The Brass Bloody Monkey

The Brass Bloody Monkey © 2007 by Mark C. Fearing

The author may be contacted at:  [e-mail]

Previously published on the Otago Motorcycle Club of New Zealand website in May 2009.

They were perched on their motorbikes, breaths steaming in the air on the frosty July night in Christchurch, New Zealand as they prepared themselves mentally for a ride that would take them two hundred and fifty miles to the south on icy roads through some of the most beautiful, if dangerous, country in the world.

The leader was a native-born kiwi (New Zealander) named Charley Lamb, a 50-something marketing lecturer at Lincoln University, an agricultural school near Christchurch.  Along for the ride was Mark, a thirty-two year-old Management lecturer, who had only recently taken his first academic job there, importing along with himself an ’81 Harley-Davidson Ironhead Sportster.  He was having the time of his life since moving there in late May 1994, blazing on the rural farm roads and hurtling down the ski slopes on his recently-purchased snowboard.

The motorcycle rally that they were preparing for was dubbed the Brass Monkey by its founders, The Otago Motorcycle Club, after the brass mounting plate which held the cannon balls on sailing ships. Known as The Monkey, when the weather dropped below freezing, the balls would roll off due to the different expansion coefficients of the two metals, the brass mounting plate and iron cannon balls. This gave rise to the expression “Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” 

On their bikes next to them were David, Charley’s older brother, Bob Horrocks, a senior pilot for Air New Zealand, who was riding a very high-mileage red BMW, and another newbie – Geoff Fitzsimmons.  They were all dressed smartly for the weather, but especially David, who had an electric vest that plugged into his cycle’s electrical system to ward off chills on the open road; his riding brothers heaped abuse on him for being “soft,” but he merely shrugged it off, citing the others’ envy at his cleverness and preparedness.

So it was that at 6:45a.m on a Friday morning these men took to the road, unsure of what the weekend had in store for them and even whether all would arrive safely at the Otago Motorcycle Club’s camping site at Oturehua on the bitter windswept plains of Central Otago in the south of the South Island.

First stop on the tour was Ashburton, (AKA, “Ash Vegas), a small village 50 miles to the south of Christchurch for fuelling up and brekkie of coffee, orange juice, and baked goods to fuel up the team for the ride ahead.

Charley poured out some steaming hot coffee for the guys and paused over the food, asking Mark, “What would you like to eat before we head down toward Dunedin, Mark?  It’s a pretty long ride for all of us so you may want to eat your fill here before we get going!”

“Dunno, Chas, what do they got?,” said the younger man, remembering how he had been preparing him with stories of the Brass, once posing as a motorcycle Mama in an e-mail just for grins and calling Mark a “randy leather freak.”

“They have donuts and little meat pies, mate. Grab ya some!,” said Charley, helpfully as he took some for himself.

The others filled in behind them and served themselves, as well as soon as they had taken the first pieces.  They all moved in toward a table, where they sat down and hungrily scarfed down their quarry.

Yeah, Charley could be a piece of work at times, but he had assigned himself the role of Mark’s protector at Lincoln, often defending him with the Lincoln “mafia,” or old-timers.  And now they were finally going on this rally to end all rallies to what seemed to be Antarctica, as cold as it was down there.

This weekend was full of promise all right and he was eager to see how his “Sporty” would handle under rally conditions, especially in the rugged countryside of Godzone country.

So after eating their fill the team headed down the narrow two-lane road at highway speed, occasionally slowing down now and again to let the slower bikes (usually Mark, as he had no group motorcycling experience and he was still learning how to handle his ride).

After about an hour and a half of riding they stopped for petrol at a service station next to a rapidly running river and the team stretched and drank their fill of water.  Just then, Charley announced, “We’ll be drinking Speights tonight by the bon fire most likely, lads, so psych yourselves up for that; it’ll be our reward for having made it down there.”

The men all nodded their approval and started up their machines and hit the road once more.

The road continued on and on and it became colder and colder until Mark could hardly feel his fingers in his leather gloves, but he rode on, as the other bikers showed no indication of weariness.

Finally the sun started to set as they entered a primitive camping area and he thought, “This must be it, where we bed down for the night.”

His compatriots rolled into the camping site and Charley moved alongside him and turned off the engine so they could talk and Mark did likewise.  “Well, what do ya think, Mark?  This is it, the rally site and camping area.  They usually build a huge bonfire over there.”

He pointed to one side of the place and re-started his cycle and proceeded very slowly ahead until the others noticed and joined them; it was probably the coldest he had ever been in thirty-two years of living, but Mark had never felt as alive as he did in this very moment.

