Queensland – beautiful one day...: a Rant

This is quite a horror story. Except it’s true.

Once upon a time, a little man called Campbell Newman became Premier of Queensland (a state with a colourful history of, erm, characters in its political sphere). The little man, with a zealot’s gleam in his eye, declared that he was going to address the ‘bikie threat’ in his state after a brawl on the Gold Coast one day.

By ‘bikies’, of course, he was referring to approximately one percent of motorcyclists. In the blink of an eye, henchman VLAD hit the front pages. Does Little Campbell have an ad-man giving legislation cool and punchy names that can be turned into cool and punchy acronyms? Vlad the Impaler, another colourful historical character, would be proud. Anyway - the Vicious Lawless Association Disestablishment Bill 2013 (which makes no mention of bikies per se – remember that, coz it could attack an 'Association' near you any time it wants) is a scary bit of legislative kit that attacks basic freedoms that Aussies hold dear.

Little Campbell, in a shameless grab for the approval of the Common Voter (who we know must be a bit dim, given the fact that they voted the fascist in in the first place), declared there would be a special hell for bikies – their own uber-tough gaol and extra-special sentencing rules for bikies for the crimes they commit.

Now, I’m all for criminals being punished for their crimes. What I’m NOT for is ill-conceived legislation pushed onto an ignorant public and supported by an ignorant police force who can’t tell one bloody motorcyclist from the next.

Things have snowballed, as they tend to do.

• Queensland police have been harassing ordinary recreational motorcyclists on their group rides, and now – unbelievably – there’s talk of setting up a police hotline that ‘law-abiding’ motorcyclists can call to register their rides and thus avoid harassment for riding their perfectly legal modes of transportation, paid for and registered to ride on the roads they’ve paid taxes for.  
• A bloke wearing a Sons of Anarchy t-shirt was questioned by police, who thought the guy was an outlaw bikie, rather than a fan of a television show. (!!!???)
• Police RAIDED a meeting of the Vietnam Veterans Motorcycle Club and a police spin-doctor (probably the cousin of the VLAD acronym guy) said that the raid was part of a strategy to BUILD RAPPORT with decent law-abiding motorcyclists.
• If interstate service stations etc could kindly provide Little Campbell’s stormtroopers with video footage of naughty Qld bikies associating interstate, aforementioned bikies could still be ‘done’ in Queensland for illegal behaviour (presumably, going for a ride together and stopping for petrol.) The long arm of VLAD could stretch forever, really.

 If this isn’t scaring you yet – it’s not a story. It’s real, it’s true, it’s happening right now. What follows, however, is pure imagination:

Little Campbell was well pleased with the effect VLAD was having. Motorcyclists were fleeing Queensland in droves. Small towns all over the place were going broke because the streams of touring motorcyclists – who tend to shun highways for quieter, more scenic, more ENJOYABLE roads and out-of-the-way locations – were no longer visiting and boosting local economies. You know, all those cafes, bakeries, pubs and motels in all those interesting little places that get-there-fast motorists can’t be bothered going to…

But it wasn’t enough. There was still crime in Queensland. Little Campbell wondered why - after all, he’d got rid of the bikies. VLAD would have to work harder. Little Campbell sent him forth, into ethnic communities, which everybody knows are seething hotbeds of terrorism, organised crime and soccer. And VLAD also went into the universities, where dissent is traditionally seeded by the wicked intelligentsia. Schools, as the breeding grounds for universities, were not impervious to the long arm of VLAD (Schoolies Week on the Gold Coast got special attention, and not just because of the hordes of drunken nubile girls who attended it every year). Oh, and workers’ unions - they came in for super-scrutiny, because they’re full of bolshie bastards. Even the churches were not immune (well, some of them, anyway, especially if they wore identifying outfits/headgear).

Meanwhile, the corporate fraudsters, crooked pollies and other real criminals were having a field day. Everybody else in Queensland had a yellow star and was under constant surveillance by VLAD’s stormtroopers (who were not averse to taking a kickback or two themselves, if history has taught us anything). And Little Campbell saw the fruits of his labours and, well, that was that really. Queensland – beautiful one day, police-state the next.

When other premiers in other states saw what fun Little Campbell was having, they decided to join in. ‘Ban the bikies!’ replaced ‘Advance Australia Fair’ and that, my dears, is how the whole beautiful country went to hell in a handbasket. A select few lived happily ever after. 

