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ISSUE NO. 26
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September 2026
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Experiences

To the Gods of Speed: An Ode to Motorcycling

Finding freedom, focus and danger during a motorbike ride along the coast.

By
Ivan

Ivan writes from a prison in VIC.

Ethan Cassidy

It was mid-afternoon in the Port Campbell area, with a southerly wind blowing, and Henry and I were just about to leave the Boggy Creek Café.

Henry was out front, waiting. He is a motorbike mechanic who used to have his own bike shop in Melbourne and races superbikes professionally. Like me, he’s competitive. Three weeks before this ride he had spent $5,000 upgrading his bike’s engine to increase its speed and handling.

This was our third ride together and we were planning to meet the rest of the group at Port Campbell Caravan Park.

I stepped out of the café onto the rickety veranda. Henry was out front on his Triumph Triple, engine revving. He turned and looked at me, then sped off before I had a chance to put on my helmet. He didn’t like to lose and neither did I.

Luckily, last week I had spent a small fortune on a microchip, airbox upgrade and full Akropovic exhaust system on my Yamaha MT-01 1700 CC V-twin. My bike was now on steroids! I jumped on and revved the throttle. Despite the thumping vibrations of the engine, it felt like a sleek ride, and it was fast.

It only took me about 10 minutes to catch up to Henry. I dropped down a short dip in the road and was airborne for a bit. I could feel the cold air rushing through my helmet and I suddenly smelt the freshness of the creek under the bridge.

We were close to the coast now, on a very bendy road. I flipped my bike from left to right to heat up the outer edges of my tyres. These were the stickiest tyres my supplier had in stock.

I got very close to Henry’s bike and was about to pass him, but I was being pelted by tiny rocks from his back wheel. I gritted my teeth. Suddenly, I saw a bend in the road ahead. I saw an opportunity to pass him and took it.

I could hear his fairing and headlight being showered by tiny bullets from my back wheel. I knew my bike’s thunderous exhaust would vibrate every bone in his body as I rumbled past him. No way was I going to be pelted with stones again!

It was mid-afternoon in the Port Campbell area, with a southerly wind blowing, and Henry and I were just about to leave the Boggy Creek Café.

Henry was out front, waiting. He is a motorbike mechanic who used to have his own bike shop in Melbourne and races superbikes professionally. Like me, he’s competitive. Three weeks before this ride he had spent $5,000 upgrading his bike’s engine to increase its speed and handling.

This was our third ride together and we were planning to meet the rest of the group at Port Campbell Caravan Park.

I stepped out of the café onto the rickety veranda. Henry was out front on his Triumph Triple, engine revving. He turned and looked at me, then sped off before I had a chance to put on my helmet. He didn’t like to lose and neither did I.

Luckily, last week I had spent a small fortune on a microchip, airbox upgrade and full Akropovic exhaust system on my Yamaha MT-01 1700 CC V-twin. My bike was now on steroids! I jumped on and revved the throttle. Despite the thumping vibrations of the engine, it felt like a sleek ride, and it was fast.

It only took me about 10 minutes to catch up to Henry. I dropped down a short dip in the road and was airborne for a bit. I could feel the cold air rushing through my helmet and I suddenly smelt the freshness of the creek under the bridge.

We were close to the coast now, on a very bendy road. I flipped my bike from left to right to heat up the outer edges of my tyres. These were the stickiest tyres my supplier had in stock.

I got very close to Henry’s bike and was about to pass him, but I was being pelted by tiny rocks from his back wheel. I gritted my teeth. Suddenly, I saw a bend in the road ahead. I saw an opportunity to pass him and took it.

I could hear his fairing and headlight being showered by tiny bullets from my back wheel. I knew my bike’s thunderous exhaust would vibrate every bone in his body as I rumbled past him. No way was I going to be pelted with stones again!

He was just inches behind me, but my focus was on where I was going. To ride this fast safely, you have to be in the zen of bike riding. I learnt this in an advanced motorbike-riding course with Stay Upright – a Melbourne rider-training business. They said riding is 97 per cent total concentration and only 3 per cent physical strength. For me, it is a state of meditation.

When you’re riding you are processing everything: the conditions of the road, the weather, your speed, and you’re always anticipating what other road users are going to do.

Your mind is 100 per cent focused. It’s like you are part of everything – you become one with the bike.

We flew around the next hairpin bend with Henry still two inches from my back wheel, trying to pass me. I was blocking him at every opportunity.

Then, to my horror, a white rental van was parked on the wrong side of the road. Our side! A group of tourists had spread out in front of it, and some were taking photos of an echidna near the double lines.

These people would have heard our bikes screaming from 10 kilometres away!

I kept my focus and crossed the double white lines into oncoming traffic, darting between the group of tourists and the cars, my knees scraping the asphalt. Henry went bush into the gravel on the left side of the road, but managed to keep his bike upright. As soon as we passed them, I pulled up next to Henry. I lifted my visor, gave him a big cheesy grin, and took off.

We stopped at the Peterborough Pub, 10 kilometres east of the caravan park. A southerly wind was still blowing. The ocean was only several hundred metres away and we could taste the salt in the air.

Henry was full of adrenalin. He pulled his helmet off and punched me in the arm. Talking 1,000 miles an hour, he said, “Did you see the speed we were going?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t look at the speedo.”

Several months ago, I had been out riding and was about to pass two bikes on a bend – I only glanced at the speedo for a microsecond: it was fast! I almost crashed exiting that bend and I never got distracted by a speedo again.

We ordered two Coopers Green and had the barkeep roll them on the bar. Henry and I clanged our ice-cold beers together. We toasted to the gods of speed.

He was just inches behind me, but my focus was on where I was going. To ride this fast safely, you have to be in the zen of bike riding. I learnt this in an advanced motorbike-riding course with Stay Upright – a Melbourne rider-training business. They said riding is 97 per cent total concentration and only 3 per cent physical strength. For me, it is a state of meditation.

When you’re riding you are processing everything: the conditions of the road, the weather, your speed, and you’re always anticipating what other road users are going to do.

Your mind is 100 per cent focused. It’s like you are part of everything – you become one with the bike.

We flew around the next hairpin bend with Henry still two inches from my back wheel, trying to pass me. I was blocking him at every opportunity.

Then, to my horror, a white rental van was parked on the wrong side of the road. Our side! A group of tourists had spread out in front of it, and some were taking photos of an echidna near the double lines.

These people would have heard our bikes screaming from 10 kilometres away!

I kept my focus and crossed the double white lines into oncoming traffic, darting between the group of tourists and the cars, my knees scraping the asphalt. Henry went bush into the gravel on the left side of the road, but managed to keep his bike upright. As soon as we passed them, I pulled up next to Henry. I lifted my visor, gave him a big cheesy grin, and took off.

We stopped at the Peterborough Pub, 10 kilometres east of the caravan park. A southerly wind was still blowing. The ocean was only several hundred metres away and we could taste the salt in the air.

Henry was full of adrenalin. He pulled his helmet off and punched me in the arm. Talking 1,000 miles an hour, he said, “Did you see the speed we were going?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t look at the speedo.”

Several months ago, I had been out riding and was about to pass two bikes on a bend – I only glanced at the speedo for a microsecond: it was fast! I almost crashed exiting that bend and I never got distracted by a speedo again.

We ordered two Coopers Green and had the barkeep roll them on the bar. Henry and I clanged our ice-cold beers together. We toasted to the gods of speed.

This
piece
was originally printed in the
September 2026
edition of About Time.
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