David, Geoff , and Horocks moved along the “shingle” (gravel) road until it came to a dead end and then turned left and carried on a bit further, as they tried to pick out a relatively secluded place to pitch a tent.  Finding one, they both shut off their bikes a final time, while Mark did likewise.

Then started the arduous job of pitching the two-man tent in the failing light:  Charley unstrapped a large duffel bag from his bike, as Mark lent him a hand, following his lead by pulling at some tent stakes that fell out of the bag.

David, who obviously knew how the tent went together, started giving it some real shape by putting the tent poles in and pulling the suspension lines in place.  Before you knew it, the tent was up and ready for occupants.

Sleeping bags were opened and laid inside, ready for the chilly night ahead.  Immediately almost, attention was shifted to the rally’s activities, which were mainly taking place at a huge bonfire pit that they had passed by coming in.  The fire had just been lit a short time before and already it was hot enough that the leathers of some bystanders were smoking!

Mark noticed that most if not all had a can of Speight’s beer in their hands, and he asked Charley and David where they were getting them from.

“Probably from the coolers that are strategically placed AWAY from the fire,” said David thoughtfully.

“Makes sense, don’t it?,” answered Mark, who had only just noticed they were there.  “It’d be primo for toasting marshmallows and making S’mores, I bet.”

“What are they?” asked Geoff, inquisitively.

“S’mores are a uniquely yank fireside custom, probably, where you take hot toasted marshmallows and sandwich them between graham crackers and Hershey’s chocolate,” he answered.

“That sounds nice,” commented Charley.

“Oh, they are, believe me,” said Mark.

“But wouldn’t Cadbury chocolate do?” inquired David curiously.

“It would if you could get it in a flat piece to make the sandwich out of.  Does Cadbury’s make a flat piece like Hershey’s does?, asked the young American.

“I believe so, but we’ll have to research it and come back with it next year if they do,” said Charley.

About this time a “hard case” (or tough guy) came over from the other side of the fire, sizing each of them up carefully; he was immediately drawn to Mark’s bright yellow Jose Cuervo bandana kerchief he was wearing on his head and pointing to it he said, ”How much for the kerchief, mate?”

“Oh, it’s not for sale,” answered Mark, hoping not to rub the animal the wrong way.

“Come now, everybody has their price.  I have a fifth of Jack Daniels over there.  Wanna make a swap?”

“Done and done,” he responded without a moment’s hesitation and the other man walked over to the other side and returned a minute later clutching a bottle and presented it to Mark, then studied his reaction for a moment in the dancing light of the fire.

“Thanks very much, man!,” offered Mark, removing the bandana from his head and reaching out and taking the Jack from the other man.

“A good trade for us both, don’t you think?” said the stranger.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” responded Mark and extended his hand in friendship.  “I’m Mark Fearing, lately from Christchurch, but originally from the States.”

“I thought I recognized your yank accent.  Whereabouts in the colonies?” inquired the man.

“Texas, both Denton and more recently Houston.”

“Tee-xas, eh?,” said the man brightly.  “I’m Nigel, from Invercargill,” he said.

“Great, nice to meet you.  You’ll have to meet my mate and fellow rally companion, Charley cuz he was born and raised in Invercargill.  We both lecture at Lincoln Uni. in Canterbury,” said Mark.

“What do you lecture in, mate?” said Nigel.

“Commerce, Management-Organizational Behaviour, but I also can teach Entrepreurship and Human Resource Management,” he replied.

“Smart man, eh?  But you still like motorbikes and rallies, huh?  That’s great to see in a man.”

”Thanks, always had an adventurous side to me, that’s all,” commented Mark.

“Good on ya!,” the kiwi said, adding,  “nice chatting with you and I’ll catch you later, I’m sure.”

“Nice meeting you and chatting, Nigel,” said Mark.

Nigel strolled back to the other side of the fire, leaving him with the other men from Christchurch, who immediately noticed the bottle he was holding and Charley immediately said, “Who gave you the bottle of whiskey, mate?”

“A bloke named Nigel from Invercargill – I told him about your hailing from there, as well.”

“Small world here in New Zealand, innit?  That would probably NEVER happen in the States, eh,,?” said Charley, with a pronounced grin.

“It would be a rarity to meet someone from Denton at Sturgis, that’s for sure, not that it’d be unheard of. Denton has its share of old bikers, I’m sure (and young ones like me).”

“We should be getting some guidance here pretty soon from the rally chiefs.  They will give us our rally pins and the awards presentation happens when all the participants have checked in,” Charley offered.

“What awards are those, Chas?,” asked Mark.