Shades of Europe, circa 1935? You bet. Be afraid. Don’t let it happen here – PLEASE!

I’ll end this rant with a poem I scribbled, because I need to lower my blood pressure now, and fiddling about with rhyme and metre always calms me down.

A southern biker contemplates the Queensland ‘anti-bikie’ law

There was trouble up in Queensland for the word had passed around

That new laws regarding bikies would be tight

So a simple threesome riding all together could be stopped

By a roadside copper looking for a fight.

‘Outlaw’ bikers started squirming, some were fired from their jobs

Many quit their outlaw gangs in abject fear

Coz a charge that gets a normal bloke banged up for eighteen months

For an outlaw bikie could be fifteen years

So they chucked away their colours and they looked like all of us

Who go riding just for pleasure on weekends

But the cops can’t tell the diff between one biker and the next

And they started hassling me and all my friends.

To those who say that innocence should mean no need to fear

I suggest you take your heads out of the sand

Coz today it’s only bikies, just the thin end of the wedge

But tomorrow YOU might cop the heavy hand

Of the lawman on a power trip, a government regime

Bent on plundering the freedoms that we treasure

And the coppers could be hassling you for being with your mates

Protest NOW before the law curtails your leisure!

For more perspective and news on this scary development, go to:

http://quolltracks.blogspot.com.au/ 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptyyd32qxLw

http://mobile.abc.net.au/news/2013-10-31/recreational-motorcyclists-voice-concern/5062016

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2013-10-30/queensland-police-raid-veterans-club-under-anti-bikie-laws/5059250

http://motorbikewriter.com/2013/10/28/popular-anti-bikie-laws-lead-to-harassment
and a new one:
http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/queensland/human-rights-lawyers-slam-queensland-bikie-laws-20131027-2w9c6.html

Explanatory notes attached to VLAD:
http://www.austlii.edu.au/au/legis/qld/bill_en/vladb2013483/vladb2013483.html This is extremely interesting. I especially like this paragraph (my italics) for what it says about justification of the "jackboot-method" with which VLAD was inflicted upon Queensland.
"Consultation
Consultation has occurred within Government. Wider consultation has not been
possible because of the need to respond urgently to the significant public threat these
associations pose in Queensland."


 

My Mallacoota Magpies

'Look sharp, Doris - here comes the Sausage Lady!'

They wait for me now, several times a day. They sit on the feeder box, peering through the window, and when I appear they shuffle about on the side of the box to attract my attention. Sometimes they sing. Occasionally Mrs Hoppy grooms her bloke's feathers. Yesterday's conversation was, I'm certain, something like this:

“Come on, Hoppy dear, you need to look your best.” (Doris picks affectionately at Hoppy's head, tidying an unruly feather).

“Leave me alone, Doris. Women find the ruffled look very attractive.” (Shakes head. Doris hops aside, a bit indignant).

“Well at least sing, dear. They like it when you sing.”

“I'm not singing, Doris. You can sing all you bloody like – I'm too hungry to sing. Ooh, ooh, look, here she comes. Look sharp, Doris.”

Mr & Mrs Hoppy are my greatest fans. I keep a stash of cooked sausages in the fridge, and they're big fans of that too. This morning, Hoppy was sitting wonkily on the feeder box, so I dutifully hacked off a few bits of sausage and went out. Doris, who must've been putting on her mascara or something, arrived late and almost flew into the back of my head in her hurry to take her place next to hubby and get her share of the goodies.

They happily take food from my hand, but they have very different ways of doing it. Hoppy is a bit rough, and stabs at my hand greedily. His missus is gentler, daintier and more precise. She also has far better table manners.

Hoppy stuffs the whole bit of sausage in his beak, almost choking himself in his hurry to get it down. Perhaps, disabled lad that he is, he's had to gobble his food quickly to stop others stealing it from him. Life can't be easy for a bird with a gammy leg.

Mrs Hoppy, on the other hand, takes her time with her sausage morsel. She bashes it on the ground to kill it properly, then rolls it in the dust to season it. She whittles away at it with her beak, taking small mouthfuls until it's all gone. Then she carefully, fastidiously even, wipes the sides of her beak. Meanwhile, Hoppy has managed to stab and scoff two or three more bits, and the pair of them fly away home until they get peckish again. And then - it's back to the Sausage Lady to do it all over again.

