2025 BMW R18 ROCTANE – HOW TO AFFIRM ONE’S SOUL

I’m a relatively simple creature. It takes very simple things to make me stupidly happy. I think this is why motorcycling has me in its thrall. It delivers so much joy in such a simple way; nothing comes close in terms of satisfactory bang for buck.

 

That being the case, there are only three things one could possibly add to a motorcycle ride to take it to the next level in terms of personal satisfaction and pleasure.

 

The first is the company of good and great men.

 

The second is vast quantities of delicious meat.

 

The third is impossibly hot girls with questionable morals holding bottles of tequila to welcome you at the end of your journey.

 

But, because this is a family show, we shall dispense with the third addition, and focus entirely on the first two.

I was set for an amazing weekend. I knew it was gonna be great even before I left. How could it not be?

 

I was gonna bang a 2025 BMW R18 Roctane 320km into the west of NSW and back, so 640km all up – an easy jaunt in anyone’s money. I was going to meet up with some glorious bastards, and I was going to gorge myself on some very special meat.

This, friends and relatives, was the Magic Round at Mick’s Place – a special, invite-only affair which has something to do with football. Which, in Australia, is not what it is in the rest of the world. The world knows “football” to be what we and the Yanks call “soccer”. We know football to be Rugby League. Not so much kicking, egg-shapped ball, lots of vicious tackling, etc.

 

Like all Australians, I know the rules and the teams because it’s mainlined into you at school and via the media, but like not so many Australians, I don’t follow the game at all. It’s fair to say I could not give a shit about it. But that’s fine. At Mick’s event, it’s not compulsory to watch it, follow it, cheer for a team, or give a shit about it. What is compulsory is that you bring an appetite.

 

Because among so many of Mick Brennan’s talents, is the fact he is a prize-winning barbecue cook. And no, I do not mean a hot-plate-and-a-few-snags kind of barbecue. I’m talking about the full-on slow-cooked, hand-rubbed smoker extravaganza which demands, skill, patience, daring, and flair. Almost like going to war in many ways. The resultant cooked meat that comes out when Mick unloads the smokers and plates it up, is simply beyond spectacular.

And the good Lord knows I do love me such meat. A lot. I love it so much I have told Mick he should adopt me. I would have proposed marriage to him, but he’s already hitched and neither of us are inclined in that way. Just know the bastard can cook like Marc Marquez can ride.

 

So, since I also love riding motorcycles, something that combines these two loves, feeds my soul in all the important way.

Mick has a lovely parcel of land out on the edge of Narrabri and adjoining the vast Pilliga Scrub. And Australia being what it is, there aren’t a lot of corners between me and Mick’s meaty magic. There are, however, vast skies, small towns with wondrous pubs, and an Australia so very few city people ever experience.

My father loved that Australia. As an immigrant, it spoke to him in an entirely new and bewitching way. It was a very far cry from the cloistered and blasted warscape of Europe he had come from. He would take any and every opportunity to head west out of Sydney, and immerse himself in the utter uniqueness of The Bush, it’s people and its towns.

This all rubbed off on me, as you can imagine. And while I do, as a motorcyclist, love corners, I also love the vast skies, the seemingly endless grey roads, and the pure essence of Australia that is found west of the Great Divide. Once you’ve ridden it, long and hard and proper, you get it. And it gets you. And it never leaves you. And it always calls you back. And so you go.

 

I could not have had a better bike for the ride. Out west, bikes like the Roctane make all the sense in the world. An S 1000 RR is an astonishing bike. It can do more than 300km/h and handles with incomparable precision. But like I said, there ain’t a lot of corners out this way. Horses for courses, brothers and sisters. A shotgun is much better at clearing hallways than a sniper rifle.

This year’s Roctane has been tweaked, and what was already a brilliant touring bike, has become a touch more delightful. BMW has been steadily honing this blade. The first R18s were a little compromised in terms of suspension and ground clearance, and their seats weren’t as luscious as I might have liked. But Roland Stocker, the fellow who invented the R18, is a biker to the core of his being. And he made the changes that needed to be made.

 

The seats are now brilliant. The suspension is class-leading, and despite the bike’s glorious 1731mm wheelbase (Harleys Softail is 1630mm), you will find it handles with far more precision than its US counterparts.

