The View From Connor's Hill (27 page)

Yes, I was now proud to own a pint-sized radio that had taken three weeks' wages to buy. It was my first gift to myself. As a rule, the radio reception would be reasonable as I pedalled to work — until we hit that bloody long climb, that is. The damn radio reception would disappear when I rode into cuttings while climbing Connor's Hill. Rover, annoyed at the loss of sound, would pat my hand firmly with his paw. He enjoyed the radio. However, once out of the cutting, the radio would come back on and he would thump my tummy with his tail as a sign of approval. Then it was downhill all the way to work. However, sometimes I would stop and simply admire the spectacular view from the top of Connor's Hill — it was beautiful.

By comparison, going home on the bike after the week's work on a Friday night was a joy. At the top of Connor's Hill, both Rover and I would lower our heads over the handlebars, narrow our eyes, and then, like a rodeo rider, I would lift my legs in the air to avoid the spinning pedals — the curse of the fixed-wheel bike — and away we'd go. Once we reached full speed, the only complaint I had about this thrilling experience involved Rover's tongue. The bloody thing flapped up and down, and flicked warm drool all over my face. However, that didn't stop the laughter and shouts of, ‘Hi-ho Silver! Away!' and ‘Steady big fella, steady.' Both sayings I got from my Lone Ranger 78 r.p.m. vinyl record, which starred my hero, the Lone Ranger, and his Indian friend, Tonto. Silver was the Lone Ranger's trusty horse. I'd also seen movies of them both at the afternoon matinees in Ringwood.

Back to the downhill bike ride … Occasionally, the bike would get up so much speed it developed the wobbles, particularly if I had to swerve to avoid a pothole or something on the road. I might add that this fixed-wheel bike had no brakes, other than by putting my boot on the tyre at the front — mind you, I rarely used this sophisticated method, as I got a fright one time when smoke started to pour from under my boot. No matter, Rover and I would sool down the hill so fast that at the bottom I wouldn't have to peddle for the next half a mile. I believe we must have got up to speeds of 20 to 30 miles per hour.

This was highlighted one evening on the way home. Rover and I were in our low-profile positions, and the bike was simply humming. We shot through the first cutting and came around the slow curve when I spotted the Lands Department truck inching along. It was returning to the work depot at Swifts Creek after the crew had spent the week spraying weeds on the roadside down Ensay way. The sedate speed of the truck was a compliment to Tom, the driver. It ensured they would arrive at the depot exactly at five o'clock — knock-off time — and, boy, they were really crawling along. This would be fun. Tom, like many country drivers, didn't use the rear-view mirror very much. Traffic was a rare thing on the road in those days, and overtaking was almost unheard of. Therefore, the habit of checking out what was behind you as you were driving was never a required skill.

On this particular evening, with the bike hurtling along at just below wobble-inducing speed, I explained the plan to Rover. I didn't want balance to become a problem (I'm almost sure the dog understood), so both Rover and I lowered our heads even further. As I approached the vehicle, I tried not to giggle — this would be a real hoot. As I shot past the truck, I shouted, ‘Up the mighty Bombers!' followed by, ‘Creek bastards!'. That was only fair, as Tom and one of the other occupants in the truck were Swift Creek footballers. Then Rover … well, naturally, he barked in approval. Tom got a hell of a fright. I could just hear him shouting abuse as I sizzled past on the mighty Malvern Star, my fist punching the air.

The next day at the footy, Bill, an Ensie supporter, told me I'd ‘frightened the crap out 'uv 'em'. The story of me roaring past the Lands Department truck became a highlight of the night at the Albion Hotel in Swifts Creek. Apparently, poor Tom had hit the brakes when he'd first heard my yells. With that, the truck jerked and Cliff, in the middle, hit his chin on the dashboard and stubbed out his cigarette. Meanwhile, Les, the other worker, spat out his false teeth in fright. They reckoned I was doing 45 miles per hour … Come on … but how slow was the truck going? I loved that pushbike, and so did Rover.

There was no doubt that stepping up to faster transport after Sandy Mac was a bonus. I was home earlier and enjoyed the freedom of the bike. There were some drawbacks, of course. Punctures, loose gravel, and swooping magpies I could tolerate. But one morning I suffered the curse of the fixed-wheel bike … again.