I have to head home tomorrow. I'll miss them.

Smooth operator Hoppy: 'So, babe, do you come here often? Love those sausages.'

Killing Time? WHY???

Yesterday, after my ride down here, I was dreamily looking out the window at the gathering of birds, bush rats and so on that make up the whole Adobe Flats experience, and I saw something I've never seen before, which reduced me to tears of laughter.

This is a wonga pigeon:

They seem like gormless, ungainly birds, with a small head plonked onto a big plump body. They make an irritating 'woop woop woop' call for hours on end. If they were human they'd be a bit like Lenny in Of Mice & Men, I reckon.

This is an Australian native bush rat:

(downloaded from http://museumvictoria.com.au/discoverycentre/infosheets/bush-rat/ Source: Gary Lewis)

They are cute little things that move at the speed of lightning. Generally – well, at Adobe anyway – they coexist peacefully with the thuggish rainbow lorikeets, gentle king parrots, raucous galahs, tiny fire-browed finches etc etc. They nibble at the spent husks that the birds chuck out of the seed box and generally help to keep the place tidy.

Until yesterday.

Oh I wish I'd had my camera at the ready, set to capture a video! A dopey wonga pigeon clearly felt a bit threatened by a lone bush rat which was looking for food in the same general area. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but the wonga pigeon puffed itself up to look as scary as possible – it fanned out its tail and raised its wings – and – this is true – bopped the bush rat hard on the head with one of its wings! The bush rat leaped away at lightning speed, of course, and then crept back to retrieve its seed husks. Wonga was ready – BOP! Ratty bolted again.

This was repeated three or four times, while tears of helpless laughter ran down my cheeks – it was like a cartoon! I do hope there'll be a repeat performance today – this time I have my camera ready.

Just imagine if I hadn't been 'killing time' after my lovely ride down here...

We talk about 'killing time' a lot. Today, on a gentle 10km stroll into Mallacoota and back (which nearly killed me, by the way) I realised that killing time is the last thing in the world that I want to do!

Yes, time is often my enemy. But I never have enough of it – why on earth would I want to kill it? If anything, I would want to multiply it, give myself gobs and gobs of it so I had plenty, and never had to feel as if it was running out.

The things you think about when your feet are killing you and your bursitis is doing that thing that bursitis does, and you're not sure that you're going to make it up the final bush track back to Adobe Flats...

When I don't kill time, but instead let it drift slowly past, I find the most fabulous things. Look.

This drift of flowers was growing beside the board walk.

This lizard was poking its head out of one of many holes in a dead tree.

These kangaroos were sitting in the grass, just behind a motel and across the road from the newsagents in town! Quite large, they were, too. One was at least as tall as me, so I didn't try to get too close. It being spring and all, I didn't know whether there might be a joey near by – protective roos can be pretty scary.

And there was birdsong. The incessant 'woop woop woop' of wonga pigeons could drive a person batty, but the call of the eastern whipbird, the cackle of the kookaburra, bellbird chimes and various other assorted (and to me, unidentifiable) tweets, chirps and whistles created a symphony as I wandered along the roadside, letting my mind wander while my eyes and ears tuned in.

I spotted birds I haven't seen before, and they were kind enough to stand still long enough for me to commit their features to memory so that I can now say, fairly confidently, that I saw some grey fantails and (I think) perhaps some New Holland honeyeaters – and some others I can't quite identify – maybe later in the week.

So anyway, it took me a bit over 2 hours to get there and back – rather than killing time, I embraced it; made the most of it and loved finding unexpected things - apart from sore feet! Silly me for walking into town on a Sunday – this is a small town and it's only spring, not the holiday high season, so not much was open – I had hoped to buy a hat, seeing as I'd forgotten to bring one, and the stunning spring weather probably demands one. Will have to do it all over again tomorrow – but I think I might ride my bike instead.

Big Bums and Hot Air

I'm back from Mallacoota after a lovely relaxing (but cold) week, filled with lyrebirds, sugar-gliders, cold weather, possums, schoolwork, cold weather, pot bellied stoves... did I mention it was cold down there?

