Triumph Sprint RS

With the departure of the most-orange of our long-term test fleet looming, my insidious mind was plotting my AMCN end-of-year hols well in advance.

After all, I had to ensure that when school was out for the summer it was the Trumpy's key which found its way into my pocket, and these things take some planning of the highest Machiavellian order.

Let's see, Porty's left for Europe, so he's out of the picture, and Mav will be wanting to spend some quality time with Mrs Mav and Mav junior. So far, so good - that just left the Esteemed One to negotiate, ever the dark horse when it comes to pre-empting holiday activities.

Just as likely to stay put and polish AMCN's Volvo as he is to set off on an impromptu two-wheeled walkabout, I decided the best course of action was simply to get in early, and hit him mid-Monday deadline.

"You don't mind if I grab the Trumpy for its last hurrah, do you Ken?", I casually ran by the Woose while roughly a zillion deadline worries swirled throughout his addled mind.

"Err, yeah, shouldn't be a problem - got those news pages ready yet Chappo?" One signed leave form later and it was a done deal.

TICKET TO RIDE
The Sprint RS was going to be just the ticket for the trip I had in mind, a mid-summer sojourn which once again had friends and family scratching their heads and giving me peculiar looks.

Straight up the east coast to visit the folks for Christmas in Port Macquarie (NSW), and then heading back home to Melbourne - via the Outback city of Broken Hill. Well, I hadn't been to Broken Hill before!

Packing for the trip was to be a simple affair - I was travelling solo so everything I needed for the 10-day trip fitted neatly into the top-notch Triumph soft panniers. Each pannier unzips to expand to give even more space if you need it, and the whole lot clips and unclips in seconds.

They're sturdy, have zip-out 'shower caps' for when it rains and look good to boot, as well as having unique moulded plastic bodywork protectors to protect the fairing panels beneath them.

Their only downfalls are minor. Security: they unclip so easily, I felt uneasy about leaving them on the bike unattended, lest someone take off with all my clothes and Xmas pressies - but then this is a problem with almost all soft panniers.

Two pins which hold the protective panels in place had broken through their plastic surrounds, although the two remaining still looked in perfect nick, and were holding the panels on securely enough by themselves.

Finally, the nylon pad on to which the panniers clip lies over the pillion seat - pillions have reported they tend to slid around a bit under brakes or throttle. Not to worry, I preferred to put the ensuing python-like death grip of my girlfriend down to unbridled lust rather than fear of sliding off into oblivion.

FLUFFY UNDIES?
With the bike packed, Rice Bubbles duly devoured and my fluffiest sheepskin touring undies firmly in place, it was time to tackle the onerous chore of the Doom Highway north to Stanwell Tops, just south of Sydney.

A crap run at the best of times, on the Sprint RS it was, well - still crap, but at least the seat is comfy, likewise the ride position, and you're not stopping every other hour for fuel.

No siree, when it comes to range, the Sprint RS is up there with the best. I seem to have developed a masochistic pleasure over the years of hopping on a bike and just going - and going, and going... You get the idea.

I reckon if you stick to the speed limit on the highways, you'll be seeing over 350km pass under the wheels before that reserve light winks on, which is effin' fantastic for a bike with such spirited performance. I saw a peak economy figure of just over 18km/lt returned from the RS on the highly-policed Hume - impressive.

I stopped twice for petrol between Melbourne and my destination, and that was it - no other stops or deviations.

Equally impressive is that seat - it's so supportive you can do long stints like this without needing a Swedish masseuse at the end of it. So there goes that excuse...

HELLISH HANGOVERS
A couple of relaxing days by the beach were topped off nicely by a blast through Sydney's Royal National Park, and then it was off to Sydney itself to catch up with old mates, park the bike for a bit and down a lager or three.

The trip from Sydney to Port Macquarie seems to be becoming more and more Hume-esque as the years roll by, as slowly but surely more and more of the road is made into dual carriageway (much safer, but frustratingly low speed limits), and ever more towns are bypassed.

The Hangover from Hell was conspiring with 37-degree temperatures to ensure my progress was as uncomfortable as possible, the only thoughts spurring me on those of the aircon at mum and dad's place and a dip at the beach.

One family Xmas later and it was time to tackle a stretch of road I'd been salivating over the whole way up from Melbourne - the glorious Oxley Highway.

Conveniently beginning in Port Macquarie, the Oxley wends its way up, over the Great Divide, continuing its way westwards for some 650-odd kilometres.

But it was that first 100km which had my blood up - and that rear 170-section Dunlop squirming, as it tore up corner after corner through the verdant bushland.

If you've never sampled this stretch of road, start planning your holidays. Fairly quiet, this section of the Oxley is kept in good condition (at least compared to when I last rode it two years ago, when it was extensively rain-damaged), and is simply a scratchers delight. Oh, and the scenery's good too, if that's more your fancy.

