THE LIEBSTER AWARD – THANK YOU STACES PLACE.

31/05/201531/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 14 Comments

My nomination by Staces Place for the award came at just the right time.

I’d been fortunate to receive nomination for the big L. A. previously but due to unforeseen Casa Creakingbones circumstances at the time, I’d had no choice but to decline the privilege.

Now it appears that all is travelling smoothly at Casa Creakingbones and I can take up the challenge and join in the fun.

As pointed out by Staces Place, there appear to be three main requirements for recipients and they are:

1 Answer questions posed by their nominator.

2 Nominate another group of bloggers you deem to be worthy of the award.

3 Pose a number of questions for the fresh bunch of nominees to answer.

Prima facie, everything seems to be straight forward, so here we go with the questions posed for nominees by Staces Place.

1. How long have you been blogging? After a lengthy lay off, I started again earlier this year.

2. Why do you blog? I find the mental stimulation enjoyable and the exposure to other bloggers has opened up a whole new world of understanding how people in other parts of the world have the same ideals, needs, wants and worries as do I.

3. Where would you prefer to live, in the mountains or at the coast? I lived on the coast at Cronulla in New South Wales for almost 40 years and also lived and worked in many inland country towns. I never thought I could give up my love of surfing, sea kayaking, beach fishing and other water sports all of which successfully coexisted with my involvement in cycle racing (the pedalling kind) ,motorcycling and outback exploring in my Landrover.

Then the opportunity came to move, look stock and barrel onto the South West Slopes. Best move I ever made. No more surf, sea kayaking, beach fishing etc. I now couldn’t give a hoot about all that. Here, the hills are not only alive with the sound of music, but the sounds of birds, bees and all of natures fantastic and exciting things. And yes, it does snow here from time to time and yes, the temperature drops below freezing in the early morning hours. Fantastic, no humidity, no smog, no bumper to bumper traffic, hardly any crime, great shopping and less than a dozen sets of traffic lights. I could go on and on.

So, the short answer to the question, Mountains.

4. Do you follow or participate in any sport? Football of any code, absolutely not. Cycle racing, absolutely, though only as an observer. Tennis, yawn, yawn, same for lawn bowls, snooker and croquet. Now Golf, I totally support that game and actively encourage it. As a golfing widower, I have several days of peace and absolute tranquility per week. I feel that 18 holes is far from sufficient and perhaps 36 holes per day would be well supported by other widowers.

5. Do you follow any specific diet or regime? No.

6. Do you have pets? Certainly do, two cats, Ginger and Tom. Then, peacefully coexisting in our large aviary are six princess parrots, four burke parrots, and two lorikeets.

7. What pushes your buttons on and off? A great ride on the Harley pushes all the on buttons. Indecisive people immediately press my off button .

MY NOMINEES FOR THIS AWARED ARE:

https://sariscorner.wordpress.com

http://udayology.wordpress.com

http://nooryan.wordpress.com

http://creole.com

http;//charidarose.com

http://cxianliu.wordpress.com

https://christinapictures.wordpress.com

https://humaaq.wordpress.com

MY QUESTIONS FOR THESE NOMINEES ARE:

How long have you been blogging and why do you blog?

Are you an inquisitive person?

Do you collect ‘friends’ on Facebook?

What is your preference in music, e.g., country, hip hop, popular or classical etc?

What is your favourite movie and your favourite book?

What has been your favourite road trip?

I hope all my nominees can accept the award and have as much fun with its as have I.

Thanks again Staces Place.

FIVE PHOTOS – FIVE STORIES- DAY FIVE- BROKEN HILL

29/05/201530/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 21 Comments

Broken Hill is a significant mining town in the far west of New South Wales. As the sign so rightly points out, visitors to this magic town are welcome.

It’s not just the town of Broken Hill that attracts tourists. The surrounding communities do too, for example Silvereton, where the original Mad Max movie was filmed and Tibooburra, the most isolated and far western town in New South Wales, tucked away right in the corner of three states, New South Wales, South Australia and Queensland.

We don’t visit Tibooburra when we are on the bikes as the many many miles of dirt road out to the village is totally unsuitable to our road bikes. There are two great pubs there though, the Family and the Tibooburra Hotel. Well worth a visit, that’s for sure.

For many years now a group of us have made a biannual ride to Broken Hill. From my place, if I ride directly to The Hill it’s shade over 2200 kms or roughly around 1,300 miles return. Of course, once we all get going we rarely take the shortest route so sometimes we travel over twice those distances.