This week, the south-eastern bit of Oz has been BLOODY cold (well, by our Aussie standards anyway). Yes, it's winter, and winter is supposed to be cold – but it's been colder than usual. Having seen footage of ice storms in North America's most recent winter, and of massive snow dumps in the UK and Europe, I shouldn't really be surprised – but I was anyway. Not to mention underdressed.

The plan was to leave Mallacoota this morning and go across country in the general direction of Melbourne. After a week of glorious (but cold) weather in Mallacoota, imagine my dismay when there was a massive black bank of very ugly cloud pressing down just before sunrise, and moving inland, rather than out to sea. Grrrr. More cold ahead - with wet stuff as a bonus. Last night on the news they said "morning showers, falling as snow above 900m." Uh-oh...

I froze on the way down here a week ago, so for today's trip I upped the ante – TWO sets of thermals, t-shirt, jumper, winter jacket with quilted liner, neck warmer, wet weather gear. Does my bum look big in this? You bet it does. It's the size of New Zealand, fer God's sake!

So me and my massive arse rode west, hitting really foul weather, and some spectacular rainbows, after only about 25kms. By the time I got to Cann River I was a little fat-arsed Betsicle – wet, frozen and miserable, waiting far too long for a watery hot chocolate in a beautifully warm cafe. All I wanted to do was go home to my fridge of a house and have a hot bath.

To get to Canberra you chuck a right at Cann River and head north. You'd think it'd get warmer as you headed away from Antarctica, wouldn't you? Not so. Holy crap, I was breathing pure white air into my helmet, and the bottom half of my face felt thick and rubbery – but at least I could feel it – my toes disappeared somewhere between Bombala and Cooma! The clouds were heavy and grey, and only about 20 feet above my head. Not sure what was in them, but I'll bet it wasn't sunshine or lollipops!

Staying warm in such dire weather demands dire action. The heated grips were on FULL and I was inside about fourteen thousand layers of clothes already, but was still feeling a little chilly. The old surfers' trick of peeing into your wetsuit only works if you're actually wearing a wetsuit, as opposed to a wet suit, and I knew that peeing in my gear would be a very short term solution, so I avoided it. That was difficult, especially when I actually arrived at Cooma, desperate to pee, and had to remove fourteen thousand layers in a BIG hurry before I could even contemplate putting fuel in the bike!

If you promise not to tell anybody, I'll share a secret, heh heh. While peeing in your gear is Simply Not On, you can probably get away with a lovely warming botty-burp or two on the road, as long as you haven't been eating curry or licorice allsorts. Make sure you use this supply of hot air judiciously, because, while renewable, it is not inexhaustible, and you run the risk of Following Through, which would be just plain icky.

Also, on the Monaro Highway - watch out for dickheads coming in the opposite direction and overtaking inappropriately. It's ski season, and everyone's in such a hurry to go to the cold places (weirdos!)

That's my advice for the day.

I'm sad that I changed my plans and came home three days early – but after a nice hot bath and a glass of red – I have to say that it's good to be home!

The Brisbane or Bust Adventure - heading home Part 1

I mentioned my new best friends Tinana and Scrabble, didn't I? Scrabble is a scruffy and fairly brainless but totally adorable little terrier of some sort, with the cutest personality. She has two expressions - awake and asleep - and I have never known a dog to contort herself so wildly to get patted.

After lengthy debate about whether she was an 'adorable love pumpkin' or an 'adorable love parsnip' (she is shaped more like a parsnip than a pumpkin, it's true) I almost got away with smuggling her into my tank bag for the trip home. That Michelle was too feisty though. She heard me encouraging the Love Parsnip to hop into my tank bag.

'Don't do it, Scrabble,' she hissed. 'She has CATS!' Sigh...

So, Scrabbleless, and with a loaded up bike, I followed Clem for a fab ride to Mount Glorious. Yeah, tough life, but the thought of riding the motorway back through Brissie during peak hour was too horrible, so we'd planned to head out of Brisbane the scenic way. Actually, it wasn't peak hour when we left. It was closer to midday, and the clouds that hung over Brissie were black and evil-looking.

They didn't get any better. The first enormous blobs of rain splashed onto me just near Warwick, but they didn't last. Refuelling at Tenterfield, I asked the man at the servo if he knew what the weather ahead was like, and the report was all bad (and, as it turned out, very accurate!) Some ominous thundery rumbles made me put on the wet weather gear - well, the top half anyway - it was still way too warm to wear the entire sauna suit.

