(# 2) Onya Bike! (Part 2)

The Track

Lateral Hazard

Owzat? Ya mug!!!

(From Tiger Territory, Pre Teen Years Part 1)

This is only a continuation of Tiger Territory, the Pre Teen Years, which happens to be way down the bottom, quite near Jilly, whose bottom I became completely infatuated with all those misspent decades ago.

This, along with all other essays, recalls with dubious accuracy the times and events of the 1940’s, 50’s and 60,s. A great time to live? Probably not, but back then it was the now and many of us took full advantage of it and enjoyed every second.

At the northern end of Nelson St. and across the road there was a circular beaten dirt track where horse owners would exercise their nags. The local push bike riding fraternity put this track to good use. Mounds of dirt and rubbish would be piled high to resemble a crude but effective obstacle course, not too unlike a modern day BMX track. Bikes could be seen flying through the air almost in orbit with the occasional bingle leaving the odd rider motionless in a pile of dirt and horse manure that was in abundance. I happened to be one of the premium riders and won more than my share of races, why oh why did some one with my ability and experience use the front brake at the top of the steepest mound? Twelve started the race and none finished. I went to an early lead and maintained it for at least three laps. Up the highest and steepest mound I sailed, but for some inexplicable reason I touched the front brake. The bike suddenly stopped dead and did a complete 180 degree flip and for several seconds I became Rocket man, hurtling through the atmosphere to land ungracefully with a dull Squelch in a steaming great pile of horse shit. Shortly afterwards I was joined by my bike, followed by 11 other competitors and their equipment and when the dust and dried out manure settled what remained resembled the New York Trade Centre after 911. Apart from the odd graze and missing pieces of flesh, there were no serious injuries, although it took me three to four weeks to bash my front forks back into almost their proper position.

When I arrived home later on, Uncle Jack asked me if I had been rolling around in horse shit. I answered, “I certainly have, you should have been there to see it?” He gave me a puzzled look but said nothing.

I am sure it was on a Saturday, Owen, Jim and I decided to go on a long bike riding trip. We rode non stop for what seemed like an eternity and eventually ended up at Riverstone. We had lunch at Jim’s Auntie’s house and then proceeded to ride the long distance home. When I look at the street directory today, I am still amazed at the distance we covered during that odyssey, my God we must have been fit. I kept this trip a secret from the family as I was convinced my Mum would have freaked out.

On some summer weekends we would head for the Flats to boot the football around, but were disappointed to find the cricket pitch in use. Some of the fairly well to do bods were members of the local cricket team and played in a well organized competition. They were all resplendent in their creams and every team member appeared to own at least three bats and had their own pads and protectors. I can’t recall where it originated, but a challenge was issued and a fair dinkum cricket match was to be held at the Flats one Saturday….The Cricket Club versus the Ferals. My memory, unfortunately is too vague to recall any details of this match, but it was a complete and well attended success.

Us ferals were given pads and protectors to wear and what a sight we were, not one of us dressed the same, whilst the opposition looked sartorially elegant in their spotless creams. All I can state truthfully is the greasy unwashed Ferals belted the crap out of the so called specialists. We defeated them by almost a complete innings. The parents sat there looking like stunned mullets, unable to comprehend what had just transpired. I seem to recall some of them were not too gracious in defeat, but a return match was never arranged as the writing was now on the wall and further humiliation was not going to be tolerated.

(Part 3... Nelson St. Blues)