Be warned: some Aussie men might want to skip the next page.

Like most eager but over-enthusiastic young men of my era, I'd caused myself severe physical pain at times due to having dumb accidents — to this day, my wife reckons nothing's changed. Once, for example, I tried lassoing my first steer, and got dragged 200 yards up the paddock. Then, of course, there was Swanee and his tests of my manhood. However, if you measure pain by how long your eyes water, an incident that occurred while I was riding my Malvern Star to work one morning took the record.

It was Monday. Rover and I had just started to climb Connor's Hill. It was a cold and frosty winter morning, there was a headwind, and I had on a balaclava and a thick jumper. Rising out of the saddle, my skinny legs were pushing the pedals like mad while Rover's head was swaying side to side with the bike. Suddenly, with a jerk, my pants caught in the chain sprocket. The pedal slammed the back of my leg, Rover leapt off, and my family jewels slammed down on the bar. Both my agates shot up into my stomach and dinged around like a pinball machine as I flew off the bike. Rolling around on the dirt clutching my crotch, I wondered if I'd become a eunuch.

When I went to get up, I realised the bike was still a part of me. Gingerly, I wound my pants back through the chain sprocket, then sat on the side of the road while tears softly rolled down my cheeks. This was far worse than the bow-legged pommel treatment. Then it dawned on me, I would be there for quite a while — walking was out of the question. Sitting in gloom, I decided that my days of bike riding were definitely over. Luckily, after a 20-minute wait, Mick Bryce, a local farmer, came along and gave me a lift to work. He flinched when I told him what had happened; then, gritting his teeth, he told me his story. Yes, most men have a story of crushed nuts, which they tell while gritting their teeth.

Later that week, I sold the bike to a schoolkid. ‘Good bike, mate,' I assured him, and went back to riding that bloody pensioned-off horse, Sandy Mac — boy, was he browned off when I threw the reins over his head and swung the saddle up onto his back. Rover wasn't happy, either; he had to run to work. Fortunately, the agony of riding Sandy Mac only lasted two weeks.

As luck would have it, there'd been talk around the district about a city bloke who'd had a motorbike accident. It had happened just up the road from us at Reid's Corner. The story went along the lines of: new motorbike, gravel road, inexperienced rider, mug from the big smoke.
Tut, tut
were the comments from the local old bikers, and there were plenty of them.

Our local mechanic, Victor (the owner of the sporting .303 rifle), had repaired the bike and it was now for sale. It was a Super Bantam B.S.A. — quite a classy bike, they reckoned. After a chat with Vic, I was convinced. A fair price was set, and I had just enough money in the bank to pay for it. Vic seemed thrilled to welcome another biker into the fold. I had no idea how to ride the bike but Vic, a good rider, gave me a quick lesson. He pointed out the clutch, the throttle, the brakes, and the kick-start, and everything I needed to know about fuel — it was a two-stroke, and that was the end of the technical lessons. He then did a wheelie, skidded in a circle, and spluttered some riding instructions. This took all of ten minutes. Every other word he uttered cursed the lord, or contained the sort of foul profanities usually saved for the footy … sometimes aimed at me — Vic was one of the Creek's most ardent supporters. I was pleased to get away, assuring him that I would follow all of his instructions carefully when, in fact, I didn't have a bloody clue.

At first, I rode the motorbike very slowly, finding where the brakes, gears, and other essential stuff were located. Gradually I gained a little experience and heaps of confidence. I rode it the whole of that first weekend and then put a very wary Rover on the fuel tank, and headed for work on the Monday. We made it in good time and without a hitch. What an excitement machine. It was such a thrill to ride it. I did even more shouting, laughing, and whooping while Rover barked and howled with enthusiasm. Slowly, I turned into a maniac. It was based on a simple formula, which still applies today — all you need is a ton of confidence, some skill, and no concept of the potential dangers you're subjecting yourself to. Naturally, you have to be male and in your late teens. Then, given an audience, a maniac turns into a complete, suicidal moron — yes, I was prepared to jump at any dare with gusto. Just read on …

By now, about three months after having bought the motorbike, I considered myself totally skilled in riding it. On this occasion, I'd ridden home with Rover on a Friday night from Ensay, in probably a record time, because I was on a Christmas holiday break.