Not everyone in ‘Big Al’s Mob’ ride Harleys so there’s always a bit of competition in the performance stakes. Most of the bike out perform my Harley in every respect except two, presence and comfort. As you get on a bit, presence is vital for the ego and comfort is vital for the bum and the back.

‘Big Al’s Mob’ is made up of mature age riders and those of us who have never raced bikes in competition are in the minority. It seems to me that the older we riders get, the faster we were!

Big Al’s rides to the Hill are organised to give the most fun and these days the rides are by invitation only. Fortunately for me, I’m stolen the OK list.

Our visit to The Hill included a number of must dos.

Firstly the Broken Hill Musicians Club. Great beer, great food, great entertainment and only a short walk from our favourite motel in town.

Secondly, The Day Dream Mine, on the way to Silverton.

Thirdly, Silverton itself and one of the Mad Max movie locations.

Forthly, the Sculptures just out of The Hill.

Fifthly, generally having fun at the end of each day’s ride.

As this is the last of the five by fives for me, I thought enough of the words and a few more images from our trips to The Hill. The images aren’t in chronological or significance order. I just selected them at random to give you a taste of the fun we have.

THE MOB ON ONE OF THE EARLY RIDES TO 'THE HILL' — THE MOB ON ONE OF THE EARLY RIDES TO ‘THE HILL’

A MORE SELECT GROUP OF AL'S BOYS — A MORE SELECT GROUP OF AL’S BOYS

Big Al is in the photograph but values his anonymity

MORE OF THE BOYS PLUS ONE RING IN. GUESS WHICH ONE.

BROTHER BRIAN AND HIS HONDA VALKEDRIE NEAR THE DY DREAM MINE. — BROTHER BRIAN AND HIS HONDA VALKEDRIE NEAR THE DAY DREAM MINE.

THREE BROS AT THE SCULPTURES JUST ON SUN SET.

BROTHER BRIAN, YOURS TRUELY AND MR HARLEY. — BROTHER BRIAN, YOURS TRUELY( nearest the road) AND MR HARLEY.

THREE AMIGOS WITH MY HARLEY AT A MAD MAX SITE NEAR SILVERTON..

While we were having coffee at a small town en route to The Hill I noticed this bloke staring at us and using a note pad. As we went to leave, he surprised me by introducing himself and giving me the following sketch of our little band.

I framed it when I got home and it now hangs proudly here in my office. The other three amigos only got duplicate copies.

The young lady is named Laurie. She is an identity on Radio 2BH Broken Hill. We have got to know her over the years and now when she knows we are on our way, she plays’ The Boys Are Back in Town’ on her program and broadcasts a nice welcoming promo for our visit.

THREE OF US WITH THE HILL'S GENERAL TERRAIN AS A BACKGROUND. — THREE OF US WITH THE HILL’S GENERAL TERRAIN AS A BACKGROUND.

YOURS TRULY AND LOUIE POSING FOR THE CAMERA NEAR SILVERTON.. — YOURS TRULY AND LOUIE POSEING FOR THE CAMERA NEAR SILVERTON..p

ANOTHER ANONYMOUS POSE WITH A FELLOW BRO. — ANOTHER ANONYMOUS POSE WITH A FELLOW BRO AT THE SCULPTURES.

DUST STORM AT THE HILL TAKEN FROM THE MINER’S MEMORIAL

THE MINERS MEMORIAL IN BROKEN HILL DURING A DUST STORM

ARE WE THERE YET? NEAR THE DAY DREAM MINE.

FIVE BROS AND A RING IN NEAR BROKEN HILL.

One final image, just for a bit of self promotion and exhibiting my egotistical approach:

THAT'S ME, FRONT ROW ON THE RIGHT AS YOU LOOK AT IT. — THAT’S ME, FRONT ROW ON THE RIGHT AS YOU LOOK AT IT.

What a hoot this 5×5 has been. Now it’s all done and dusted I’m sorry to have to let go of the reigns and hand over.

I’ve asked Greg Long to take up the job and I hope he can spare the time. Greg is a fascinating bloke who possesses great computer skills and is an artist to boot. I’m looking forward to seeing more of his images and great writing. Fingers crossed.

Hoo roo and thanks for reading and looking for the last five days.

FIVE PHOTOS-FIVE STORIES- DAY FOUR- A VILLIAN IN THE FOG.

