Sweet As, Out In The Wop Wops

How Do You Celebrate Motorcycles and The Birthday of a Queen?

Find the coldest spot in the country, still accessible by a couple thousand motorcycles and you're away! BMR! Brass Monkey Rally: held every year over the Queen's birthday holdiday weekend. In this case the Third and Fourth of June, 2006. The rally is reputed to be cold, rowdy and a hell of a lot fun. Gen - U - ine Kiwiana if there is such a thing. It's been going strong for 26 years as of this weekend. And somehow I now fit into the lore.

I prepared to be cold. Luckily we didn't set any records for frost this time arround but I was glad to be prepared anyhow. I equiped the motorcycle with an electric vest. Now my local mechanic forgets this you see, and every time he sees the bike he asks about the electric leed from the battery. Each time without fail; "What's this?". Everytime I tell him he just smirks and thinks "pussy". But hey why suffer? Luckily for me I bought my motocross boots too big. Doublling up on socks is no problem.

Longjohns, flannel boxers, fleece pants: Check.
Insulated Ski pants for campfire loungin', Check.
Ski gloves, balaclava, fleece hoodie: Check.
Two sleeping bags (one inside the other russian doll style, or zipped together for any russian pit model emergency...) Check.
Bourbon: Check

As I was prepping the bike in the driveway as the first wave of bikers I would see zipped past. Once on the road little squadrons of bikes appeared from everywhere. Some took detours on their way down, others were just hell bent to get there. The weather was ideal; clean road, clear sky, the air was crisp and just right for drkinking (i was going to change that error but it fits ) And no i didn't drink on the way there. I've learned my lesson!

Riding NZ (N Zed, as it's refered to often ) really is a drive in the country. Narrow twolanes, sheep running in horror as you and a dozen other motorheads zip by. They never seem to learn we are both safe from one another as long as we stay on our own sides of the fence. Not much in the way of traffic or city centers either. Southern living is minimalist. If you don't need it it aint there. Roadways and townships are the same. Gas, Hardware, Pub/Hotel. And if you're at a junction where there's no need for anything but a meet'n point then it's just the Pub n'Hotel. And everyone one of these is filled with bikes this day.

Bikes of all kinds too. Like I said the 'Southern Man' only has what he needs. A bike with out a name or a badge. Replace the tank badge with the one off your refrigerator. Slap a sticker on the oilpan - "I'd rather have VD on my crank than HD on my tank.". Of course men from other parts bring their Harely Davidsons, Ducatis and their Moto Guzzis, Triumphs, and BMWs. But all are welcome, everyone's here because they ride and care about ridding. Good stuff. Of course your ridding gear is just as varried. Leather, as always, is the most prevelant but if you don't have ridding leathers, your waxed Swandri and Dri-z-bone foulies from the farm will do just fine, actually probably a hell of a lot better.




A sheep farmers property three hours from Queenstown. Otehura, the Ida Valley , a desolate valley plane with subttle rolling hills and frequent rock outcrops along the rigelines places BMR. You might reckon some serpant got frozen beneath the surface of the ground and grass grew arround the humps that broke through. The site is rustically accomidated with Cargo traillers opened along the side to create stages. And did you know that with some corrigated tin walls and a few tillted rain gutters you could create a men's urinal. Nice one mate! And what to do with all the timber you've felled all year, plus the trees you've uprooted in whole. Just pile it up and create a bonfire twice as long and nearly as tall as an eighteen wheeler. Add 2000 or so rowdy Kiwis two up with their favorite child or wife and you're about set. Hold a quick Bike show with your classics, post classics, furthest traveld etc, finish your lamb shank and chips, wash it down with a can of piss and bring on the band. Oh and in case you didn't see the cargo container with hey bails on one side a dirt ramp on the other side, then you probably heard the half dozen or so motocross riders launching off an Evil Kinevil style ramp toward said container just about every hour.



The mini bike show was pretty impressive overall. We had an Indian, a couple very nice post classic Triumphs, a Douglas, even a moped with a smoking broom attached to the end. The rider of that little number was a twelve year old dressed as a witch. Furthest Traveled within NZ was a fabulous Moto Guzzi from somewhere on the North Island. Finally we had the most important catagory, Furthest Traveled Outside New Zealand. OK OK so I was the one and only entrant. But what the hell, The catagory was allready there, it's not like I made it up. Someone else should have gotten off their lazy ass and driven a few thousand miles. For this and all the other honors, we recevied four quarts of the finest motorcycle specific oil, a small travel size chain lube, a commerative plaque and a ball cap from last years rally to wear with pride. I also got to address the raging mob from the trailer stage. I thanked them for their hospitality and told them they had a beautifull country. The M.C. thanked me for being a kiss ass American. At least we were both being honest.

We soldiered on into the night as the band rocked and the bonfire kept us alive. At one point I saw a guy pushing an old motorcycle with egg shaped wheels and leaking a disturbing amount of gasoline. He was kicking the starter trying to get it to roar to life with allarming intensity. His buddies then gathered around to try to push start it. One them had a lighter. Two options. The lake or the bonfire. Either way pushing it in just wouldn't do it so they wheeled the thing away, I may have to return next year just to find out which way they go.

posted by Dusty Calfee @ 10:49 PM