The next day, a stinking summer's day, I'd just returned home from the bush block with Bob. In the distance, from the house at Doctors Flat, I could hear shouting, frivolity, and fun. It came from just up the road from home; there was a group of people enjoying the river. I knew there'd be young people my age who I'd grown up with, adults from the town, and many local farm kids who rode, or had walked, to the pool. The swimming hole was a popular spot known as ‘Wilson's Waterhole'. It was quite deep and wide, and probably the best swimming place in the Tambo River that was close to the small township of Swifts Creek. Just below Wilson's hole was a river crossing, 40 yards across and about two feet deep.

After a hard day's work, it took little for me to convince myself that a swim would be fun. I pocketed my bathers, and rode my motorbike up to the pool. There was a clump of brush near the pool we used for changing. Naturally, I couldn't just ride up, then go behind the dense melaleuca and change. To the swimmers' delight, I stopped the bike with a cool 360-degree spinning skid on the green grass near the waterhole. It drew a crowd, and in no time there was a mob admiring the bike — my Super Bantam with a 175cc engine, which I kept polished. It was only four-and-a-bit months old — good as new, apart from a few repairs. Great, this was it: being one of only two local youngsters who owned a motorbike (George Gallagher had a 250cc Honda), I was the star for the day.

One of the local girls had a girlfriend up from Melbourne. She said, ‘I saw Steve McQueen, you know, in a movie, you know, and he, you know, tore right through this river, you know. Sorta like across just here like.'

I gave that silent, John Wayne pause. ‘That'd be easy,' I said, swaggering towards the bike and brushing imaginary dust off my new leather coat. I kick-started the Bantam and went back about 100 yards from the river. Turning and lowering my head, I then started my death-defying feat. Throttling through the gears as fast as I could, I punched my fist in the air and sucked in the cheers and screams of the audience — which was a total of maybe ten people. I reckon I hit the water at 35 miles per hour.
Crunch!
The bike went about four feet into the water and stopped dead as if it had hit a brick wall. I shot over the handlebars and surfed the entire width of the river. My head jammed into the muddy bank on the other side. The gang clapped and yelled, ‘Do it again!'

No way — my neck had almost disappeared into my chest. The only sign of the motorbike was a handlebar protruding out of the water. Without a word, I walked through the Tambo River fully clothed, and retrieved the Bantam. By the time I had it on dry land, there were more than a few heckles and wisecrack comments being directed at me. It took me 20 minutes along the side of the road to get home, pushing the poor Bantam, and then hours to get it going again. My parents weren't impressed, and words like ‘idiot' and ‘complete fool' flowed freely every time they came up to the shed. The only friend I appeared to have was Rover. He sat quietly, looking wisely at the bike. Thank God I hadn't taken him with me.

However, incidents like this soon faded, and they never dented my confidence. As I mentioned, riding to work on Monday was awesome. There was no peddling involved — I'd just hang on. It was always a quick trip, and Rover loved it. The throttle would be jammed on flat out the whole way. Soon, I started to use the Bantam instead of the horse in the paddock at work. This was difficult if the grass was damp, and I came off a couple of times. The green, wet grass made braking almost impossible and, when mixed with fresh cow manure and a maniacal speed, it made staying on very difficult. True to form, I persisted.

On the farm at Ensay, like on any farm, there were routine jobs to do. For instance, just on dusk, after work, it was time to gather the eggs, feed the chooks and dogs, lock up the milking cow's calf, and throw some hay to the bulls. One evening in April, I set off to do my jobs; by now, the milker's calf was quite big and almost ready to wean. When it came to the milker and her calf, it was a simple routine. Come evening, after opening the gates, I'd cross the paddock, round up the calf and mother on foot, and return to the milking yard. Then, with the calf separated from its mother for the night, I'd return the milker to her paddock. This meant that the next morning the cow would have a full udder and would be milked, and the calf would be released. It wasn't worth catching the horse to muster the cow and calf so, most late afternoons, as I walked up the paddock, the cheeky calf would run away in defiance as soon as it spotted me. That is, save for this one night. As I strolled across the paddock to retrieve the calf, in a burst of welcome intellect I hit upon an idea.
Right
, I thought,
I'll teach ya, ya dopey beggar
.