After the rain had been pelting down in non-stop sheets for half an hour I was actually feeling a little cool around the legs, not to mention squelchy in the toe region as my Rossi boots gave up all pretence of being waterproof.

I gave up when I could no longer see the road for the rain, and pulled over in a little place called Deepwater where, oddly enough, the water was very deep - rivers of it running down the sides of the main road. I abandoned my poor bike to rain and hail, and sheltered under an awning until the sky lightened a tiny bit. Could I make it to Glen Innes and a warm dry motel, I wondered?

I could. The rain sort of stopped - but when I got to Glen Innes there was hail piled so high by the sides of the road that it looked like a snowscape!

Press on, press on while the weather's tolerable, said the little voice in my head. You might even get as far as Armidale!

Not a hope. The sky split again just as I limped into Guyra, and I turned into the Guyra Park Motel. Lucky to get a room, I was - a road crew from just down the highway had scored some emergency accommodation to escape the wild weather. You can't lay bitumen in torrential rain, apparently.

So - even though the motel was full, the town was empty (it shuts on Monday nights) and if it hadn't been for a fellow traveller called Pete, I would've had nothing but a bag of chips for dinner. Resourceful Pete sourced some lasagne, and we chatted till quite late. He was heading home to Cairns on a KTM he'd just bought in Sydney (hope your trip's going well, Pete!)

After a late night I'd hoped to sleep till 6am, but thunder, lightning and an absolute deluge of Old Testament proportions woke me at 5 on Tuesday morning.

Uh oh.

On the Road Again - Healesville and Back

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2 x 725km ride days, with a rest day in between.

Friday morning dawned gloomy and cool, and I had a sneaky feeling I might be underdressed for the trip through the Snowies to Healesville, for a weekend at Katt’s place. The forecast was for cloud, clearing – so I donned the leathers and hit the road at 6am.

I’d forgotten how boring the road from Canberra to Cooma is. And how dangerous. Two morons who tried to kill me got my heart rate up - actually, one of them made me cry, the bastard, he was so close! He suddenly popped out from between two enormous trucks, gunned his engine to overtake, then realised he was heading right for me and ducked back between the trucks just before I had to run myself off the road to try and avoid certain head-on death.

That’s the sort of thing that does wonders for my froot-loopness. Under-dressed and over-anxious, I very nearly turned around and went home at that point.

The lady who was energetically mopping the floor at Maccas in Cooma reckoned the cloud would lift, and looked at me as if I came from another planet when I said I was feeling the cold. (What she said, in fact, was “Suck it up, Princess!” and then looked a bit worried to see how the big tough bikie chick would respond. The big tough bikie chick laughed and felt herself strangely renewed by this comment.)

By Adaminaby there was a glimmer of sunshine, and flying through the high country around Kiandra I realised I felt so much better. The twisties through to Cabramurra and down to Tumut Ponds Dam were fantastic. The ‘new’ lowered seat on the SV is just brilliant. Hard to believe that with so much of the foam scalloped out it’s actually more comfortable than it was (not to mention the fact that I ‘fit’ into the bike better and can get more foot on the ground when I stop).

Morning tea in Corryong, Victoria, then it was across country on the fab sweepers of the Murray Valley Highway to Tallangatta. By that time my leathers had started sticking to me.

It didn’t get better as the day wore on. On the twisty bit of the Euroa-Merton Road I was held up by a 4WD pulling a horse float, followed by another 4WD – all of them doing 15kmh, while I sweltered inside my leathers. I felt a bit like one of those boil-in-the-bag dinners.

I unloaded the better part of a gallon of water inside my jacket at Alexandra and pressed on for the final 60-70kms to Healesville. The Black Spur, as usual, was fantastic, but I was sooo relieved to arrive at Katt’s and get those wretched leathers off! 10 hours on the road, and on the new seat I didn’t even have a numb bum!

Katt and I are planning a road-trip (more about that another time!) and on Saturday went into Melbourne (in the car!) to try on some BMW G 650 GS’s for size. Noice. Comfy ride position, but felt about as tall as the SV was before I got the seat hacked down. Hmmm, will have to think about that one.

I am so unaccustomed to sitting in a car for any length of time – my back and legs were soooo sore by the time we got back, and I had to get out for a walk and a much-needed stretch with Tash, Katt’s daughter, while Katt had a nanna nap.