THOROUGHLY ADDICTIVE
The extended fang was more than enough to put the Triumph through its sporting paces, and it really did excel. Decent suspension matched with great brakes, a stiff chassis, stable yet nimble steering geometry and a nice balance add up to one big blast on a road like the Oxley, and that stonking 955cc, fuel-injected triple pumps out the ponies in fine style.

Speaking of donks, the low and mid-range grunt of the Sprint RS is thoroughly addictive - the new Dunlop D205 Sportsmax rubber was certainly getting a rough introduction to life! Incidentally, the original set of Bridgestone BT020 hoops notched up around 12,000km - that's pretty good going considering the good level of grip they afforded.

Gingers Creek is the traditional half-way stop-off point to whet your whistle, and this particular weekday it was no different, with a good dozen or so bikes loitering out the front of the general store. But tempting as it was, I was a man on a mission - I wanted to reach Emmdale, a small outpost just short of Wilcannia, as gruesome images of crazed giant roos playing chicken were plaguing my conscience.

OUTBACK ALLURE
A torrential downpour through the County Music capital of Oz - Tamworth - saw the pannier's shower caps unzipped under the cover of some eaves, while a local of turn-of-the-century vintage looked on.

"Where ya headed?" great grandpa citizen enquired in a well-honed drawl.

"Broken Hill," I replied - waiting for the 'I used to own a Triumph when I was young' comment which seems to follow any modern Trumpy wherever it goes.

"That's a loooong way," my partner in shelter informed me - "ya know, I used to 'ave a Triumph years ago," he added to my satisfaction.

Shower caps fitted, it was off into the storm and onwards once more, to cop a cooling drenching. I didn't bother with wet weathers - didn't use 'em the entire trip as it turned out - I was going to be dry and scorchingly hot all too soon.

Slowly but surely the townships slipped by - Gunnedah, Coonabarabran, Gilgandra, Warren - the landscape grew steadily flatter, and pockets of civilisation grew very sparse indeed.

A quick right on to the Mitchell Highway, which heads out to Bourke, and then a left at Nyngan (site of those horrific floods some 10-odd years ago) on to the Barrier Highway and I could safely say I was heading back into the wonderful desolation of the Outback once more.

FROLICKING FAUNA
On the open road the Sprint RS whirrs along nicely, with its fairly tall gearing seeing just 3400rpm show on the tacho at 100kmh in sixth gear - it'll happily cruise along all day at speeds considerably higher than that, where its ergonomic ride position and wide screen see your body spared the majority of the wind's blast.

With the sun dropping low in the sky, and Emmdale still some 200km away, I decided to pull stumps at the copper-mining town of Cobar, promptly heading for the nearest motel with air conditioning and a pool to escape the soaring temperatures.

Fortunately the next morning dawned clear and cool, necessitating the breaking out of the emergency flannelette shirt. It's something I carry whenever I'm touring regardless of the time of year and place, ever since I copped sub-10-degree temperatures in the Snowys in January a few years back - and the stretch between Cobar and Wilcannia would have been considerably more uncomfortable without it.

Dodging the odd sleepy-headed roo or emu was turning me into more of a mobile nervous breakdown, but thankfully after Wilcannia the majority of the wildlife was tucked up in bed to escape the heat.

Just a quick note regarding Wilcannia - if you're on a bike, you have to stop here for fuel (unless you filled up at the roadhouse at Emmdale ) if you want to make Broken Hill. Coming from the east follow the signs to the BP - the lady there's always up for a natter and a good source of local info, and the servo itself is quite an eye opener!

THE SILVER CITY
Once you're this far, you're well and truly in the boonies. A predominantly flat, red landscape is broken only by salt bush, mulga trees and other low and hardy flora, with the road ahead rarely broken by bends.

It's incredibly tempting to wind it out in this type of environment - great visibility, few places for plod to hide, dead straight road, only passing another vehicle every 15mins to half-an-hour. But beware, highway patrol do get out from time to time, and at the speeds modern big-bore motorcycles happily cruise on they're not going to be impressed.

Of course I wasn't out to impress, and arrived at the famous Silver City with licence and wallet intact.

I really could have spent a few days checking out 'the Hill' as it's known, a city overshadowed by the massive 'Line of Lode' mine - it really is a fascinating place. But I still managed to squeeze a fair bit into the day I was there.

First stop on the agenda was the ghost town of Silverton, 25km north west of Broken Hill. Once a thriving mining town in its own right of 3000, Silverton now is largely place of ruins - mainly of beautiful old buildings deserted when the various mines in the area shut up shop.

That's not to say the ghosts have taken over; on the contrary, the township is home to several renowned artists (just like Broken Hill), and the pub still serves an ice cold beer.

