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Today, my rotten ankle, ensured I was laid up, leg raised, reading or watching TV. It’s days like today that would see me cutting my left foot off if I had access to a very sharp machete. There were a few moments of bliss, like when one of our resident deer popped in for a visit. But these were few and far between.
I did sit and cogitate on my life and this blog. Given nothing really happened outside of painful shuffling around the house when I really had to, I figured I would write about my days as a bikie. My previous Early Years post was a fun reflection so, why not give it another shot, I thought.
As I said in that post, Tony, who I shared a barn with, had built me a 50cc Yamaha which I used to tear through the bush around our place. At the same time, and, in fact, for a number of years beforehand, Tony was busy building a Norton.
The Norton Motorcycle Company bikes were a bit of a legend, and Tony wanted one. He couldn’t afford to buy one outright so he scoured everywhere he could think of to find bits and pieces to make his own. He started long before I knew him. I didn’t even know what a Norton was.
Anyway, came the day that he announced his Frankenstein bike was ready for a test ride.
Behind the small farm where the barn was, a motorway was taking shape. It was almost complete and, while it wasn’t really ready for masses of cars and trucks, it did provide a good, clear, and smooth test track. Tony was so proud of his creation that he invited a whole bunch of fellow motorbike enthusiasts to watch and ride along.
So, without much ado, we all climbed aboard bikes and pillions and headed out onto the unfinished motorway. It must have been an extraordinary sight. I don’t really remember that kind of specific but I do remember all of us lined up about five miles from the barn, watching Tony make a few final adjustments.
Finally, all was ready. He climbed aboard and gave the bike a massive kick to start it and it blurted into action. In a great moment of expectation and cheering, he took off in a cloud of smoke and noise. Our cheering stopped at about the same time as the bike did. It didn’t get very far. The engine sputtered and choked and, finally, died.
The rest of us mounted our bikes and headed towards Tony, who was now standing by his bike, looking somewhat forlorn.
He said he thought he knew what the problem was but needed to get back to the barn to fix it.
There was a bit of discussion about how this could be achieved. Eventually, someone produced some nylon rope and it was decided that I would sit pillion, facing behind, holding the rope, the other end of which was tied to Tony’s bike. The rider on the towing bike swore he’d go slowly.
Now that would have made an excellent photograph. Pity no-one had a camera. That I know of, anyway.
So, we reached the turn-off and headed for the small dirt road that led to the barn. As the rider I was sitting behind reached the corner, he accelerated a bit and took the corner like an expert. Unfortunately, he hadn’t compensated for the bike being towed behind him. The last thing I saw of Tony was his flailing body as the bike went into a ditch. I let go of the rope and everyone stopped.
I distinctly remember the quiet as we all looked back to see if Tony was okay. Obviously, he wasn’t wearing a helmet or much in the way of protective clothing. This was, essentially, the wild west of Sydney and we didn’t have a lot truck with safety measures.
After a minute or so, having heard nothing from Tony, we started to approach the ditch where we’d last seen him. It’s important to remember that this was around 1974/75 and the only mobile phones were in Dick Tracy comics. In fact, we didn’t even have a phone in the barn.
As we reached the ditch, Tony suddenly leapt up, excitedly suggesting we do it again but faster. He was quite keen on the slingshot effect.
It was a funny day.
As a postscript, my bike riding days ended when I came off my new 250cc Suzuki a year or so later. It was not pretty and put me off them for life.
These days, of course, I just sit with my leg raised with deer eating the grass outside the glass room.
A good reason for the past to just be a funny story.
