Mouse gives his pre-ride talk and off we head to Gatton to collect 7 more bikes. Gatton via Walloon Pub. A pleasant enough route apart from the odd tree branch laying on the road. Which is puzzling. Because if you live in a rural area and you chopped down some deadwood, wouldn't you just leave it on your land instead of not securing your load and then driving on the road? Lucky it was all on the other side of the road. But still.

Anyway. Gatton comes into view. And we pull over for a leg stretch and fellow rider collection. Smoke em' if ya got em. Stand in the shade if you don't. Then we're off. To bustling Clifton. Population 2000+ (although, that's the entire shire not the township itself, as just our 37 bikes and 6 trikes congested the main street). A drink and feed. And Ado is on the prowl. Out for all those people who did U-Turns over the double white lines when we left. Good thing he doesn't know about the U-Turn I did when we arrived so I could park on the Cafe side of the road. Otherwise, he might fine me a goldie. And don't anyone tell him either, ok?

While we're feeding and drinking in the metropolis that is Clifton, the Hoons arrive. You know the ones. In their lowered supped up V8 commodore things. Drifting, I think they call it. A nice way of saying, barely in control. But, there's no-where for them to park. As we've got all the good (only) spots in town. So they park around the corner.

Some late stragglers arrive. They had Zoomed off ahead. Their idea had been... wait at the T Intersection. But is that the one at the end of the road, or where one of the side roads come onto the road we're on? I guess everyone's ESP was left at home. So, of course, they aren't there and have to be collected.

Arriving in town late - is that fine worthy? - they hardly have time to get off their bikes and Mouse blows his whistle - 5 minutes. Ado gets out his book. I hope he's got fast hands to write down all those vile double line crossers. And we're off. Rumbling out of town to the open mouths of the hoons. On the way to Leyburn. A lazy half hour-ish away. And a place where we can get some go-go-juice. We forgo a visit to the Clifton attraction of Nurse Sister Kenny's grave in nearby Nobby. Maybe next time.

Leyburn peaks over the horizon. We turn. Oops. One turn too soon. Back onto the main road and then into town for real this time (is that a fine for the ride leader?). Swamping the general store with its solitary fuel bowzer - with two pumps. Like in the good old days, it's manual. No inside console here. And the poor store owner is run off his feet trying to keep track of the prices as the pump is hung on the hook and then picked up again and reset automatically as the next bike takes a drink. And he's trying to take money at his till. He should have just stayed out there with a bum-bag and some change and taken the money on the spot.

While some tank up, others head on over to The Royal Hotel, which dates from the 1860s. And whose service, it seems, is as slow as life was back then. Just one bar staff for the hungry hordes. Saliva drooling from the sides of mouths. Teeth gnawing at the corners of the wooden bar top. Tongues licking the condensed water on the side of cool beers (gold, of course). The pub probably hasn't been this busy since the gold mining days in the 1860s.

From his throne, King James and Queen Julie talked architecture. And we learned that the wobbly house across the road had been designed by Eileen. Young Bob - not his real name because, frankly, my brain was on overload from trying to remember everyone's names, but sitting to Queen Julie's right - showed us how to apply copious amounts of sunscreen (see how educational Ulysses rides can be?). And gave as a graphic run down of how it oozes and squelches between your fingers. He could save a bundle on sun screen if he'd wear long sleeves.

We must have been quite a sight. Because some of the Locals leaving the pub after their Counter Lunch took a photo of us from across the road at their cars. Bloody paparazzi.

After six hours at the pub waiting for everyone to get their meals - well, ok, it wasn't six hours, but darn near close - everyone has filled their bellies. And the whistle is blown. Mount up. We're off to Warwick. And so, the locals who'd been inside now came out to watch the parade leave town. One father had his young son on his hip as we rode into the rising wind. An impression which will last and see that young fella grow up to buy a bike and understand why a dog sticks its head out of a car window.

Cyclone Tracy buffeted us back to Warwick. Of course, me on my heavy beast with a full 250cc of raw throbbing power, hardly noticed it. I just cut threw the gale like a chainsaw through ice. Woof woof.

Got to look out for those boys in blue - driving red cars cause they go faster. Almost got someone. How close it can be. You overtake one person and if the time is wrong - bam, done. Unfair. Which is how, I'm sure, one bike rider felt half way down Cunningham's gap. But that comes later. First Warwick.

We pull into Warwick and take over the Shell servo. Giving the patrons at McDonald's something to talk about I'm sure. And after a tank up, we are off. Somehow, I am near the front. Eat my dust HA! But need to wave slower for one of those insidious not so hidden speed cameras. Then we can really open her up to 80 for while. Then it's a 100 and we're on our way baby yeah.

Half the group goes by me at an overtaking zone. And so I'm kinda like a pseudo tail end charlie. And there's no-one immediately behind me but cars. And none of them are bothering to overtake at the overtaking lanes. Fair enough. Look at what they'd be contending with - 20++ bikes all riding fairly closely. But we're not speeding. No siree. We don't do that kind of thing. And besides, honest Johns coming the other way are accidentally hitting their highbeams as they mean to Indicate to merge back into their lanes as their overtaking lane ends. We, of course, think... radar ahead. But where?

Ah. There they are. Hiding at one of those too-short overtaking lanes as you go down Cunningham's gap. And picture it... you follow Mr Slower Then Snails and get to the overtaking lane. You gun it, top the rise and BAM. Gotcha. Fined for the awful crime of doing 80 in a 70 zone.

Well. I don't know if he was one of our group, or a random rider, but there was a bike stopped as I went past. Not a nice way to end a ride. But, we were warned. And the cops do love that particular spot. They have for decades. You can see the discarded McDonald's wrappers strewn about their territory.

By now, the group is well and truly spread apart. Just me and three pillion carrying bikes. Cars behind. Nothing in front. Until Aratula. A few stopped already. My small group stops. But I keep going. Only to be passed by three trikes later. Ride through a bit of rain for five minutes near Yamanto. But am dry by the time I get home. Dry and wind blown. But otherwise, ready to ride again.