Sunday 15 November was the 43rd anniversary of our arrival in Australia – and what a lovely way to spend it! I headed off at 7 o’clock into cool, moist, early-morning air. Lovely! I had the Black Spur all to myself. Tootling along through the tall trees and twisty corners I realised I absolutely don’t want to hoon through twisties at all – I’m far happier going at a sensible speed and enjoying the scenery. That was a bit of a revelation, coz I don’t mind a bit of speed, usually!

Had a nervous moment as I neared Alexandra, seeing as the last two times I’ve been heading home through there I’ve had an enforced extended stay because of bike mishaps! This time, though, I managed to ride through town without any disasters, and I just waved as I rode past.

I came home a different way – (see the map) but it ended up being pretty much the same distance, although it was an hour less. Just as well, because by 9.30am the air was unequivocally hot– and it just got hotter and hotter as the day went on. Snake season is well underway – I spotted a squashed brown snake, a black, and what I think was a dead copperhead on the road as well.

The bitumen had that hot dusty smell, and by Tumut it was starting to feel a bit unbearable. The hot air was so dry that it made my contact lenses stick to my eyeballs – very uncomfortable, and disconcerting as well. The gallons of water I’d poured inside my jacket had evaporated long ago, so I resoaked myself at the servo and put the AirHawk seat on, coz by that stage my bum had had enough as well. I plodded on to home sweet home, where all I wanted was an icy cold cider and a cool shower, and arrived around 4pm.

And look what I came home to!

My clematis - doing so much better than it did last year!

The Fabulousness of Friends and the Kindness of Strangers – Part 1.

My run from Canberra to Healesville was uneventful, although the weather was pretty iffy. Forecasts were spouting doom and gloom and snow in the high country, so I avoided doing that lovely ride through Kiandra & Khancoban, choosing instead to go via Batlow, Tumbarumba and Jingellic.

After a wee stop in Walwa, I backtracked a little bit and headed to Granya Gap – the road is magnificent (unless you happen to get caught behind a couple of caravans – grrrrr). And Granya Gap itself – what a lovely road!

I love Victoria rural roads and the way they’re all numbered. It makes finding your way around so much easier. I stopped for fuel and a leg-stretch at Tallangatta, before heading through places with such fabulous names as Tangambalanga, Yackandandah and Wangaratta!

My buddy Katt was waiting in Healesville, where I finally arrived after about 10-11 hours on the road. Oh my bum! Oh my shoulders! Despite having looked closely at the map, I didn't realise just how close to Melbourne Healesville is! Not a bad day's riding on some interesting roads...

On Saturday we took the bikes out for some nice twisty rides to Kinglake and St Andrews.
I love eavesdropping on the conversations of strangers, and had a ball on Saturday. In Kinglake, which was devastated in last summer’s awful bushfires, the conversations went something like:

“So, you rebuilding?”

“Yep, trying to.”

A terrifyingly twisty bit of road later (but geographically not far away), at the St Andrews Market, the conversations were more like this:

‘So yeah, like, it’s something I acknowledged in a past life as an issue, you know. So now I’m thinking about a tantra workshop’.

‘Yeah, tantra workshop’d be great.’ Serious hippie territory – it was fantastic! I’ve never seen so many dreadlocks in one place.

After riding around a lot and being pulled over by a friendly motorbike cop for a licence/rego check, we went down Myers Creek Road (the roads around Healesville are brilliant and the scenery, while a little blackened, it still gorgeous!) and headed to the Beechworth Bakery, which is a popular stopping place for a multitude of leather-clad bikers on their return from a fang on the Black Spur.

Yes, those are hot jam donuts in the bag. No wonder Katt’s grinning!

All the gluten and the massive sugar hit had Katt and I out of control by the time we got back to her place, so we played silly buggers on MSN and knocked off a couple of bottles of plonk.

The plonk explains the seediness of Sunday, and the rain didn’t help, so we went in the car to catch up with Maggles – the third member of the ‘Terrible Trio’. What a lovely girly afternoon – lunch at the Craigieburn Club, and then we played a kick-arse game of Scrabble.

Spent a quiet evening back at Katt’s, packing my bag (boo hiss) for the ride home and watching Casey Stoner kick some Rossi butt in his first ride back after a spell. The trip to Phillip Island’s getting close, and it was great to see Casey back on form!