Club rides start with an idea, usually plucked out of thin air. This one was to traverse the less

well ridden roads of the wheat belt and inhale some of the local history and culture that is usually

ignored or at least ridden past. A history and culture that is continuing and of which we are as

much a part as the air we breathe. Less than a human life-time ago, our chosen mode of travel,

motorcycling, would have been very difficult if not impossible through this country. Back then, in

the mid 20th century, steam was king, the rail-road not the bitumen road

provided access to the hinter-land or else, the lucky few simply flew over it, in the air.

The pre-ride had an eventful start. A steep driveway with l imited space for a U-turn and a

plentiful supply of honky nuts, combined with multiple layers of restrictive protective clothing,

proved too much for Sindy and her Bandit. They had a little l ie down in front of our garage. The

air turned blue with language but, apart from pride, there was little damage to the bike. I t simply

echoed what had happened previously on the other side. Those crash bars were a good

investment and now the left and the right were a matching pair.

The weather for the day of the ride was beautiful , one of the first sunny ones after days of rain.

Spring was definitely in the air and the footbrawl demi-finals were to be broadcast on the tel ly.

The Dome Café at Mundaring provided a comfortable meeting place with breakfasts and coffee.

There were two motorcycles parked outside when I arrived. I didn’t recognise them or their

riders and I waited for the arrival of the ORMTC group in the car park. EJ rode up and

effectively parked Cassius without the need for a horizontal event. She recognised one of the

riders as Paul, an ex-member on a new BMW FS800 GS and his mate Clive on a V-Strom 650.

Sindy, Geoff and Hans soon rode in, coffee and calories were consumed as we waited for the

arrival of any others. There were none. Our small but eclectic group, rode east into the Jarrah

forest and the auriferous, chil l morning air. Grey/brown Jarrah gave way to silver Wandoo which

in turn surrendered to verdant paddocks of wheat and canola, patchy with l ime-yellow flowers.

The road tunnelled through the undulating landscape like a moggie beneath a malachite duvet.

SOMETHING IN THE AIRClub Ride: September 201 2

York, often the destination of lesser riders,

was summarily dispatched with the

crossing of the languid Avon, here forming

the border between the realms of day-

riders and those interested in the open

road. Climbing out of the Avon Valley, the

country relaxes from the European

tightness of first settlement to the more

Austral ian style, where the rural scenery is

draped over a planet in repose. I t’s as if

the sky itself expands to encompass the

vastness of the landscape.

Quairading was the first fuel stop, the service station opposite a wheat refinery of technological

architecture. A reminder that wheat and the infrastructure to support its production, is big

business in these parts. The countryside was transformed from light woodland to cereal

production in less than a generation;- somewhat encouraged by the government giving 1 60

acres free to each farmer who cleared their block and stayed there for seven years. What the

indigenous people thought of this largess with their land is not recorded.

Page 2

Quairading was settled as an expansion of the Avon

Valley, where the soils were relatively good. The first

European explorers further north in the Cunderdin

region reported that it was not suitable for agriculture. I t

wasn’t unti l the gold rush of the late 1 800’s that the town

of Cunderdin was established as a service town to the

new gold-fields rai lway.

The road between Quairading and Cunderdin has long

straights that leap-frog the horizon with many sweeping

“S” bends that are apparently there solely for the

enjoyment of motorcyclists. On the pre-run, this road

was a beauty! A good surface and a great mix of l inear

and curvil inear. On the day of the ride, a few kilometres

of straight road had been dug up and replaced with

loose pea-gravel, very loose and deep in some places.

Easy going for the first taste of dirt for Paul’s new BMW

FS800. I t flew past with Paul tal l on the pegs, well , tal l

for Paul. The road bikes with wider tyres didn’t fare as

well . Weight on the pegs and a liberal twist of the wrist

was the best option for those wil l ing to judge the fine l ine

between too slow and too fast. The consequences of

getting it wrong were severe.

The Griso has a wide(ish) front tyre and a big fat back one. I t didn’t l ike the loose gravel at al l ,

wandering between the ruts and heading towards the ditch of it’s own accord. I wished I was on

the Burgman. Going faster didn’t work, the only way to get through this was to go slow and

suffer the ridicule of my comrades. Riding a Burgman has made me used to this.

EJ enjoyed the exhilaration of achievement, once back on the bitumen. Sindy was just rel ieved

that it was over. We all got past the gravel without miss-hap, the air heavy with dust and

expletives.

Page 3

The gravel horror behind us, we made good use of

the sealed surface on the remainder of the road to

Cunderdin. The café here lacks a fat trap on its

connection to the sewer. I t therefore is not al lowed to

sell fried food and its wares are all the better for it.

The locally baked cakes are exceptional as baker

Hans wil l confirm. We dined al fresco and selected

our party frocks from the window display. Paul would

look very fetching in the yellow and black bumble bee

outfit. . . or is that retching?

