AUSSIE ADVENTURE
On the loose in the bush
MATTHEW MILES
A SOLITARY BEEP ALERTED ME TO AN INCOMING text. I flipped open my phone. “Message from Tom McComas.”
“Has Rapp told you about our Australia trip?”
“No,” I thumbed back. “What’s up?”
“We’re going to Australia to ride Kawasaki’s new KLX450R and catch the MotoGP race at Phillip Island,” McComas replied. “And you’re coming with us!”
Yeah, right.
Turns out, my old friend McComas was dead-on.
The trip was a gesture of Kawasaki’s appreciation to Steve Rapp for his victory in the 2007 Daytona 200. McComas was receiving a return on his efforts, too. A Hollywood stuntman who has doubled for such stars as Ben Affleck and most recently Jim Carrey, he had borrowed a ZX-6R from Kawasaki for use in a Progressive Insurance TV commercial (“Is this what your insurance company thought when you told them you owned a Ninja?”). The ad aired so frequently during Speed Channel’s AMA race coverage that McComas joked he got more airtime than Rapp. Rapp, who I’ve known for a few years, also wanted me to go along, so I ended up being the unsung beneficiary of their efforts. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Ten days later, McComas, Rapp, Speed Channel’s Greg White (along to capture the trip on video) and I were belted into a 747 bound for Sydney, Australia’s largest city. One of the in-flight films was Live Free or Die Hard, in which McComas, as one of star Bruce Willis’ nemesis, is knocked into an open elevator shaft, bounces off an SUV and falls to his “death.” For our trip, he instinctively packed the same Alpinestars body armor he wears in the movies. Turns out, he needed it.
After clearing customs, we met photographer Andrew Wheeler, who’d flown from San Francisco to shoot our off-road experience as well as the GP. An expat Brit, Wheeler loves Australia and not just because he gets to drive on the “proper” side of the road. “This country seems to capture what I would call the best of America and Europe all in one place,” he said. “There is still evidence of old-world politeness.”
Our escort for the week was Kawasaki race-team manager Brett Whale. A self-described “fifth-generation convict,” Whale hit it off with McComas straight away, the two of them joking and carrying on like long-lost friends. Following introductions, we stuffed our gearbags into two rentals and made our way south, stopping in Wollongong, birthplace of 1987 500cc World Champion Wayne Gardner, “The Wollongong Whiz,” for lunch and impromptu whale watching.
Back in the car, Chicago-native McComas, eyeballing the rolling-green countryside bordered by the bright-blue Tasman Sea, remarked, “It’s like Road America with a view of Lake Michigan.” To which Wheeler added, “Yes, but without the humidity and mosquitoes!”
Our destination that evening was the beach town of Mollymooks. At dinner, we met the rest of our group: Dirt Action editors Shannon Warner and Sam Maclachlan, Kawasaki tech Charlie Costanzo, guide Matthew Phillpott and sweep rider Mark Ryan-a nice bunch.
Over steak and beers, Whale told us that Australia’s top-selling motorcycle, street or dirt, is the Yamaha WR450F. Unlike its U.S. counterpart, however, the Down Under WR is streetlegal. Same goes for the 2008 KLX450R, thanks to Kawasaki Australia parts manager Glen McDonald, who developed an Australian Design Rules-approved kit comprising a larger headlight, turnsignals, a horn, rear-view mirrors and a rear fender extension with a full-size taillight and a license-plate mounting bracket. The bike is not sold in any other form.
Big-picture importance of the pavement-going KLX was not lost on Whale, who was a successful dealer in Queensland prior to his current gig. “Kawasaki needs this bike,” he said.
Next morning, awakened early by screeching parrots, we geared up and made tracks for Batemans Bay. Unlike our Aussie hosts, Rapp, McComas, White and I don’t ride much offroad-or at least as often as we’d like. Rapp used to motocross as part of his training regimen, but he overshot a giant step-up jump a few years ago, knocking himself silly, puncturing a lung and breaking his collarbone and several ribs. McComas can count his dirtbike experiences on one hand.
Within a couple hours of our departure, I’d crashed twiceonce on a slippery, off-camber singletrack and a short time later crossing a stream. McComas also got wet. But we were having a ball. Rapp was clearly at ease, maintaining a quick pace and floating effortlessly over obstacles, often side by side with McComas. Meanwhile, White and I bulldogged our way up hills and over downed trees, just trying to survive.
Late morning, we broke for “tea” at Mogood Lookout, known for its spectacular views of the Bimberamala >+ National Park in the Clyde State Forest. Phillpott pointed out flattopped Castle Mountain and Pigeon House Mountain-“the pointy one.”
At Rapp’s suggestion, Costanzo cranked more spring preload into the shocks and dialed-in additional compression damping. With increased weight on the front ends, the bikes steered much better. Otherwise, the electric-start machines were proving versatile, easy to ride and tough as nails.
