Ron Fellowes - No Room for Watermelons: A man, his 1910 motorcycle and an epic journey across the world

Thanks to all the true believers

Now retired, Ron spent his working life as diesel mechanic. For more than 50 years, he has ridden and restored vintage, veteran and classic machines. In his younger days, he raced speedway sidecars; tried road, trials and beach racing, and later, motocross. Today he enjoys participating in vintage motorcycle events and is currently planning his next overseas adventure.

Lynne worked as a freelance journalist. In the 1980s she and Ron rode 200,000 kilometres from the top of the world to the bottom. For a number of years she was a regular magazine contributor, and an online-training-program administrator. Lynne and Ron have lived in several countries and have now made their home in Tasmania.

No Room
for
Watermelons

a man, his 1910 motorcycle and
an epic journey across the world

Ron & Lynne Fellowes

High Horse

Published by High Horse Books

& oldblokeonabike.com

Trade distribution: Dennis Jones & Associates

Unit 1/10 Melrich Road, Bayswater

Victoria 3153, Australia

www.dennisjones.com.au

Copyright text & images Ron Fellowes

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Fellowes, Ron, author. Fellowes, Lynne, author.

No room for watermelons:

a man, his 1910 motorcycle and an epic journey across the world

Ron Fellowes

ISBN: 9781925280203 (eBook)

Subjects:

Fellowes, RonTravel.

MotorcyclistsBiography.

Motorcycle touring.

629.2275092

www.highhorse.com.au

http://oldblokeonabike.com

ePub Conversion:

To Effie

Some days go from bad to worse. They just do sometimes without warning. Except this day was different. The gun should have been a clue.

I was squatting beside the old motorcycle, deep in thought, when a flash caught my eye. Instinctively I turned, just as the ringleader stepped towards me and put the shotgun to my head.

The other two boys fell silent.

Despite a gnawing sense of unease since their arrival, I hadnt anticipated this. After all, I had been on the road for months and had always felt comfortable among strangers.

I had been warned of the risks of travelling through Diyarbakir Province, where ethnic tensions make some areas unpredictable. Id shrugged it off. People were often fearful of others, some even describing their neighbours as dangerous. Maybe, though, I should have listened to the gypsy, who had cautioned me earlier in the day.

This wasnt the first incident in recent months to rattle me. Id been robbed, ridden through war zones and narrowly avoided terrorist attacks.

I had to admit I often questioned why I was even attempting this crazy ride across the world. At times, the physical and mental challenge was almost too much to take. And, despite my apparent indifference to it, I knew the dangers.

So far, Id been fortunate, but in that lonely field in the late afternoon, my luck looked like running out.

Was this how my journey was destined to end, and would I be making headlines for all the wrong reasons?

A middle class upbringing in New Zealand after World War II taught me how to be resourceful, and that I could achieve anything I wanted if I worked hard enough. From a young age, I earned money delivering the morning Herald. Customers tipped generously for my marksmanship: I could lob a rolled and bent newspaper onto their porch from the kerb 10 metres away.

On frosty winter mornings, I stuffed a few newspapers hot off the press down my shirt to ward off the cold. And, in what I thought was a stroke of genius, I filled the handlebars of my bicycle with boiling water and plugged each end with a cork. My hands stayed warm for at least 10 minutes, and two or three nine-penny meat pies staved off hunger until I made it home for breakfast. I worked at after-school jobs and on weekends I picked strawberries. During the holidays I apprenticed for an electrician. Despite my good work ethic, I was caned regularly at school and my most favourable school report read, Ronald is a born leader. Its just a shame he leads others in the wrong direction.

At the age of 12, I rode on the back of a family friends motorcycle, an experience that left me with a burn on my leg from a hot exhaust pipe and a fire in my belly to ride a machine of my own.

Within a year, Id saved enough to buy my first motorcycle: a war-issue Harley Davidson, which I secretly stored at a neighbours house. I spent every spare moment taking the engine apart and rebuilding it until I understood what made it tick. But it never saw the light of day; I couldnt afford a battery and wasnt even strong enough to kick it over. I gave the motorcycle back to its previous owner, and moved on to something more my size.

Too young to hold a licence, I made a go-kart from scrap and practiced honing my skills on a vacant piece of land. A scoria quarry nearby provided an excellent racetrack for my unbridled enthusiasm.

I persuaded a mate, whose parents were more well-heeled than mine, to let me test ride his Dot, then, later, his cool Norton Dominator. I was hooked on the exhilaration of riding, and dreamt of little else. But my father forbade me to own a motorcycle.

Theyre dangerous, youll bloody kill yourself, he barked, rolling another cigarette. When Dad finally relented, he made one stipulation: my first bike could only have a maximum capacity of 175cc. A turquoise and cream N-Zeta scooter wasnt fast, nor did it match the image I had of myself as a boy racer, but it did have two wheels, and that was a start. Tearing up and down the streets with a gang of friends whose motorcycles dripped oil and reverberated through the neighbourhood pretty soon earned me a reputation as a hooligan.

Despite being sorely tested, my parents finally capitulated and agreed I could have a real motorcycle. Over the next couple of years, I acquired a side-valve Indian, a 56 Matchless, a DKW, a Velocette, a 34 and a 35 single Royal Enfield, and the bones of a highly prized Grey Flash Vincent.

The Vincents tank and forks needed painting and I was confident I could achieve a baked enamel finish by doing the job myself. I rose early one morning, carefully heated an aerosol can of paint on the kitchen stove, and, when the paint was warm enough I gave the can a vigorous shake. BOOOOOM!

The arse blew clean out of the can, spraying grey paint all over my mothers newly decorated kitchen. The blast woke the family in fact most of our neighbours. My ears rang like a smithys anvil. Mum took one look at the chaos, burst into tears and ran back to the bedroom, leaving Dad and me to clean up the mess.