories; they threw in the motorcycle for free!’ 

Factory Custom

For those who’re not Harley tragics, Mel’s motorcycle has origins that go right back to the beginning of the 1970s when Harley Davidson unveiled the FX Superglide. Back then, Willie G Davidson decided to design a new breed of motorcycle that was neither Sportster nor Tourer but rather a combination of the best elements of both. This was to be the Company’s answer to the public’s growing fascination with custom motorcycles. 

Essentially, the chassis mirrored the frame and rear suspension of the FLH Electra Glide; and this was mated to the narrower telescopic front forks from the XLH Sportster. The resulting FX Superglide is said to have been the original factory custom.

Now, there are a couple of theories about the model designation for this motorcycle. The first of these is that the developmental project, which resulted in the FX, was labelled ‘Factory Experimental’: hence the motorcycle was designated FX. The alternate theory is that FX derives from the fact that the motorcycle was a hybrid incorporating elements of both the FLH and the XLH families of machines. It made sense then that the new motorcycle be designated the FX. You can take whichever one of these theories appeals to you as gospel; because the Motor Company has never offered a definitive determination on the matter.

Superglides and Dynas

Harley Davidson produced variations and upgrades from 1971 right up until they unveiled the FXR Superglide II in 1982. This new model introduced a rubber-mounted engine and five speed transmission. It was sold in a variety of model iterations through until the first Dyna was released in 1991. The Motor Company, in recognition of the importance of Bike Rallies in building its customer base, designated the first Dyna FXDB Sturgis.

The new FXD chassis retained the rubber engine mounts introduced with the FXR, but reduced the number from three to two. This new mounting system limited engine movement within the frame and reduced the clearance required. The frame itself was more rigid and hence more effective in handling the increased power of the new Evolution engine.

Twin-Cam 88

Over the years that followed, the Company expanded its range of model offerings and continued to make incremental upgrades to the brakes, powertrain and frame geometry until 1999 when it introduced the first of the Twin Cam 88 power plants. And, right there in Mel’s garage, leaning on its kickstand, was one of those Twin Cam 88 Harley Davidsons; I was about to ride thirty years of Motor Company tradition and history.

By the time I’d finished genuflecting, the half-light of early morning had morphed into broad daylight. It had just gone 6 am, but the house was still silent. I’d sorted my nicotine deficit earlier, but now a caffeine low was getting to be problematic. So, I flicked off the garage lights, dragged on a pair of jeans, slipped quietly out the front door, and headed down the hill. I knew that Hallowed Ground would probably be closed; but I was pretty sure Cafe Impero would be open.

Coffee Quest

At the lower end of High Street, Logan Road was virtually devoid of traffic; except for the occasional Sunday morning Tour de France aspirant complete with lycra tights. A light breeze ruffled fallen leaves along the sidewalk; and about midway along the next block, a forty-something Asian gentleman was organising outdoor tables. Clearly, if not already open, Cafe Impero would be soon. 

By the time I’d sauntered my way along there, the outdoor tables were set and an open sign hung in the window. I slipped on my mask, scanned the QR Code, and then stepped inside.

‘Morning,’ I said, just as the Asian gentleman looked up.

‘What can I getcha?’ he asked in a broad Australian accent.

‘A strong long black and poached eggs on toast with avocado . . . if you have any,’ I responded.

‘Yeah, no worries . . . and yep, we’ve got avos.’

My Ocker Mate

I thanked him, paid the tote, grabbed a neatly folded copy of the Courier Mail from the counter, and retreated to an empty table against the wall; well, actually, all the tables were empty and all were against the wall. It was one of those narrow but deep concessions; a counter along one wall and a single row of tables along the other.

I’m not sure why, but it always comes as something of a shock when I hear a broad Australian accent from someone so obviously Asian; or any other ethnicity for that matter. It’s a bit like hearing a rich Scottish brogue from an African. It just seems wrong, at odds with expectations; well, mine anyway.

No News is Good News

I unfolded the paper and scanned the first few pages. The headlines made for depressing reading; the Spread of Covid 19’s Delta Strain; Scomo’s spat with China; Christian Porter’s humiliating backdown in his litigation against the ABC; the Government’s steadfast refusal to sanction Andrew Laming for his alleged ‘dirty old man’ stunts; and, the ongoing critique of Labor Premiers for their allegedly draconian approach to border closure and lockdowns. It was enough to give you heartburn.

