by Barry Heard
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.
I went back to the shed and got my mean machine — the Super Bantam. After a single, mighty pump kick, the Bantam roared into action. I did my Steve McQueen 360-degree spin, and headed down the paddock with Rover on the fuel tank as an observer. The cow stared at me in total horror and alarm while her calf took off. He had a look of fear in his eyes. I sizzled and weaved daringly between large lumps of dung. The calf’s tail was in the air as he raced off to the far corner while his mother Sarah, the milker, bellowed in fright. Naturally, the calf was no match for the Bantam. Screwing the throttle tightly, I got beside him in no time. Rover let out a short, sharp bark and leapt off. Then I decided to do a 360 in front of the calf. Well, the skid didn’t go quite to plan, and things got a bit hairy. The bike slid sideways, and I buried my head straight into the calf’s flank — a sort of full-on head butt. The calf went down, and lay on the ground bellowing. I ended up beside it making loud groaning noises. The milker, her tongue out and frothing at the mouth, roared in my ear. The bike did several spins on its side while blowing blue smoke into the air and tearing the paint off the fuel tank. Bloody Rover, who always seemed to go unscathed through many a hair-raising prank with me, sounded off with the bark he had that I was sure was a laugh.
The calf was the first one up, and made a frenzied dash up the paddoc
k. I got up gingerly, undamaged, but the bike was badly wounded: it had a broken throttle, a bent mirror, a twisted foot-brake, and dirt jammed in the engine. It was dark by the time I got everything finished, and the calf was still panting with fear. Thankfully, the boss came home late and had no idea of what a crazy day I’d had. I tried as hard as I could not to limp inside the house at teatime. They couldn’t see the huge bruise on my left thigh, and I hoped they wouldn’t comment on my shortened neck. However, the next morning the boss was suspicious, as the cow gave no milk.
Over the next year I became a skilled rider, but that’s only my opinion. Winter was approaching, and the fun of riding a motorbike was fast fading. Heavy frosts, frozen puddles, and slicing, cold winds were the norm. Even the short ride from home to work made my hands ache, my ears ring, and my nose burn. Wearing gloves made little difference; mind you, they were only knitted ones, and didn’t stop the biting wind. To combat the cold, I worked on two alternative approaches:
1. I could ride slowly, but I would end up frozen to the bone. If I putted along at a sedate pace it meant that, once I arrived at work, it would take half an hour of hard physical work to thaw out.
Or
2. I could go as close to flat out as possible, only slowing down for known ice spots or large puddles. This was more to my liking, but I had to put Rover in a sack. It was so bloody cold that, while riding, I would have just enough movement in my hands to apply the brake. As a result, I would arrive at work in no time, but my poor hands would be blue, and aching as if they had a severe burn. I would dismount like an old man of eighty. Then, holding my hands in front of me like a zombie sleepwalking, I would head for the nearest garden tap. Awkwardly, I would turn it on with my elbows and rinse my hands under the cold water; slowly, gradually, I could stretch and squeeze them into some form of movement. The thawing-out process would take fifteen minutes.
You might ask why I didn’t go into the warm kitchen in the homestead. To be perfectly honest, I was so damn cold I couldn’t have opened the kitchen door or even talked. Further, I knew the boss’s wife would have scolded me for being such a bloody idiot.
When both modes of getting to work were analysed, method two was the winner — it was more fun. But I reckoned Rover preferred number one.
AS I’VE MENTIONED several times, growing up in a remote area carried with it certain rituals and obligations. If you were male and could walk without the aid of a white cane, you played footy. If you owned sandshoes, you played cricket. Being able to write meant a stint on one or more committees that ran sporting clubs, and similar organisations. Without such institutionalised conventions, sporting clubs, fire brigades, and the like would not have survived. Becoming involved helped maintain a close-knit community. It was important in the country where I lived, but it appeared to be missing in cities from my experience in later years.
As a result of my obligations to various committees and working bees, the Bantam started to take us — yes, Rover was normally a constant companion — on longer trips. On Friday evenings after work, I would shower and change into my shorts and Scout uniform, and ride to the Scout Hall. Rover would sleep under the bike, or come inside if it was raining. The small, timber Scout Hall was just up the road from the Ensay pub. For most of the young boys in the district, Scouts was the only activity away from school. They came from everywhere, and their dads would deliver them to the hall and then retire to the pub. I was scoutmaster of the Ensay Troop, along with Big Pete Duggan, a local wool-presser-come-handyman-and-fuel-deliveryman. You have never seen a more unlikely pair. I was skinny, young, and a couple of years older than the Scouts. Big Pete was big, had a squeaky voice, and would have preferred this time on Friday spent in the pub. But, like me, he had a duty to perform. Mind you, the cunning blighter would tell his wife that we finished Scouts at 9.30 p.m. when in fact it was 8.30 p.m. This gave Big Pete an extra hour’s drinking time, as we would adjourn with haste to the pub after honouring the Queen and lowering the flag.