This year’s R18 has also had its torque increased by five Nm to 163Nm, which is still offered to you at 3000rpm. So that massive Boxer twin just lopes along at 120-140 all day, entirely at ease with the world. It truly is a most pleasing bike to ride, especially over distance.

 

A major reason for this is the ergonomics. Your riding position is neutral. Having your feet forward as they are on most cruisers means your spine is part of the shock-absorption system. It therefore follows if that bike’s shocks are less than optimal, you’re gonna get pounded.

 

And just to dispel some common misconceptions about the R18. No, your feet do not catch fire because they are behind and under the heads. Hell, they don’t even get warm. And unless you ride in big, stupid, fat-toed steel-caps, you will have no issue changing gears. You can use the heel-toe method, or you can change normally if you just adjust the gear-lever a touch. If you come from an American cruiser, it might feel a bit different at first, but after a few hundred kays, you’ll be smiling.

And then there’s that wondrous torque-nudge you get when you blip the throttle. And engine configuration that big is gonna do what it’s gonna do, but it’s in no way off-putting. It’s simply a characteristic. At speed, the R18 is glass-smooth and effortless.

 

So, I did some…erm, speed, as it were. Once you get off the New England Highway – which is still hands-down a more engaging trip if you’re going to Queensland than the wretched Pacific Highway – you can apply yourself.

 

Turn off at Quirindi and you’ll find yourself on the Breeza Plains on the way to Gunnedah. The government calls this the Kamilaroi Highway. It’s known to me as the Breeza Speedway. You can certainly get a wriggle on if you’re minded to. It’s not cop-free, of course, but you need to be unlucky to get nailed.

This is big-sky cotton country. And while it might be dotted with the odd rocky hill, it’s largely flat and you can see for miles. The road surface is pretty good too. That said, cotton is a strange and shit crop to grow in a country without a lot of water. But we do it anyway.

 

I dialled the cruise control to 125, turned the heated grips on to the pleasant middle, and literally wafted my way to Gunnedah, accompanied by the R18s unique bass-note threnody. Passing trucks is a breeze. No gear-change needed. Just turn the black thing and past you go.

I was in Gunnedah before I knew it. Big place, with an excellent Thai restaurant called Thub Thim Thai on the main drag. I lucked onto it and was pleased I did. I also lucked onto three different blokes all of whom wanted to talk to me about the R18. They were drawn to it by its colour. It’s a deep metallic red, like you’d see if you cut an artery. Once they got closer, then the whole imposing package would be revealed. Massive statement engine. The greatest black chrome the world has ever seen, and a level of finish only BMW provides.

 

I was in no rush. So, I answered questions and offered my opinion for what little that may have been worth. I even let one bloke sit on it and start it so he could feel the engine lurch into life. We both grinned like idiots at each other.

 

I got petrol and headed for Boggabri – all sleepy-small and quintessentially Australian. I think Sydney should be renamed Boggabri. It would suit it better than its current moniker, which it got from the vile British Home Secretary and First Viscount Sydney, Thomas Townshend, the bloke who came up with the idea of sending convicts here.

In the Gamilaraay language it’s “bagaaybaraay”, which means “It’s got creeks” – clearly a reference to the Namoi River that flows through the place.

 

I also called in at Baan Baa, just a touch further down the road. This is a town named after mistletoe. I shit thee not. Place of baan, ie. Place of mistletoe. It’s tiny, but its pub is rather excellent, if you’re passing through.

The road between Baan Baa and Narrabri is…um, interesting. The interest lies in the wire divider that has been placed in the centre of the dual carriageway. This means two things. It’s impossible to pass a slower vehicle – and let’s face it, everything is slower than a bike out there. Secondly, our insane kangaroos have nowhere to go once they hit the cheese-cutter ropes in the middle of the road. So they stand there. And vehicles hit them. Try not to be one of those vehicles.

And so Narrabri. The last time I was in Narrabri was 1968 on my way to Moree to take the artesian waters with my parents. I vaguely recall it being a few wheat silos and a railway siding back then. It’s now huge. And thriving. There’s still cotton up here, but the money is in the reopened mines, and it shows.

 

I got some fuel and made my way to Mick’s, which was about seven klicks out of town.