Fortunately, just then, my long black arrived. I re-folded the paper, returned it to the counter, and sat down to savour the dark aromatic bitterness of the brew. Outside the cloud cover was progressively thinning in direct proportion to the rising ambient temperature of the day. Traffic along Logan Road had increased markedly and the Tour de France wannabes were now out in force.

All Quiet on the Home Front

By about 7 am I was done; which is to say, I’d polished off my poached eggs, toast, avocado, and a couple of long blacks to sort my caffeine deficit. I took leave of my thoroughly ocker mate in Asian disguise, stepped out, lit up, and wandered north along the sidewalk towards High Street. Now, here’s the thing about the street on which my brother lives. The first fifty yards are fairly benign, but then it climbs with a progressively increasing gradient as it scales the lower slope of Mt Gravatt. And Mel lives about three quarters of the way up that lower slope; great when you’re heading out for coffee, not so much when you’re going home.

The house was still quiet when I got back but I could hear a shower running; so there was a remote possibility that Mel was up and about. I followed suit; with the shower, that is. By 7.30 I’d done all the stuff that nobody likes to talk about; I’d shaved, scrubbed, dressed and was basically ready to go.

Alway Good to have a Plan

Our gallop for the day was going to take us south to Maccas at Browns Plains; the agreed marshalling point for Mel’s Sunday Ride Group. From there, we would pick up Beechmont Road; head south through Jimboomba, Canungra and points south before heading northeast to the Nook and Kranny Cafe. Mel had planned that we’d break at the N & K for coffee and/or breakfast. 

Then, it would be on to Tamborine Mountain via Main Western Road before riding on to the Green Frog Hollow Cafe for lunch. Not a bad day’s gallop; reasonable distance, weather and traffic; lots of corners; and stops planned to coincide with reputedly good coffee shops.

Mel’s youngest son, Elliot, was joining us for the day and we’d agreed to get on the road by about 8 am. I still hadn’t clapped eyes on Mel, though, and began to wonder whether we’d make the designated ETD; not that it really mattered to me. 

But somehow, Mel had stolen a march on me; perhaps while I was doing that unmentionable stuff. When I finally decided to wander through to the garage to wait, he was not only up and about, he’d opened the garage door and rolled the bikes outside.

Rendezvous

Sure enough, by 8 am we were on the road and heading south. Although it wasn’t exactly cold, I had on my trusty, well-travelled Harley Davidson jacket. Mel and Elliot were both in shirt-sleeves but, then again, they’d just come through Winter while I’d been basking in the warmth of the Top End; perhaps my blood really had got a bit thin over the years.

We slipped out the back of Mt Gravatt and onto the M1, otherwise known as the Pacific Motorway, for a very short scoot to the exit for Mains Road. It was then on through Sunnybank to Compton Road at Sunnybank Hills. There, we took a right and, almost immediately, a left onto Beaudesert Road; then it was just a matter of pushing straight on down to Browns Plains, and Maccas. That part of the day’s gallop was pleasant enough but not inspiring; scooting through the ‘burbs rarely is. We arrived with about ten minutes to spare; and shortly after parking and shutting down, Mel’s other son rocked up. 

Denver

Now, with Denver, you can never be sure if you’re going to catch up with him; sometimes you do, other times you don’t. In that regard, he’s probably a bit like me. I’m reluctant to plan too far ahead or make arrangements to catch up with people; because then, there’s no harm done if I don’t manage to front up – no one would be expecting me. In any case, I was pretty chuffed that Denver decided to join us; there is an intelligent, down-to-earth, open, gentleness about him that is truly priceless.

While the day had warmed enough to strip off my jacket, it was still pleasantly cool with only the gentlest of breezes. The earlier alto cloud cover had almost dispersed; all that remained was a thin layer of cirrus mackerel-back. Members of Mel’s Sunday Ride Group drifted in, parked, and almost immediately immersed themselves in that good natured banter so characteristic of bikers.

To Trike . . . or Not

I took out a Stuyvesant, flicked my lighter to life, and took a long draw; then I wandered down to the far end of the car park to look over a couple of parked trikes. One was a metallic purple, twin headlamp machine with seating for two, a top box, and powered by a converted VW engine. A Volkswagon flat four, but with with multiple carbs and tuned extractors, also powered the other machine. It was black; any colour’s fine as long as it’s black – right? This particular machine had a stripped down, bare-boned look; skull themed, it looked as though it would take no prisoners. Now, I’ve never really aspired to trike ownership but if ever that changes, I wouldn’t mind one like that.

