WHAT YOU FIND IN AUSTRALIA
During my first Australian tour with AC/DC, I was struck by the fact that all Aussie car names ended in “a” or “o.” Torano, Borano, Ferano, Iguana. Whatever, it was a wonderful place to be, with these happy-go-lucky people, and that’s what they are, lucky people. Of course, you can’t go anywhere without a ute (short for “utility truck,” I think), because the Aussies have a unique way of taking the piss out of everyone. We were in Perth, or maybe Melbourne, I can’t remember, and I was being driven to the gig for a sound check in a Toyota Japana when we passed a Harley-Davidson shop. Now, I was told by Moto Guzzi and Ducati aficionados that Harleys were too agricultural to be any good. I don’t care. Nothing makes a noise like a Harley. Later in life, in Milwaukee, I saw 65,000 of them go on an anniversary run: one of the few times you could use the word “awesome.”
Anyhow, in the window was an HD police patrol bike, complete with red flashing light and a siren pedal. I shouted, “Stop now! Halt! Desist from going forwards! Stop the fuckin’ car!” I ran in and asked what the hell a Texas Highway Patrol bike was doing here. The geezer said it was sent over for the police force to try out, and if they liked it, they could order more. Well, unfortunately, Kawasaki sent over twenty and said they could have five for free. Deal done. It was too expensive to ship back to the States, so the police wanted to sell it. They did, to me, and I shipped it to England.
Jackie Armstrong owned a bike shop on Westgate Road in Newcastle. He prepared it for me and off I went. Boy, did it get some looks, but it was then that I discovered that the guys who rode the rice burners and crotch rockets wouldn’t even talk to you. They were actually motorbike snobs. I would never have believed it. I liked nothing better than opening up that bad boy Harley when they were parked at a pub. It was great watching them trying desperately not to look.
My second trip out was a strange one. I was stopped whilst riding down the coast road by a policeman in a panda car. I said, “What’ve I done?” He said, “Nothing, mate, but is there any chance of a ride?” Well, I couldn’t really say no, so off he went, leaving me by his car. After fifteen minutes, another policeman pulled up in his car and asked me what I’d done with the driver. I said, “He’s testing my bike.” He didn’t believe me, and it was starting to look nasty when “CHiPs” turned up. He looked a little sheepish, and got a huge bollocking. I got a bollocking, too, just for being me. They left. I got back on my bike and thought, “What the fuck?”
The next day: Hexham and the country ’round Hadrian’s Wall. Stunning countryside, wonderful roads, lots of rabbits. One too many. “I’ll try to avoid that baby one—oh shit, he’s running into me.” I’m in the ditch, over the hedge, land flat on my back. I’m winded, can’t get my breath. Once again, what the fuck?