Friday was fairly normal, right up until I accidentally stumbled on a plane to Tassie. Tassie is considerably more awesome than one would expect, we were staying in the Aurora Arena in Launceston, which gave us access to a large, relatively English-esque place to terrorise.
By the time I'd arrived, dad had befriended Kerry, a gregarious South African, whom insisted on calling him 'Bubba'. They had a couple of organised rides, one of which was the thunder run - basically involving 2000 or so Harleys, and Launceston grinding to a shuddering halt for two hours. The real excitment for me was riding the harley home, as the old man flew back. Nothing like sitting on 200 odd kg of uncoordinated cruiser to sharpen the senses, especially when it isn't yours, and, ooo, what shiny looking chrome bits! Fun bike though, riding a Harley is neither sensible, practical, or indeed logical, however they do offend a lot of people, and definitely make the right mix of potatoe-potatoe-brapppt! noises. Especially when you stick a bunch of them on the spirit of Tasmania, and listen to the gentle sound of paint, being vibrated off the ceiling.