As things turned out, it was a day for surprises. No sooner had I finished my cigarette and trike inspection, than Ken rolled in on a Sunset Glow 2021 Fat Bob.

Blast from the Past

The last time I’d see Ken was at his graduation from Senior Secondary Studies at Avondale late in 1979. Well, actually that’s not quite true; I’d seen him a week or so after that, when he came to take delivery of our white XB Ford Futura. 

I’d been teaching Senior English at Avondale for several years but had taken an appointment at Kabiufa in the highlands of Papua New Guinea for the next year; so, I was looking to sell our car. Ken had approached me to see if he could acquire it. We’d agreed on a price and, the week after graduating, Ken had come round to our place to collect his purchase; and that had been the last time I’d seen him.

Our families, though, had been connected for years. Ken’s Dad, Brian, and our Dad had been close friends as missionaries in Papua New Guinea. Years later, when I turned up at Avondale as a boarding student, Brian Houliston taught me Woodwork; and, to this day, I credit him and our Dad with the fact that I’m better than average at the whole DIY maintenance thing. Then, after graduating from university, I’d found my way back to my old school as a teacher; and Ken was a member of my last class at that school.

Changes in Direction

He was always a decent, industrious, genuine sort of young bloke; well, with the father he had, he couldn’t help but be. For his part, he was heading for Church Ministry and planned to study for a Bachelor of Theology at Avondale College [now University] the following year. I, on the other hand, was heading to Papua New Guinea to try my hand at being a missionary; well, at being an ESL teacher actually.

All that having been said, it was great to catch up with him; no longer a stripling of a lad and no longer a clergyman. But then again, I no longer worked for the church either; they’d ditched me in favour of more complicit and conventional prospects. Ken was still working with people, particularly those disenfranchised, and was making a huge contribution to his community; and I was still teaching. It was just that neither of us were, any longer, connected with the church we’d grown up in.

Shortly after 8.30, Mel called the group together to outline the intended route for the day. I moved in so I could give the appearance of paying attention. The truth is though, I’d done a lot of miles with Mel and had implicit faith in his ability to get us into and out of whatever cropped up; my paying attention to his briefing was really just an effort to look supportive. After the briefing we shrugged on our jackets; donned helmets; mounted our iron horses; cranked them over; and got on the road.

Towards Canungra

Mel led the group out, and I tucked myself in behind. It’s where I usually ride when we’re on the road together because he always knows where he’s going; and I like to keep an eye on how he’s travelling. I got into the habit on our first US road trip when I discovered that Mel wasn’t good at monitoring his blood-sugar; back then, I noticed that when he started riding erratically, it was invariably because he was low. Now, this makes me sound indispensable doesn’t it? And, I like to think I am. But the truth is, Mel does a lot of riding when I’m not around and seems to have survived pretty well; so he probably doesn’t need me to monitor his riding idiosyncrasies at all.

In any case, we headed south on the Mt Lindsay Highway until just before Jimboomba where we took a left onto Beechmont Road towards Canungra. Given that this was a Sunday Ride, no one was in a hurry; we just sort of got into top gear and then ambled along. The riding conditions were just about perfect with almost clear skies; virtually no wind; pleasantly cool; and, with no seriously heavy traffic. We’d only been on the road for about half an hour when we approached the town limits of Canungra; and geared back to cruise though at a legal speed.

Back Story

Nestled at about 530 metres above sea level in South Queensland’s Scenic Rim Region, Canungra is a rural town with a population of around 1,300. The area has long been known as the Valley of the Owls and, it is thought, this may have been the origin of the town’s name; the Aboriginal word for the small owls endemic to the area, is Caningera. 

The town owes its initial existence to the timber industry; the area once boasted one of the largest stands of timber [mainly cedar] in the colony. David Lahey, had established and operated one of Queensland’s largest sawmills at Canungra. Then, as timber resources ran out, the cattle and dairy industries gained a foothold and development in the area continued; albeit in an entirely different direction. Today, the region has a burgeoning wine industry and, it is said, state of the art equine facilities.

Now, the history of this place, or any other for that matter, may not be immediately obvious or perhaps even important to your regular group of motorcyclists riding through. But for me, Canungra would always haunt my thoughts; for reasons other than the history and cultural heritage.

You see, not far from the rather quaint, rural township lurks the Australian Defence Force’s Land Warfare Training Centre. This facility has a direct lineage back to the Jungle Warfare Training Centre that was established there in November, 1942. Australia at that time was in dire need of trained troops for its South West Pacific Campaign.

