Everyone's always so nice about Terry, the guy just ends up with a swollen head. "Oh, Terry organised a great ride," they say. "Terry knows all the best tracks." Let's get real, the guy is a bastard.
I went for a ride with him recently and this is how it panned out. A fairly large group of us were off for a ride around Ben Lomond in Tasmania for the day; covering about 180 odd kays off mainly single track with a bit of fire trail and minimal bitumen. Should have been a great day, but, as I said, Terry organised the ride, so...Terry's KTM 300 dropped a water pump the night before the ride.
He was going to steal his son's bike if his wasn't going, just so he could still go riding, but his son was supposed to be riding with us. So the guy had to steal bits from a mate's bike the night before the ride, just to get there. That meant his mate couldn't come riding with us. How poor is that?
He got us all out of bed at sparrow's fart and was still late getting to pick me up from my place. When we got to the servo, he stole the last two rolls at the bakery, so I had to wait for another one to get made, and then he forgot to pump up my rear tyre until I reminded him and he had the nerve to blame me for making him late.
We got to the meeting point at St Leonards, only to find all and sundry there waiting for us already, whereupon Terry sets off like a maniac towards the start point at Ben Lomond.
How most of the people following us survived the trip is beyond me. I may well have soiled my trousers, I was that traumatised by his driving, except that my poor sphincter was blocked by the cover I had torn from the seat as I puckered in fear at his driving.
He buggerised around all morning trying to get himself organised and then had the temerity to stand on a trailer and yell at everyone before we left. Rules this... Rules that... Don't pass the lead rider... Don't leave a corner until the sweep gets there... Bloody little Hitler he is.
He then led a group of 25 odd (and I mean odd!!) riders off in the pissing rain, blowing wind and freezing cold for a day of sadistic torture and mayhem. In the middle of all this, he decides that he wants to play funny buggers and deliberately jams his chain into his swingarm, just to test our patience and mechanical skills. Luckily Andrew (rally legend, my arse... old fossil that rides like a damp dish cloth), gave his two cents worth on how to fix it and the promptly disappeared, before poor old Trent was left to do all the work with the peanut gallery hurling insults from the sidelines.
Terry, in the meantime, sat back admiring his handiwork. Off we set again, with a not a decent bitumen road to be found for more than 1 or 2 kms at a stretch. Instead we had to contend with mile upon mile of goat tracks designed for peasant pedestrians with firewood logs balanced precariously on their heads, in order to keep the timber dry whilst crossing river and dale, and negotiating obstacle after obstacle. Just when a nice bit of semi-formed gravel would at least present itself as respite, off we would go again to have to contend with trees and logs and roots and creeks and things that an enduro bike just simply isn't designed to contend with.
We had to negotiate long, shaly climbs with numerous erosion mounds, designed only to hurl you and your poor bike ever more skywards. No fun in that. This followed by the ridge lines with panoramic views that simply couldn't be enjoyed because of the ridiculous pace setting that Terry implemented. His behaviour was simply unconscionable.
At one stage, whilst supposedly being a responsible trail leader, he hid in the bushes, allowing me to unknowingly ride straight past him (carton my arse, you did that deliberately!!!); placing me in the precarious position of riding without a cornerman in front, such that I may have had to take some responsibility for knowing where I was and knowing how to get home. God forbid. Such was the frenetic pace of his wickedness that my poor KTM crapped itself (OK, the front sprocket bolt fell out, but it was surely Terry's fault for not conducting an appropriate scrutineering session before our departure) and I had to get a ride in the support vehicle.
Thank the Lord for small mercies, to be relieved of his tyranny. His torture did not abate, however. Despite being removed forcibly from the group and instructed, along with the support crew, to meet Terry at a torturous hill climb, where he wanted us to take photographs for his perverted pleasure at a later date; he didn't show up. After having made our way down the hill to the most appropriate vantage point, he arrived at the top of the hill and then yelled at us mercilessly to get back up the hill and refuel his bike for him.
I did contemplate refuelling his bike and did turn off the fuel tap in preparation. I may have forgotten to turn it back on before his departure, but I am sure he realised at some point. Perhaps when it stopped. I could go on, but I don't need to reinforce to you what a complete mongrel this guy is. Please don't give him any more fodder to feed that massive ego. It will just make him worse.
On a more positive note: A big thank you to Nigel and Lee. Most along for the day will know that Nigel and Lee were the support crew for the day. Nigel works with Terry, but we won't hold that against him. Lee is Nigel's son. Despite the tirade above (the bastard deserves it), we actually had a fantastic day and in no small part because of the efforts of Nigel and Lee. They met us a number of times along the ride to refuel and feed us.
I had dry goggles and gloves in the vehicle and was by no means the only one. It was great to put them on halfway through the ride (even if it was only just before I had to get in the bus of shame). The back of the cruiser was chock-o-block with muddy, filthy riding gear, parts and pieces by the end of the day. Nigel loaded and unloaded fuel and bikes all day with a nothing but a big grin.
Riding is great and we all love it, but it was certainly interesting to see it from another perspective. Nigel and Lee drove around in circles, took photos, carted gear, loaded bikes, put up with whinging, arguing, spiteful passengers (and I used to think Scot was a decent sort of a bloke actually) and the thing they seemed to enjoy most, was how much we were enjoying ourselves. Can't thank them enough.
To be honest, it would have been a bloody good ride, except that Terry was there. And I'd have told him that on the day too, except I still needed him to drive me home. Finally, a big thanks to Chuggy. I have been looking for the perfect way to keep Murfet from constantly showing me a wheel in order to keep me on my toes. Chuggy sucked down a couple of boiled eggs at the first rest stop and by the second they had worked their magic on his rectal passage. It has to be the first and hopefully last time, I can actually tell who the rider is in front of me from the smell. He's someone who needs to learn that it is not good form to stand on the pegs when riding. He really should have been sitting down and using the seat as a seal.
