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Ulysses Canberra Branch 2

Get Me to the Church on Time

Sunday, 3rd April 2011.St Stephens

Attendees:

  • Chris & Cherita Dietzel FJR1300
  • Lionel Haynes Honda ST1100P
  • Hartmut Kehm BMW R1200GS
  • Michael Winters Triumph Sprint
  • Ian & Sally Paterson Honda GL1800
  • Linda Blake Honda CBR1000
  • Trevor McLeod FJR1300 
  • Peter Arday Yamaha XVZ 12T
  • Alan Rolph  Honda Shadow
  • Joe Muller BMW R1200GS
  • Lisa & Peter Thomas Honda Deauville

 

OK. This was it. After two previous attempts to attend the monthly service at St Stephen’s Anglican Church, Majors Creek, were cancelled due to ridiculously inclement weather (read gale force storms with more trees down than a Gunn forestry management lease), we were determined to make it to the eleven o’clock service. A month previously, Lisa and I were at a meeting with Geoff Hoad, the Reverend of Braidwood and surrounds, and he gave us a bit of a hard time about a few drops of rain scaring us hard core motorcyclists off our two previous attempts. I did happen to mention that the Police LAC had told me the road was flooded on our second attempt so “a few drops” wasn’t exactly accurate. However, we would be there in April and Geoff said he was looking forward to it but did neglect one minor detail. The bridge at Majors Creek was due for upgrading.

And it was an absolutely beautiful autumn’s day for riding. Sunny, windless and warm with the occasional pockets of chill as Lisa and I rode to Watson for the ride rendezvous. Eleven of us met at the servo for a briefing. Alan volunteered to be tail-end-Charlie and San Pedro volunteered to be the first corner marker at the turn off to Macs Reef Road on the Federal Highway. We headed off north and spread out along the highway. There was very little traffic and we were soon curving our way along the twists and turns of the shady Macs Reef Road. A right turn on to Bungendore Road brought more twists and turns and a descent to Bungendore where we joined the Kings Highway. Traffic was still very light and by ten o’clock we were sitting in the Braidwood Bakery with coffee, Neanish Tarts, pies and other necessities for our well being.

The service at Majors Creek didn’t start till eleven and Majors Creek is only a fifteen minute run so we didn’t leave till twenty-five to eleven which we thought would give us plenty of time to park in the recreation ground and make ourselves somewhat presentable for church. San Pedro, Hartmut, Trevor and Alan decided to leave us to our spiritual pursuits there but we did pick up Chris and Cherita who had come with Alan. Chris, Cherita, Linda and Joe were already well on their way when Ian, Sally, Lionel, Michael and I ambled through town and turned right in to Coghill Street.

However, just before the Captains Flat turnoff on the Araluen Road were ominous signs declaring bridges out and detours. Lionel did a quick reccy and confirmed the Majors Creek Road was indeed shut so we had no option but to follow the detour along the Captains Flat Road.

A few alarm bells started going off as I did some quick revisions of our arrival time. Just before the bridge across the Shoalhaven River, fifteen kilometres along the Captains Flat Road, the detour signs pointed us to the dirt road which leads up and over Wallaces Gap. It’s fourteen kilometres along the road to Majors Creek, all dirt, so there was no way we would make it on time. “Oh, well,” I thought philosophically, “we’ll just take our time, enjoy the ride and make the best of it when we get there.” I had visions of a group of dust encrusted motorcyclists entering the church, slapping leathers, half way through Geoff’s sermon. The entire congregation turning around to stare at us and when we feebly apologised for being late as the bridge was out; they’d harrumph and mutter to each other that everyone knew it was closed for upgrading.

It really was a lovely ride though. We took it nice and easy. The road was firm and nicely sun-dappled as it made its way up and over the pass through green meadows with contented cows and the odd stream meandering through. This was added to by a variety of olfactory delights from several road kills, one of which had been thoughtfully skinned and left for our enjoyment beside the road.

We eventually got back on the bitumen at Majors Creek and five of us made our way to the recreation ground. I dropped Lisa off and rode down to the pub to check on everyone else. Linda mentioned she had already been up to the church but, as there were no cars there, came back to the pub. I thought this was odd so I rode back up to the church. Ian and I parked and we joined Sally and Lisa over at the church gate. It was obvious that there wasn’t a service on. A neighbour opened the building up for us and we checked the service times, Yep, 1st Sunday of the month. It just didn’t make sense. Daylight savings? Bridge out? There was nothing we could do so after a bit of exploration of haunted vestibules (apparently) and belfries we rode back to the pub where everyone else was sitting on the verandah enjoying some drinks. The pub wasn’t serving lunch as the bridge was out so we decided to stick to what was left of the plan and head back to the Royal Mail for lunch but first we thought we’d just check the bridge in case the walkway across was good enough to get the bikes across instead of us having to brave Wallaces Gap again. It wasn’t so we did.

The Royal Mail is a delightful old hotel and does dinner and lunch (same menu) at a very reasonable rate. We settled in to the beer garden and then ordered from the kitchen menu. About fifteen minutes later the first meals arrived, Chris and Michael’s bangers and mash that made the great pyramids look rather tawdry. Our steak sandwiches were tiny in comparison, only several centimetres thick and taking up only half the plate. Joe’s chicken schnitzel was next and it was obviously taken from a pterodactyl but it was Cherita’s sirloin steak which took the prize. It was almost three centimetres thick and taking up just about the entire plate covering chips and mash and smothered in pepper sauce. If you think these are exaggerations, just ask anyone who was there.

We all joined the Sunday afternoon suicide Grand Prix along the Kings Highway and made our own ways back home. What can you say? The best laid plans of mice and men and all that but it really was a lovely autumn’s ride with some adventure.

Peter Thomas

Who hath smelt woodsmoke at twilight?