Jungle Warfare Training

The facility was deliberately located amidst thick rainforest and steep, razor-back country. Staffed by instructors with combat experience in the Middle East and New Guinea, the centre comprised a number of detachments; the Reinforcement Training Centre, the Independent Company Training Centre and the Tactical School. 

As demand for specialised jungle warfare training grew, the centre was expanded until there were some 2,000 trainees organised into eight training companies; and each week a total of 500 personnel marched out to join the infantry battalions fighting in New Guinea or other regions in the South West Pacific. A Commando Training Battalion was also formed to supply reinforcements for commando units, and an officer training wing delivered specialised platoon-level training for officers. 

Now, you might say that this was all well before my time; and you’d be right. But it was what happened later that fixed the name, Canungra, in my consciousness.

Old Resources for a New War

Following the end of World War II hostilities, the Jungle Warfare Training Facility was decommissioned; considered excess to Defence Force requirements. Clearly, this evaluation had been overly optimistic because it was re-commissioned and expanded in 1954, to once again deliver pre-deployment training for personnel engaged in Australia’s response to a range of conflicts and military stand-offs in SouthEast Asia, including the Malayan Emergency [1948-60]; the Korean War [1950-53]; and the Indonesian – Malaysian Confrontation [Konfrontasi 1960-66]. The first unit to train there was the 2nd Battalion, RAR, which cycled through Canungra starting in early 1955. 

Buying in to Trouble

Then, in 1962, Australia made its first commitment to military assistance in South Vietnam. In July of that year, thirty Military Advisors were deployed to provide tactical assistance in dealing with communist insurgents. However, by 1965 it became obvious to both the US and Australia that South Vietnam was fighting a losing battle; the US escalated its engagement and requested support from Australia among others.

Those of my vintage will probably remember the old catch-cry, All the Way with LBJ. It was rousing stuff and probably difficult to deny so soon after the US defence of the South West Pacific during World War II. Whatever the case, in April, 1965, Prime Minister Menzies announced that the Australian Government had received a request for further military assistance from South Vietnam. He went on to say it had been decided, in close consultation with the Government of the United States, to provide an infantry battalion for service in Vietnam.

Prevaricating Prime Ministers

The justification for this deployment was that a communist victory in South Vietnam would constitute a direct military threat to Australia. The conventional political wisdom of the day viewed communist insurgencies in SouthEast Asia as integral to China’s ambition; Mao’s Communist Party was seen as sponsoring and facilitating the spread of Communism. Countries within the region were viewed as a series of dominos; the fall of one was likely to precipitate the successive fall of the others.

We now know that scant evidence exists to validate Menzies’ claim that South Vietnam had requested military assistance from Australia. I don’t imagine Menzies was the first Australian Prime Minister to prevaricate; he certainly hasn’t been the last. That being said, the pressure for engagement from the US would have been intense. Whatever the backstage truth of the matter, the Australian Government entered into military engagement with the US in South Vietnam. And, following this commitment, the Jungle Warfare Training Facility ramped up operations further. Ten thousand soldiers rotated through Canungra each year as part of their pre-deployment training.

Unintended Consequences

By 1968, the United States had well over half a million pairs of boots on the ground in South Vietnam; and Australia had over seven and a half thousand. That year a combined force of North Vietnamese and Viet Cong launched the Tet Offensive; and the battle in and around Khe Sahn raged for six months. Clearly, something wasn’t working. Notwithstanding the fact that South Vietnam was supported by state of the art military hardware and over six hundred thousand foreign troops, they were losing ground.

By the beginning of 1969, my mates and I had completed our Higher School Certificates and most of us had turned 18; or were about to. We were looking right down the barrel of National Service. In those days, conscription was done on the basis of a ballot. Random dates were drawn, and if your 18th Birthday happened to fall on one of these dates, you were conscripted for National Service. These days people carp, demonstrate, and moan about government mandates that involve your vaccination status; back then the mandate meant enlistment for two years of your life and likely deployment to South Vietnam.

An Old Tragedy

As things turned out, my birth date was not drawn. Several of my classmates, however, were conscripted and subsequently deployed to Vietnam; and one didn’t make it back. Years later, I spent a long alcohol fueled evening with one of those mates; who ought to remain nameless. He described, in harrowing detail, the brutality, physical and mental abuse, privation and hardships that were part and parcel of the toughening up process at Canungra. South Vietnam, he said, was a walk in the park after Canungra; and I guess that was the aim of the exercise.