Our morning tea was accompanied by a choir of

angels, l iteral ly. A holy roly bongo van drove slowly

past with amplified celestial music cleaving the

Sabbath’s serenity. I t parked a few metres away and

a Moses look-al ike sans tablets emerged complete

with flowing white locks and beard. I walked over and

asked if I could take a photograph of his amazing

vehicle, Yahweh on Wheels. He warned me that if I

did that I would be blessed. I told him that I ’ve had

worse things happen.

Page 4

Across the road from the café is

Cunderdin’s second tal lest thing, the

water tower. This is a substantial

structure and I had always assumed

that the water would have been

pumped up to the tank by the steam

pumps in the pumping station behind.

However, the water tower was built for

the railway and pre-dates the pipel ine

by a few years. The water was

collected on Cunderdin Hil l a few

kilometres away by means of low walls

along granite outcrops. I t was

channelled into pipes that lead to the

tower and up to the top of the tank.

The hil l is higher than the tank so the

tank fi l led by gravity alone, no pumping

required.

Then we went to Cunderdin’s tal lest thing,

the chimney at the old pumping station,

now a museum. First they built the three

supports and instal led the three massive

boilers. Then they built the building

around them with three steam engine

pumps in the hall beside the boilers.

These steam engines were the

technological marvels of their day, around

1 904. They were in service, pumping

water for 60 years, fuel led at first by Coll ie

brown coal and then by the plentiful

supply of wood available from clearing the

land for agriculture. The massive

chimney would have been an impressive

sight, bi l lowing wood smoke into the air,

adding to the smoke

from steam trains at

the Cunderdin station

and marshall ing yards.

In the early 20th

century, Cunderdin

was a hive of activity

and industry.

After six decades of

hard yakka, the work

of pumping water was

taken over by electric pumps in a new, soul-

less building next door. The mighty steam

pumps were dismantled, taken to a paddock

and blown up for scrap:- al l three of them.

The one example now in the museum was

rescued from another pumping station

further down the line. We are lucky that the

fine brick building and chimney didn’t suffer a

similar fate. In the 1 960’s the standard

gauge line to Kalgoorl ie was constructed. I t

eschewed the route of the narrow gauge

railway and goes north of the town. The old

station and marshall ing yards with al l their

activity and employment were no longer

required. The country air was cleaner but

something had been lost.

Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you've got ‘ti l i t's gone

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

Page 5

Page 6

The airport l ies west of the

Cunderdin – Wyalkatchem

road. I t too contains a rel ic of

the past. Here stands a

Neptune bomber from the

1 950’s. This one was flown to

Perth from an aircraft

graveyard in Arizona, restored

and converted to a water

bomber for bush fire control. I t

could deliver 1 0 tonnes of

water in a control led manner

with a range of several

hundred kilometres. I t made

one demonstration fl ight at the

Cunderdin air show and was

then ignored by the authorities.

Neptunes are used

with good effect for

bush fire control in

the United States but

for reasons that I

don’t know, our state

has l imited the fleet of

control aircraft to

those that are

restricted to a much

reduced range and

drop less than a tenth

of what the Neptune

is capable of

delivering. The

Neptune is something

that should be in the

air but isn’t.

We rode north and turned on to the Minnivale Road. This was wheat belt riding at its best! No

traffic to get in the way and a panorama of paddocks, dark green reserves and white-barked

trees forming occasional colonnades that supported the blue vault of the sky, throwing cool

shadows across the road through which we rode. We missed the Dowerin field day by a week,

which was probably a good thing and pressed on past the Tin Dog to Goomall ing.

The Go Café provided a congenial atmosphere and good food for a late lunch. We were now

reduced in numbers as Clive and Paul had opted at Cunderdin to return to their televisions and

watch grown men run around in scanty clothing chasing an inflated pig’s bladder.

Page 7

As we relaxed in expectation of the victuals, Geoff noticed the two young waitresses and not

much else. Sindy offered advice on what a young lady would be looking for in a suitable beau.

The meal, del ivered to the table by the wait staff with friendly efficiency was up to the Go Café’s

usual high standard, though Geoff probably didn’t notice, as he was concentrating on something

else.

There was definitely something in the air: - pheromones. After the meal, Geoff excused himself

from the table and went out to the back garden area where he had spied the two waitresses

having a break. Much later, when I went out there, Geoff was on his knees in front of the two

women. I don’t know what he had been saying to them. He was trying with difficulty, to re-

assemble one of his boots and had not brought the manual with him. These boots are a

technological marvel in their own right. They consist of many panels and vents, held together

with wire tensioned by some elaborate mechanism. Geoff had obviously not been listening to

Sindy. I ’m pretty sure that demonstrating your foot ware and exposing your socks were not on

Sindy’s l ist that might encourage osculate behaviour, no matter how clean your fingernails.

Sated with food if nothing else, we rode through the increasingly hi l ly country to Toodyay. I t was

a warm afternoon with the smell of summer in the air. Crossing the Avon again brought us back

into the realm of the Sunday arvo riders. How do they keep their bikes so clean? By not

exposing them to the country air, an atmosphere heavy with the odours of the internal

combustion engine, agriculture, ti l led soil , flowers, gum leaves, wood smoke and history: Oh,

and insects, many, many insects.