The cemetery is worth a look. The fact people rarely lived beyond their early forties a testament to the harshness of the work and environment.

A MIDSUMMER'S DAYDREAM
Heading back into Broken Hill, I decided to check out the Daydream Mine - which had been recommended by a brother-in-law as being better than the big 'touristy' operations in town.

And I'm sure glad I did. The 20-odd kilometre dirt trek to the mine itself really hammers home the remoteness and beauty of the Outback - you sure as hell wouldn't want to break down out here on a stinking hot day; without water and shelter you'd be lizard feed inside a few hours.

The mine itself is run under lease by the lovely and down-to-earth duo of Beth and Kevin. Going great guns in the 1890s, enough silver was pulled from the mine to warrant the building of a smelter (before this the raw product was being shipped to smelters in Europe!), and an entire town sprung up around Daydream virtually overnight.

I may have ended up looking like a reject from a Village People audition, but the tour of the mine itself was well worth it. The tour takes over an hour, and takes you right into the bowels of the earth in a mine that's virtually just as it was over 100 years ago - all for around $12.

HAVE A HART
Back in Broken Hill it was time to say g'day to the good folks at the bike shop on the town's main drag - Magic Motorcycles. Proprietors Carolyn and Paul Edwards have got the business chockas with Honda, Suzuki and Kawasaki dirtbikes (not surprising given the surrounding terrain), although they had surprisingly sold a VTR1000SP-1 the week previous.

Fortuitously it was there I hooked up with Bob Sandow, ex-dealer principal of a Mount Gambier (SA) bike shop but born and bred in the Hill.

Bob kindly pointed me towards two local points of interest - the Pro Hart gallery, and the Broken Hill Sculptures.

Pro's gallery holds three floors of largely paintings (with the odd sculpture thrown in), although secretly it was the painting legend's shed full of motorcycles I really wanted a butcher's hook at.

Unfortunately the brush wielder was out when I stopped by, perhaps he was cruising the Hill in one of his Rollers (I counted five Rolls Royce's in the gallery's grounds, including one hand-painted by Pro himself!).

That afternoon it was off to the Sculptures - a collection of amazing edifices carved by indigenous artists from around the world on a hill about 6km out of town. They're well worth a look - grab a key from the tourist information centre so you can open the gate and ride to the top (it's a bloody steep walk!), and make sure you catch them at sunset.

HOMEWARD BOUND
Broken Hill had been a great place to visit, but I couldn't help but wonder how it will have changed by the next time I find myself there.

The lifeblood of the township - the mines - have significantly scaled down their operations over the years, so that now only around 450 people there are actively employed as full-time miners. I heard that all the mines there will shut up shop in the next five or six years, leaving the Hill to fend for itself on its next biggest industry - tourism. Given the innate natural beauty, friendly locals and colourful history of the place, I think it'll do just fine.

The next day it was the trek home to Melbourne; 850km of mind-numbingly straight roads. That stretch down the Calder Highway from Mildura to Ouyen (through the Mallee of Murray Sunset country) can be deadly, but the odd stop to stretch the legs after 10 days on the road was doing wonders for my alertness.

And so we now bid the Sprint RS adieu. Well, at least after scraping the 4500km-worth of bugs and road crap off.

SWEET RUNNER
In short, the Sprint RS is a good thing. In fact, given it's low $13,990 (plus ORC) pricetag, it's a bloody great thing. Points to whinge about are few and far between.

Its gearbox is a little on the average side - it does the job well enough but it's a little notchy.

And it's cooling fan can occasionally be annoying. In warm weather the fan comes into use a lot - no problem there but it appears to be wired into the thermostat to the battery independently of the main ignition circuit. So when you rock up to Carols by Candlelight in the middle of Silent Night, you're anti-social public enemy number one for five minutes until it cools down enough for the fan to switch off.

The fuel pump went bonkers fairly early on in the piece - it didn't interrupt the normal operation of the bike but it did whine quite vocally until it was replaced - in itself a minor procedure. We haven't had any problem with it since, or with any other aspect of the bike for that matter.

THE BIG THUMBS UP
During the machine's stay we've chalked up around 16,500km, spent nearly $1000 on over a thousand litres of fuel, been through one and a bit sets of tyres and used it for all sorts of purposes - from commuting to big tours to weekend fangs - and we've enjoyed every minute.

Living with the bike over the last 10 months has shown it be what every modern sportstourer should be: practical, easy to ride (both quickly and slowly), easy to live with, not too hard on the wallet and a source of extreme fun - with a marked absence of frustration.

So it's hats off to the Sprint RS from us. I'm sorry to see it go - it's served its term with distinction.

Story and photos: Rod Chapman

Thanks to Triumph Australia for supplying the bike, and Melbourne's Peter Stevens Motorcycles (city branch) for the short-notice pre-trip servicing.