So, when we cruised through the area almost fifty years after the fact, I found my thoughts drawn back to that name, Canungra; to my mates who’d trained there before deployment; and, especially to the one that didn’t come back. There was no way that anyone on a morning ride through the area, would know this backstory; unless they’d actually been there – or been connected to someone who was.

Every Nook and Kranny

But enough of all that. Once out of the township, we accelerated along Beechmont Road; mainly to keep pace with the flow of traffic. We passed through Witheren, by the Marian Valley – Shrine of Our Lady Help of Christians, and on to Beechmont before turning eastward and then north northeast towards Tamborine Mountain. While the terrain on either side of the road didn’t really qualify as genuine High Country, the ridges, slopes and peaks of the mountain ranges were magnificent, as they stood etched against the startling blue. 

Then, almost unexpectedly, we found ourselves approaching the Nook and Kranny Cafe. Mel led the group into the gravel parking area and we shut down, hauled off helmets, shrugged off jackets, and headed in for coffee; or whatever additional fare people wanted. The coffee was as good as it was reputed to be; strong, hot, and black.

Camaraderie

Although a disparate collection of individuals, the people comprising Mel’s Ride Group were laid back, affable and willing to engage in convivial conversation; no matter what the direction or dimensions of that conversation. 

After an hour or so of coffee, conversation, and, in my case, a few trips outside for the occasional cigarette, we arrived at an unspoken consensus that it was time to move on. In ones and twos, we drifted out to the car park; then it was on with jackets and helmets and back out onto the road. By the way, if you happen to find yourself on Beechmont Road with time to spare, don’t go past the Nook and Kranny Cafe; it’s well worth taking the time to stop.

Edge of the Scenic Rim

We headed north northeast along Beechmont Road until, just north of Advancetown, we picked up the Nerang-Murwillumbah Road. Then we took a left onto Clagiraba Road and pushed on until we reached the Beaudesert-Nerang Road at Clagiraba. Finally, we headed east for a stint until we took a left on Henri Roberts Drive; and this delivered us to Siganto Street. In due course, this took us onto Main Western Road and then on to Tamborine Mountain.

For most of the way, our road was a dual lane, single carriageway riddled with climbs, descents, sharp corners and countless switchbacks; fun, but spiced with enough hazards to focus the attention. Dense rainforest bordered the road on both sides so, for the most part, we were riding in shadows that played tricks on a rider’s line of sight. Cloud cover was increasing again and, as we rode higher towards Tamborine Mountain, the temperature drop was noticeable; not exactly cold, but cool enough to give me an appreciation for the leather jacket I was wearing.

Tamborine

Just before the final climb to Tamborine Mountain, the group pulled into a service station on the left. I didn’t think I needed to stop, but when I checked the Lowrider’s fuel gauge I discovered that I’d been running on empty. Obviously I’d spent more time than I thought juggling engine revs and gear changes as we’d worked our way through those curves and switchbacks. I filled the tank and then, while other members of the ride group did the same, I wandered across the road to the municipal park for a quick stretch and a slow cigarette. Then, it was back to riding through rain forest and shadows as we pushed ahead to Tamborine.

The Mountain that Wasn’t

Not really a mountain, as such, Tamborine Mountain is really a 28 km² plateau [8 km long by 4 km wide] located in the Gold Coast Hinterland. The area was originally inhabited by Aboriginal people; and, at the time of early European settlement, the Wangerriburras were traditional custodians. The name Tamborine is an Anglicised version of the word Jambreen from the Yugambeh language; the word means ‘wild lime’ and refers to the finger lime trees that grew in the area.

At the outskirts of the Tamborine township, we geared down; not because we were planning to stop but rather in deference to the local speed limits. The roads in the area were a little more congested with weekend sightseers; and anyway, we weren’t in a rush. Once out of the built up area though, we accelerated and pushed on to the Green Tree Frog Hollow Cafe.

Green Tree Frog Cafe

Located on the Waterford-Tamborine Road between Logan Village and Yarrabilba, the Green Tree Frog Hollow Cafe and Garden Centre wouldn’t have been hard to miss; if you didn’t know where it was. But we didn’t miss it because Mel had planned it that way. We pulled in and left our iron steeds resting on their side stands. Huge native trees shaded the car park; ferns, cycads, golden canes and a plethora of tropical shrubbery festooned the perimeter. It was both magnificent and tranquil.

