Soulfuel: Because sometimes, all you need is carburettors

Motorcycles, much like life itself, can get get very complicated. Sometimes you just have to strip it back to the bare essentials.  It's easy to lose sight of what you've already got when you're constantly bombarded with the shiniest new gadgets and the "faster, better, stronger" mantra.

Don't get me wrong, I love twisting the throttle on the latest and greatest. Wheelie control? Mind-bending acceleration? Rider modes? Lean-sensitive whatever's and traction control galore?  Bring it on! But sometimes, I just want to ride.  No overthinking the suspension compliance, no second-guessing the ABS, no toggling between rider modes and definitely no calculating battery range with regenerative braking maxed out – been there, done that.

That's where my '84 BMW R65 comes in.  Two horizontally opposed cylinders, two Bing carburettors,  a drum brake on the rear, and a personality that screams, "THIS is why you love motorcycling!"

Let me paint you a picture: A Sunday morning, sun peeking through the clouds when the forecast threatened a typical Sydney summer downpour.  A quick glance at the rain radar (because even old-school riders appreciate a little tech) confirmed a 6-7 hour window of glorious dryness.  A planned pie run with mates had crumbled like a soggy crust, leaving me with a choice: a short, solo ride or make the most of a rare day to myself?  The answer was a no-brainer. Camera, water, and some beef jerky (fuel for the body) packed, and I was off on an adventure.  My only rule? Explore roads unknown and discover new photo spots.  Let the game begin!

Southward bound! That was the plan.  No way was I wrestling with the soccer-mum and dad brigade in their behemoth SUVs, ferrying the next pint-sized Messi or Ronaldo to the hallowed turf.  Nope, not today.  So, the highway it was, then a glorious veer into the Nasho at Waterfall. And wouldn't you know it? My first photo op popped up like finding the perfect, sun-ripened mango at the start of summer. Yeah, that good. 

The sun, a show-off even at that early hour, decided to pierce the morning mist, spotlighting a glorious bend in the road.  Bike parked, helmet off, viewfinder up. Click.  Yes.  This was going to be that kind of day. A quick blast through the Nasho's southern reaches, and then, The Otford Pantry for a coffee and a curry pie, the breakfast of champions.

From there, a cruise past the Bald Hill bike swarm.  Left glance: nothing but the usual suspects – sport-bikes, Harleys and the occasional modern Triumph or Royal Enfield.  No Vincents, Nortons, or even a tasty BMW R90S.  Bummer.

Onwards! Old Princes Highway, then time for a little "road less traveled" action. I was Southern Highlands bound, but no Macquarie Pass run just yet. Nope, I was skipping the crowds and heading to Appin and Broughton Pass. I hadn’t seen that scenery in ages and those "no long vehicles" signs?  Music to my motorcycle-loving ears.

Hume Highway rip to Mittagong!  Then the real fun began: backroads, a sprinkle of dirt, because why not and a few dead ends for good measure.  It wouldn't be an adventure without a few "oops" moments, right?

I recalled snapping a press bike near the Fitzroy Falls antique shop not so long ago, so I figured, worst case scenario, I could always grab the vintage vibe of this classic bike there.  Turns out, I needn't have worried.  The universe (and the road) had plenty more in store for my lens.

That day? Pure magic.  The Beemer hummed like a dream after a tune and on a fresh set of Avon Roadriders (thanks, John at Motociclo – you're a wizard!).  

Up Myra Vale Road, then a quick Burrawang pub recce for a future lads' lunch escape from lawns, gardens, and dad duty.  Back on the bike and then, BAM! A gorgeous green field, an old gate, and a gap in the trees begging for a photo. Click, click, click. This is why I do what I do.  My faithful forty-year-old BMW, camera in hand, simply living.

One last stop: The Old Cheese Shop at Robertson. Dinner at the neighbours' called for provisions. Manchego? Check. A truffle-infused soft cheese, the kind that whispers sweet nothings to your arteries? Double check. Doctor's orders?  We don't talk about those. The cheese whisperer at the Old Cheese Shop even boxed up my precious cargo with ice packs – no squished cheese allowed, his words, not mine. Then, a Macquarie Pass descent, highway sprint, and a final Royal National Park jaunt. 350kms covered, new photo spots discovered, and one very happy airhead owner. 

My BMW R65, the Alaskan White.  She's not just a motorcycle, for me she's a rolling dose of pure joy.  Oozing character and charm like a vintage movie star, she reminds me what motorcycling is really about: the wind in your helmet, the rumble in your soul, and the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of the ride.  She's not the fastest, she's not the fanciest, she’s definitely not stock, but she's mine, and that's all that matters.  Every kilometre is a memory, every bend a grin.  This old airhead? She's pure magic…and the soul has just been fuelled.