Lunch was served along the trail. Costanzo dolled out meat sandwiches, fruit and drinks. “You guys didn’t get my request for veggie?” Rapp asked. “Eat a pig,” Whale barked. “It’ll do you good.”
This was my first chance to chat with Maclachlan. In addition to possessing considerable dirt skills, he’s an accomplished roadracer. I asked if he’d spent much time on these trails. “No,” he replied with a grin, “but Matthew says there’s 125 miles of single-track up here.”
There is a heaven, and it’s in New South Wales.
By mid-afternoon, we’d covered nearly 100 miles. Popping out onto a graded road from an axle-wide trail thick with low-lying ferns, I pulled up next to Phillpott. Pointing to a sign for Batemans Bay, I asked. “Do we follow this road to the hotel?” He shook his head. “You aren’t going to put on your skirt now, are you?” he asked. By the time we reached our hotel a couple hours later, we were bushed.
McComas, bless his heart, went looking for beer, while the rest of us showered, checked e-mail and got ready for dinner. Stomachs full, sleep felt good.
Rain had been predicted all week, but the next morning we were once again greeted by clear skies and bright sunshine. Pavement quickly turned to rolling power-line trails punctuated by steep descents and rutted climbs. Within a few miles, Whale suffered our first-and only-breakdown: a punctured oil-level window. While he and Costanzo were making repairs, we lounged in the woods. “Watch out for snakes,” Warner cautioned. I glanced up at Phillpott. “Browns are deadly and Blacks deliver a pretty good bite, but I’ve never been bitten,” he shrugged. From that point on, we stayed out of the woods and on the trail.
Time and again, I’ve told myself to avoid eating a heavy lunch while riding-street or dirt. But I couldn’t resist the homemade meat pies we encountered a short time later at a roadside bakery. Neither could anyone else; due in large part to McComas and his bottomless pit of a stomach, we cleaned ’em out.
Back on the trail, with most of the blood in my body devoted to digestion rather than decision-making, I got crossed-up in a rut, crashed into McComas, who was riding beside me, and piled into a tree. The impact sent me flying. After I caught my breath, I apologized to McComas, who reminded me that he falls for a living.
Fortunately, damage to the bike was light, and I was able to ride back to Mollymooks. Phillpott took me to the hospital, where Dr. David Miles (no kidding) waved off anything worse than a bruised shoulder and a sprained wrist. (I later learned that the wrist was actually broken.) When White saw my swollen hand, he asked if I was going to catch an early flight back to the States. “And miss the GP?” I responded. “Are you kidding?”
That evening, we returned to Sydney, where Whale had reservations at the spectacular ShangriLa Hotel overlooking the world-famous harbor and opera house. Rapp, ill from the drive, opted for room service. Whale showed the rest of us the Harbor Bridge, one of the longest single-bow designs in the world.
Twenty-four hours later, after a short flight to Melbourne and a long drive to Phillip Island, the park-like setting for the Australian Grand Prix, we were holed up in a rented beach house, shivering from the cold as Whale stoked the tiny fireplace. Trackside conditions next morning were equally grim, with intermittent rain and high winds frustrating racers. Even homecountry hero Casey Stoner, the newly crowned 21 -year-old MotoGP world champion, crashed twice prior to qualifying.
Wheeler wasn’t bothered by the weather. “Phillip Island is wonderful,” he enthused. “It’s a very organic, natural track, and the light is always amazing, even if it’s raining.”
I don’t know what was more impressive, the pole-winning lap laid down by Dani Pedrosa on a Michelin-shod factory Honda or Rapp and McComas’ near-immediate mastery of the radio-controlled helicopters they bought from a local vendor. Quick studies, that pair.
Race day was warm and sunny, a Stoner runaway prefaced by a full-afterburner F-18 Hornet flyby, parade laps from retired Aussie GP heroes Mick Doohan, Kevin McGee and Darryl Beattie, and a moment of silence in honor of popular
Japanese racer Norifumi Abe, killed in a scooter accident near Kawasaki City.
“Honestly, I’ve never seen a more beautiful racetrack,” McComas said.
For Rapp, highlight of the weekend was chatting up factory Kawasaki rider Anthony West and swinging a leg over his works Ninja. “Roger Lee Hayden told me the Kawasaki MotoGP bike was smaller than his 600,” he beamed. “He was right.” Rapp was later interviewed for TV about his Daytona win. Who says the 200 no longer carries weight overseas?
A week later, home in California, McComas sent me an e-mail. In the attached snapshot, McComas, White, Rapp and I are standing outside Kawasaki’s hospitality tent along the Gardner Straight, wide smiles all around. A fine memory of a great trip.
Hey, Tom, where are we going this year?