Entry to the cafe itself was via a rustic wooden bridge that spanned an expansive lily-covered pool; a diminutive waterfall cascaded from between the ferns at the far end of the pond. Inside, the walls were timber-clad and the main dining area had a chapel-like vaulted ceiling. There was an open fireplace – not in use while we were there; a gift shop with an eclectic range of artisan and artistic offerings; a garden centre; and, rustic garden paths that led to an array of secluded nooks and arbours.

Getting the Tab

Mel ordered coffee and a Vegetarian Brunch and I ordered what he was having; then we had a minor dispute about whose turn it was to pick up the tab. I’m sure that if Mel had his way, I’d end up paying for nothing; and he’d end up broke. I finally settled the dispute by telling the eftpos operator that he might as well use my card; because Mel’s would almost certainly be declined. Not true, I know, but an effective strategy for ending a restaurant tab dispute.

Road Trip Evaluations

To all intents and purposes, the Green Frog Hollow Cafe marked the end point of our day’s ride; from there group members would head in disperate directions as they made their way home. I’m not sure how you calibrate the success or otherwise of a day’s group ride. For me, the worst day on the road will beat the best day in the office – every time. But this had been a long way from the worst day on the road. Our journey had been challenging without being arduous; there had been no accidents, mishaps or even close calls; there’d been a lot of mingling, conversation about shared and unique experiences; and, there’d been smiles, laughter and good humour. By any measure, that was not a bad wrap.

Perhaps, the best measure of our ride was what happened at the Green Frog Hollow Cafe. We’d sat, talked and laughed while we waited for coffee and our food orders; and, after the food did arrive it was really just more of the same. From time to time during rare lulls in conversation, I’d slipped out for an occasional cigarette or two; which is how I discovered the walks, arbours and secret places that were not immediately obvious.

End of the Day

No one seemed to be chafing at the bit to get away, get on the road, and get home. Well, why would they? The coffee was excellent; the food tasty; the service efficient without being obvious or overbearing; and, there was within the group a warmth and camaraderie that was difficult to quantify or describe.

In the end, though, all good things – like all bad things, I suppose – must come to an end. As the afternoon moved irrevocably from early to late in the day, individuals and pairs reluctantly made their farewells until only Mel and I remained. Then, we too, gathered up helmets, jackets and gloves before thanking our hosts and moving out to the car park.

The most direct route back home to Mt Gravatt was pretty much the way we’d taken much earlier in the day; but, we’d always been committed to roads less travelled; and we’d travelled that road already. So we didn’t backtrack. Instead, we headed towards Nerang and picked up the M1 north to Brisbane so we could drop in to the Yatala Pie Shop. Now, I’m sure you know about the Yatala Pie Shop; but, if you don’t, do yourself a favour – drop by, and check it out.

Mel and I sat outside the Yatala Pie Shop at a table between the car park and the fence that separated us from the M1. We ate our pies, sipped on our coffees and chewed the fat. Cloud cover obscured most of the sky, and the wind from the east had a residue of winter’s chill. The day was far spent, but it had been a good day. Our conversation was sporadic and intensely personal.

Later, when we finally arrived home, we stowed the motorcycles and re-tethered each to their respective battery tenders. Then, we both headed for the showers; fortunately, Mel’s place has multiple bathrooms. That being done, I wandered down the hall and found Mel in his office, at the computer screen, and responding to emails.

‘Hey Mate,’ I said. ‘You look busy . . . how can I interrupt?’

‘Just working through the Review and Evaluation Protocols for Chaplains,’ he said as he pushed back from the desk.

He pulled up, on screen, the Chaplain’s Review and Evaluation Protocol and briefly explained how it was being implemented. Clearly, the process had reached a point where his feedback was required and pending.

‘Mate, how would you feel if we didn’t get on the road until Tuesday?

‘No problems,’ I returned.

‘Well, that would mean I could finish writing comments, observations and feedback . . . and get the lot sent off before we leave.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I said. ‘I’ve got not problems with that.’

Mel nodded and then returned his attention to his screen. I slipped out onto the back verandah to sort out my nicotine deficit.

One of the upsides about the way Mel and I do road trips is that our planning is minimalist; and this trip more than most. All I wanted to do was spend a bit of time with Mel and get on the road for a while; no ultimate destination, except to get home in one piece; no staged sections to cover; and no accommodation bookings with arrival deadlines to meet. So the fact that Mel needed another day to get his reporting feedback done was no skin off anyone’s nose; and certainly not mine. I’d have a day in hand to kick back; and perhaps even make that start with Prince of Tides.

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