Thursday 4 August 2011



You ColumnShift guys love fast stuff, right? You’re devotees of massive excess? It’s better to be shot from a cannon than squeezed from a tube, right bubba?
Not in this case, my easily excited friends. The train might be fast and techy and green, but those criteria aren’t enough, not nearly. For years now, the only safe way to travel the dangerous, uncivilised territory between the State of Origin capitals was by plane. But the air-conditioned, plush seated cabin of an A380 is not an experience that the ColumnShift Connoisseur yearns for. Although I’m a member of a QANTAS Club – I don’t want everyone who ever ended up in a knife fight over a packet of chips on a Jetstar flight to write in.
Sure, plane tickets are cheaper than bottles of milk these days (plane maintenance seems to be conducted at the same price too. So sue them – ever missed a service in your car? Quit carping.) By contrast, fuel now seems to be sold by the same people who set the price of Crystal Meth. But what are you going to do with all the money you saved by getting a 99c flight? Get an education? Buy shoes for your children? A nice watch? None of that will improve your reaction time when you crest a rise at the cold-sweat side of the speedo and find the Newell filled with stalled roadtrains and oncoming traffic and I know which you’d rather have at the time.
Oh, but the time, they yell! Three hours on the train! You can’t drive it in that, can you Mr Highway Motorsport? Well, no. By the shortest route it’s 900k’s, and even though a Hayabusa will do 300 an hour, you’ll be hard pressed to find a servo attendant to fill it at that speed.
The Greyhound bus takes 16 hours to cover the distance, but that’s hardly a worthy comparison, although it’s likely the driver is an ex-criminal with little to lose. says it can be done in 11 hours, which is a perfectly reasonable lap time for a learner driver or a Mini full of elderly nuns.
We know with absolute certainty that if you’re currently at, say, the Breakfast Creek Hotel, you could be enjoying nice weather and bad attitudes in Sydney inside 9 hours flat. Probably less if the Z900 had a bigger fuel tank or the NSW Highway Patrol are on strike. This virtually never happens, so you take your chances.
There are two key ways to travel between these hamlets. Some suggest that these two ways are caffeine or speed, Ford or Holden, naked or clothed. Whilst these are all considerations, you need to look at the way to go.
Neither is appealing. The Newell Highway is 100k’s longer between Brisbane and Sydney, but passes through few towns. It bears down through the wasteland of central NSW like a polluted river of bitumen, carrying suicidal roadtrain drivers, inbred psychopaths in Hiluxes and enraged cops driving blown, methanol powered SS Commodores. The scenery is nice, until it drags you off the road in to a gum tree and eats you alive. I don’t recommend it.
The Pacific is worse.  It creeps down the coastline, navigation without imagination. Keep New Zealand to our left and we’ll be sipping Glebe lattes in no time. It’s speed-limit lotto there, 40, 60, 40, 100, 90, 40, 80, 90. You eventually just wind it up to 150 and plan on blaming the speedo that’s in miles-per-hour. Which is hard in a modern Lexus. Your fellow Pacific Highway users will fascinate and terrify you in equal parts. The enduring memory will be staring through a fogged windscreen in to pouring rain, in the right hand lane of the first overtaking zone in five hours, with the caravan you’ve been trapped behind at 67kph since the border now accelerating towards the horizon like a Top Fueller. You’re beside it, vainly trying to get past, watching it sway back and forward like the hand of God while your brain does sudden-death-trigonomics regarding the person in exactly the same predicament heading north and closing on you at the speed of sound.
Having chosen the route, the vehicle is the key to success. One brand of lunatic prefers the Japanese sportsbike. They’ll sit on 250kph as long as you like, they’re cheap compared to Mercedes Benzes and long-term heroin habits and you never wanted to stand up straight again, did you? That said, new Japanese sportsbikes are better for this than old British ones – although there is something romantic about the friendly dribble of warm oil in your boot as you thunder down the highway, the illumination on the 160mph Smiths gauge brighter than the headlight.
Everyone you ask will say you want a V8 Australian car. Something big and loud and cool with monster torque and a window you can lean an arm out of while you get the low down on the smokies on the CB. Something those small-town chicks will be dying to jump in while you’re buying fuel at 2am.
Misguided. It’s not going to be easy to lay low in a lime green HQ GTS with black stripes, a hornet scoop and numberplates saying KILLPIGS. Particularly if it’s full of underaged girls from Lismore.
It almost goes without saying, but what you actually want for a max speed run is someone else’s car. Preferably something anonymous, white and blisteringly fast, recently taken from an owner who won’t miss it any time in the next 9 hours. Once you’ve stolen your car, then we can talk about pace notes.
 *With apologies to Hunter S Thompson, my family, the NSW police and the three roadtrain drivers who haven't tried to kill me yet.

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