28/05/201528/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 2 Comments

Mr Jock McTavish was the street’s busybody. He was addicted to his membership of the local ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ branch. Nothing escaped his notice and he made copious notes and took photographs of everything that caught his attention in the area around his house. He was a constant visitor to the local police station where he provided copies of his notes and sometimes photographs of his observations.

The police at the station always accepted Jocks notes, photos and ‘verbal advice’ as local knowledge and intelligence are a vital component in the law enforcement arsenal. In fact, Jock’s info file at the station had, over the years, become so voluminous that it had its own drawer in the Crime Manager’s office. How often it was or should have been reviewed became a meal brake discussion point amongst the staff. Never the less, Jock’s input was seen as valuable general intelligence.

In the area where he lived, locals had become used to Jock peering through his curtains, walking around the streets with his camera at the ready and making little notes.

Despite the fact that some of the neighbours felt that Jocks inquisitiveness was an infringement on their privacy, he was generally well liked and thought of harmless and somewhat eccentric

However, it came to pass that his inquisitive nature almost cost him his life.

On the morning of the day that Jock almost came to meet his maker, a very heavy fog had rolled in, reducing visibility to a matter of metres.

Fortunately for Jock, his next door neighbours awoke to the sound of what they thought was a violent altercation taking place outside.

They rushed out in time to see a figure disappearing rapidly into the fog and then they saw an inert figure lying crunched up on the ground between the trees.

As they got closer, they were shocked to see it was Jock, lying bleeding on the ground and not moving.

Grabbing her mobile phone the next door neighbour dialled the emergency triple 0 and alerted the police and ambulance that help was needed.

As they were both first aiders, the neighbours gave the inert Jock the once over and rolled him into the recovery position to await the arrival of the emergency services.

It was then Jock regained consciousness and in response to a question about what had happened said,’ I woke up early for some reason, looked out the window as usual and I saw a shape moving in the fog. I grabbed the camera and snuck out of the house in my pyjamas to take a photo of what I saw. I don’t remember anything else’.

By then the police and paramedics had arrived and as the paramedics placed Jock into the ambulance he repeated to the police what he had just told his neighbours and added,’ I got some photos, take my camera and have a look, they might give you a clue about the bastard who bashed me. It was so quick, I can’t give you a description apart from the fact it was a bloke wearing a cap and dressed in black’.

The neighbours had picked up Jock’s camera and they handed it to the police.

This is what was found on the camera’s SD card.

GOODIE OR BADDIE? — GOODIE OR BADDIE STANDING AGAINST THE TREE TRUNK?

After a week in hospital, Jock was discharged with no permanent injuries.

The offender could not be identified from Jock’s photographs or his sketchy description and is still at large.

It’s said that it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Since his assault, Jock has clearly demonstrated that his obsession with ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ has diminished. He no longer prowls around with his camera and notebook and he is no longer observed peeping out through his curtains.

His personal drawer in the Crime Manager’s Office no longer requires review and is used as a training tool for budding Detectives.

Jock’s misfortune has become a win win for everyone, including the offender whom, in the fullness of time may be revealed as a near neighbour.

FIVE PHOTOS – FIVE STORIES- DAY THREE.

27/05/201527/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 7 Comments

Part of the joy of owning and riding an Harley Davidson motorcycle is the camaraderie and fun that comes with being a member of the Harley Owners Group, better known as HOG. Membership of HOG is a worldwide phenomena and initial membership comes when you buy your first Harley.

The HOG is not a gang, rather it is a family oriented group of motorcyclists who ride for the love of it, on their Harleys of course.

One of the first things a new HOG member does is buy a vest and sew their HOG membership badge on it. This isn’t wearing ‘colours’ in the same sense as do the 1%ers, you know, the outlaw motor cycle gang members.

Being a member of HOG has many benefits and I have two favourites, the ABC’s of Touring and the HOG Mileage Program.

After yesterday’s story, an ever observant reader, Julie, thereluctantbaptist.com, inquired if I was displaying a magazine on my Harley.

The answer is, yes, it’s part of joining in the ABC,s of Touring. To participate in the scheme, you stop at official sign, place a current copy HOG Tales( the Harley Davidson member magazine) in an conspicuous place on your bike, take a photo of the sign and the bike and voila, you have earned a point towards an ABC award. There is an annual points competition and if you accumulate enough points you get an award. Here is an example:

In addition, Harley issues badges to ABC entrants together with Mileage Badges, annual Membership patches and other adornments we proudly wear. Local HOG chapters also issue their identifying patches and we dutifully sew them onto our vests. As they accumulate over time you feel like a walking christmas tree when you wear your vest. Have a look at mine and you’ll see why. Actually I’ve run out of space and mine isn’t up to date. A new vest is on order.