On arrival at Cossie’s bar, most of the dads would be suitably primed, and they usually inquired of their sons, ‘Wotdidya learn tonight?’ The sons would reply, ‘Aw, heaps, like knots’n stuff, you know.’ Funny, every Friday night there were the same questions — and the same answers.
Years later, I was well informed that the Scouts had also learnt how to swear, roll smokes, and swap gossip about girls — and I thought they would have at least learnt some bushcraft. Maybe I failed there. They were typical country larrikins, these young boys. Their main source of entertainment during Scouts was having fun with my damn motorbike. They hid it in a variety of places — behind trees, over the bank — and I believe Rover was party to these shenanigans. Rarely did the little beggars fool me. Most nights it took me only ten minutes or so to locate the bike. Any longer, and Rover would take over and stroll to the Bantam.
However, one night I had to take my hat off to them. Normally, the hideouts for the Bantam were behind the Scout Hall or down near the creek, just over the bank. This particular night, I couldn’t find the damn thing. I’d just about given up when, for some reason, I was enticed to look upwards. Maybe it was Rover, turning in a circle, looking up and barking. Perhaps it was the creaking, groaning noise that the bike was making as it swung a good fifteen feet off the ground in the huge gum tree. We all had a laugh and lowered the rope. Two of the lads boasted that the feat had been achieved because of the new knot I’d taught them — the sheepshank. The little blighters.
The first time I rode the Bantam out to Dorrington’s farm on Sheepstation Creek was a hoot. With its broken exhaust, the bike sounded like a low-flying jet as I sped through the bush. We arrived at the Five Acres in no time. I’d decided on the Bantam instead of Sandy Mac because, that day, I was on a mission to find our bunch of missing poddies, which hadn’t been seen for several years. I think the last time I’d spotted Mary-Anne and her woolly mates was when I’d first ventured up to Mad Lucy’s rock, and Skipper the dog had chased them away. The weekend before, I’d found some sheep droppings below the cabin, down near the creek.
On arrival at the Five Acres, I put the bike on its stand in the shade. Over-heating was always a problem on the Bantam — in rough terrain, if I stayed in a low gear for too long, the engine would get so hot that it almost burnt my legs. When I planned this venture, I reckoned I could ride it for roughly 25 minutes in the bush before I’d have to let it cool down, so I wasn’t surprised that it was still quite hot from the trip out. Rover and I headed down to the cool of the willows for a drink.
The sheep dung, now a lot dryer, was still there. I showed the droppings to Rover. Now, I admit I had the highest regard for this dog; however, this was a big ask. He sniffed the droppings briefly, looked around for a bit, then had a swim in the small pool just below the Five Acre gate. I decided to cast him out there, somewhere.
‘Rover! Here, boy. Go way, away, away out.’ I waved my arm in a big circle. He jumped, spun around, looked at me quizzically, and stood still. He didn’t know where to go. Neither did I. I repeated the command. This time, he ran off. I sat in the shade and waited. Apart from trying to get Rover to find the poddies, my other plan was to ride around in the bush — that’s if he came back without them. I waited.
The bike took my interest. Looking at it, I wondered if I could put a big cog on the back wheel. She could really climb then. But maybe … yeah, not enough air around and through the motor … she’d get really hot. I got up, and went for a walk.
Still no Rover and no poddies. I waited.
In fact, even before I’d headed out on this venture, Gator Lambourne had told me that you couldn’t muster poddies. He reckoned they don’t act like normal sheep; they just run off in all directions. They were only good for eating — stupid, bloody things. Perhaps the old bloke was right. Over half an hour had passed …
Then there was a bark in the distance. Walking back up the bank, I looked … no
thing. Another low bark … and there he was, that beautiful, remarkable dog. He walked quietly towards me. I whistled, but he ignored it. As I went to whistle again, there, about 20 yards behind Rover, who was wandering slowly in my direction, were the poddies. Mary-Anne approached me warily. My God, what a sight. I didn’t recognise her. She looked like a huge ball of matted wool with two eyes half-hidden under a large flap. After a pat, she walked down to the creek and had a drink, with the other four following her. Both Rover and I stared at these sheep for ages. They were huge. Apart from the tips of their noses and the bottoms of their feet, enormous bundles of fleece smothered their bodies. If I recall, Mary-Anne had never been shorn. She must have been six years old now. I had to take them home, to Doctors Flat. What was I to do now? I hadn’t thought about that.
So, as had happened all that time ago, when I’d first brought Mary-Anne and her mates out to the Five Acres by walking in front and them following me, I walked back home, very slowly. It was like a circus: Rover at my heels, Mary-Anne and co. right behind him. We went back and got the Bantam later on.
It was a lot of trouble to shear them. Their wool was stained and dirty, and their skin was very soft and pink. Try as I did, they still ended up with quite a few cuts. I was worried they’d get sunburnt; but, no, they simply rested, and enjoyed the notoriety and affection as they lay quietly under the willows at Doctors Flat.
BY NOW, I’d been riding the bike for over two years. I’d come off more times than I could remember but, thankfully, it was always on the farm. I admit that I drove flat out on the road, but the mainly sealed surface ensured much better traction, and I never looked like having a spill … until one particular night.
