By Joe Gresh
“I need more time, leave me alone, please!” Mascara runs down her cheek, shoaling in an alluvial, Revlon-delta at the base of her nose. This isn’t any way to start our New Zealand motorcycle tour. High on the twelfth floor of Auckland’s Sky City Grande hotel, my wife, Colleen, is sitting on the bed crying. Eleven suitcases must be condensed to fit inside the cramped storage space of our metallic-burgundy Victory Vision.
This is all my fault, dammit. I want my wife to enjoy motorcycle riding as much as I do, so I’ve planned a counter-intuitive, high-mileage tour hoping that familiarity will breed contentment. Clothing and shoes are scattered on the floor. On the bed, cosmetics and medicine. Checkout time has long since passed. My wife does not appear content. I try psychology, hoping to stun her into submission using a burst of manly authority, “Look, we’re only going to be riding for a month, grab two pairs of jeans, two tops, a toothbrush and let’s go!”
At least that stopped those crying eyes: they’ve been replaced by the sparkling grey-green eyes of a lioness. Her lips tighten. Glittering white incisors unsheathe, so sharp, the barest hint of movement now. I find it hard to look away. Her lower jaw quivers, champing slightly, obeying carnivorous inputs thousands of years old. Maybe this is a good time to take some gear down to our Victory Vision.
CT did an admirable job holding it together for seven weeks on a motorcycle. She had just one saddlebag for all her gear. Needless to say she gets whatever she wants now.
The parking garage is across Federal Street and two levels down. I stuff the Vision’s top-box with a 12-volt air compressor, voltmeter, tire plug kit, flashlight, wax and a can of WD40. Five cameras, two laptop …read more
Source:: Touring New Zealand Two-Up