“Awards for the best-looking motorbike, farthest traveled (which you may be in the running for), best conversion, and on and on.  It’s got all the drama of The Academy Awards!,” he replied.

“Sounds great, mate!”

“I’m gonna grab a beer.  Want one?,” asked Charley after a moment.

“Sure, thanks man.”

Charley walked off in the direction of the coolers and returned a few minutes later with three cans of ice cold Speights that didn’t need to be kept in the coolers for temperature control, at least, and handed Mark one of them.

“Ta,” said Mark.

“No worries, mate,” said the kiwi, pulling the opener on his own and saying, ”Cheers. Now this is a fine evening where I come from.”

David, who had wandered off a bit, joined them now and raised a can in friendship to them both, touching his own can to theirs.

“Want to get a feed, guys?,” Charley interjected after a brief pause.  “They are serving it over there as they always do at the Brass.”  He pointed to a booth that resembled a soup kitchen beyond the fire in the distance.

“Yeah, I’m feeling a bit peckish myself right now,” said Geoff, taking a swig of beer.

“Me too,” chimed in David.

“Let’s head on over then,” said Mark, “before it’s all gone!”

“Little chance of that, as your entry fee pays for the food so they know the numbers to expect,” said Charley.

With that, they started walking across to the other side of the fire, drinking their beers as they walked.  Walking up to the food station, the four men took plates and were given a piece of lamb each, two potatoes, lady fingers (okra), and a piece of bread.

They made small talk with the volunteers that were staffing the food service as they made their way through the queue and then sat on some hay bales nearby to eat, drinking their beers to wash it all down.

They chitchatted about life in their respective countries and Mark commented on how disillusioned he’d become with living in a country where people are more concerned with material wealth than spiritual wealth and what a person really is like and values.

After a while with a full belly they decided to head back to the tent for the night, hoping for a reasonably warm night inside it.  Charley got inside first, then David and finally Mark.

They hadn’t been in it very long and were settling down when Charley blurted out, “So you’ve filled the tent with gas I see”…At this Mark couldn’t contain a full-blooded belly laugh that went on a full minute and a half.

After he had quelled his hysterics, Charley let Mark in on a Brass Monkey tradition:  Sleeping with a meat pie in one’s sleeping bag to keep it from freezing so it can be easily eaten the following morning. 

“I can see it’s a custom borne of necessity,” observed Mark.

“Aye, ‘tis really down in the deep, deep South of the South Island in wintertime,” said Charley with a wry grin that Mark could only just make out in the near-darkness inside the tent.

They then settled in for a long sleep that lasted for all but David until the morning’s light, as he woke quite early and started everyone’s bike to keep their batteries fully-charged and engines warm in the sub-zero weather, a service that would be paid for by the others in pints at the local pub when they arrived safely the next day back in Christchurch; such is the kinship among bikers, especially if they are kiwis as well.

Early the next morning it was Charley who rose first, soon followed by Mark, who required nobody to wake him, as he was excited to be on his first rally, especially on his Harley.

All the others soon woke up as well and were having their brekkie, eating their near-frozen pies in the stuffiness of the tent, which had a thick layer of condensation hanging from the ceiling inside.  Mark soon joined in and was pleased to note that his wasn’t as cold as the others complained of, but slightly smushed from his nocturnal tossing and turning.

They opened the front flap of the tent and filed outside into the fresh coldness of the Otago wilderness, each immediately wanting to get back on his bike and ride, not away but just to enjoy the crisp morning air and sunshine.

But Mark’s motorcycle didn’t fire up as the others’ did.  Its starter needed more cranking power so the others had to push-start it to get it going, something that annoyed its owner to no end.  Eventually, however, it fired up and the engine roared to life, blazing along the gravel road inside the camping area.

After a short ride of maybe fifteen minutes, it was time for a break and the first beer of the day for the contingent, who were all pepped up and ready for the eventual ride back home again.

They turned off the bikes again, confident that they would now start again, their being quite warm and ready for action.  They walked around to keep warm and a short fifteen minutes later Charley rallied the troops by saying, ”We’d better get on the road home, as we have a long ride before we rest again, boys.”

And with that said, he pointed his bike back on the road again and the others followed in staggered formation, for safety.

After a morning and afternoon of riding, they were back at the city limits of Christchurch, their starting point, and they immediately made their way to the Dux de Lux brewpub, where the crew bought a pint for David and for Charley in appreciation of both of their efforts on the rally.

They each had a pint and then headed to their respective homes for a much-needed shower, meal, and soft bed.  Many great memories were created that weekend, but most of all a common bond of brotherhood  that a biker can truly appreciate.

The Brass Bloody Monkey © 2007 by Mark C. Fearing