And my weekend got exponentially better. Mick spent two days and nights cooking. Though “cooking” is such an empty and meaningless term if you were to apply it to what Mick does. He basically magics meat into incredible mouth-watering delicacies. And all the meat. Chicken, lamb, pork and beef. It all cops the Mick magic, which varies from hot and fast witchery to low and slow sorcery. His wondrous wife, Kelly, makes accompaniments to Mick’s meat, because Mick only does meat. And as a guest, you are thus torn. Do you eat the delicious potato bake, pumpkin stuffed with awesomeness, and some kind of mac-and-cheese wonder which is simply incredible? Or do you leave belly-space so you can devote yourself wholly to Mick’s meat?

I was watching him haul slabs of blood-filled protein out to prep it with various rubs, incantations, and specific manipulations which look vaguely obscene and arousing.

 

“How many people are coming?” I asked the big man.

 

“I think they’re all here,” Mick replied.

 

“There’s like 15 people here. Three of them are children. You’re cooking for forty.”

 

“I will not be shamed by not having enough food for my guests,” he said.

 

“From now on,” I said, “You shall be known as Sweet Daddy Bubba Mick.”

The two nights I spent with Sweet Daddy Bubba Mick and our mutual friends were soul-affirming. Men sitting around a fire, sated on meat, and glowing with good drink is a scene as old as mankind. Ours is a species to whom fire-lit story-telling is the very essence of who we are.

There were old outlaws telling tales. And when Big Stu and Red Bitch start yarning, the night itself pays attention. At the end of one such tale involving entirely justifiable levels of hilarious violence upon an assortment of dickheads, Stu and I both came to the conclusion that at our age, we had one big, proper fight left in us. Both of us knew our big nights were in the past. But, should a need present itself…well, Hell…neither of us were planning or indeed capable of running away.

There was a quiet, polite, and fearsomely broad-shouldered bloke called Sparrow, a former Dubbo bouncer and cotton-chipper (among other things), who told a few tales as well. Seeing as he’d clearly beaten the living shit out of every dickhead for a two hundred kilometres in any direction over the past three decades, his tales were certainly worth hearing.

And there was Justin, a Narrabri local, who had us in literal tears and cramps when he regaled us with tales of his amazing grandfather and his diabolical drinking habits, and his dog, who rode on the roof of grandad’s ute – but not always successfully.

Turn and turnabout, great and good men would look into the depths of the fire, take a breath, and begin to weave their tale. And of course, they were all true. I know this because I too tell stories. And they are all true as well. You cannot make these stories up, because they would ring false, and you’d know that. The trick to making a story, any story, a great story, is in the telling.

Kiwi author, Juliet Marillier once said: “The greatest tales, well told, awaken the fears and longings of the listeners. Each man hears a different story. Each is touched by it according to his inner self. The words go to the ear, but the true message travels straight to the spirit.”

 

Our spirits were certainly filled over that weekend.

It was one of those rare weekends when everything comes together. I had had a superb ride to Narromine on what is one of the best cruisers on the planet. It was and is ideally suited for just the type of ride I was doing. All the blokes at Mick’s looked at it in various astonished ways, which is what one would expect from men who had ridden mainly Harleys and dirt bikes their whole lives. Remember where they live and what they did. There ain’t much call for any other bike out in The Bush.

I left Sunday morning, literally beaming with satisfaction. The sun was shining. In the distance I could see the ragged ridgeline of Mount Kaputar, an extinct volcano, and home to the giant hot-pink slug called Triboniophorus sp. nov. Kaputar. This air-breathing slug lives nowhere else on this planet except in the 100-square-kilometre area of Mount Kaputar.

And I know it’s there because Mick’s wife, Kelly, made a special trip to the mountain to see this slug, which only appears when it rains up there. She saw it, and thus do I know it exists.

 

Mick told me this tale when I asked him what that strange-looking ridge-line we could all see from his yard was.

 

“Mount Kaputar,” he’d said. “Home of the giant pink slug. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t believe it either. But Kelly went and saw it.”

 

And maybe you should also get on a bike like the R18 and go and see what’s out in The Bush. That way, you too can tell stories around a fire, and sit in the company of great and good men. It’s what we were made to do, after all.