When I commission the new vest, I’m going to frame this one and hang it in the shed next to my Harley, don’t ask me why, it just seems the right thing to do.

By the way, doing the ABC’s doesn’t have to involve company, it works well as a solo activity.

Now a post about the ABC’s of Touring wouldn’t be complete without a few examples that have earned me points so I’ve picked a few from a collection spanning 25 years. Don’t go into shock, just a few:

CROSSING A STATE BORDER EARNS EXTRA POINTS

ONLY TEN MILKES FROM HOME. — ONLY TEN MILES FROM HOME.

THAT WILL DO FOR NOW, CAN'T RISK OVERKILL. — THAT WILL DO FOR NOW, CAN’T RISK OVERKILL.

You may have noticed that there are no other Harleys in these images. That’s because mostly I prefer to do my long distance rides alone. Riding the bike clears the head of almost everything thats pesky. You only have to please yourself where you stop, where you dine and where you stay.

These days many riders choose not to camp in deserted places as they believe that to do so entails risks. Just riding the bike entails risks and I’d rather trust a hidden spot in the bush than an incident with an errant intoxicated or drugged up tin top driver. Give me the solitude and safety of the bush any time.

Well another day’s 5×5 set adrift.

See you all tomorrow. Might add in a few of my riding mates too.

FFfAW – DRAMA AT ST SWITHENS

27/05/201527/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 4 Comments

Young Freddy loved everything about St Swithens. The games, the stories Reverend Upjohn told and the mysteries that lay behind the locked doors. When he turned nine he learned first hand from Upjohn of the vileness behind the locked doors.

His parents noticed a change in Freddy. No longer an outgoing, smiling, joking boy who loved the church.

Normally polite, and responsive, he refused to answer any questions when asked if anything was wrong. For years, his bedroom, door closed, became his refuge. Sundays became a major drama complete with tantrums, wailing and cowering on the way to St Swithens. During his teens, this strange behaviour was dismissed as hormonal changes.

On his 20th birthday, a Saturday, he went alone to St Swithens after telling his parents he was camping with friends.

Freddy never came home.

On Sunday morning when St Swithens was opened Reverend Upjohn was found naked and hacked to death behind the altar. Freddy was dead, hanged behind a closed door.

(164 words)

Photo credit ©PricelessJoy
This is my 164 word submission for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. We are given a photo prompt and 100-150 words give or take 25, with which to write our story.
This challenge is open to all who would like to participate. If you are interested, click on this link: FFfAW

WRITING 101- DAY FOUR- SERIALLY LOST -PART THREE- THE END

26/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 7 Comments

Before bedding down last night I reviewed the very slight directional alterations that had taken place and decided, correctly, that any technical navigational malfunctions that could impact on travel time should always be factored in to my cross country driving. Therefore I programmed my body clock to ensure I would be on the move no later than 0500 hrs the next day, just to be on the safe side.

After a quick mug of steaming hot coffee accompanied by toast with marmalade jam( nothing like a bit of trivia early on in the piece) the Landcover was packed and ready to roll spot on 0500hrs. Oil and water checked of course, tyre pressures readjusted further down to 15psi ( pounds pressure per square inch) and I was off, just before sun rise.

I made the early start as I was determined to get to The old Ghan Railway line before sundown to prepare for the final part of my drive into Alice Springs in the Northern Territory.

A bit of the Ghan’s history though before Part Three of this odyssey really starts.

The Old Ghan railway line as it’s known was begun in Port Augusta in South Australia in 1876. It was narrow gauge, 1067mm or 3 foot 6 inches in imperial measurement. It ran through South Australia’s arid outback and ended in Alice Springs in the Territory.

The line was always suffering sand storms that covered the line or occasional floods that washed away the line. A fledged waggon was always coupled immediately before the steam engine and carried spare rails, sleepers and fettler’s tools. When the need arose, both passengers and crew worked side by side to repair the line and the trip was always an adventure for travellers.

It had the name The Ghan in recognition of the cameleers and their camels, brought to Australia from Afghanistan to enable the carriage of goods from the south of the country to the settlers living in isolation in the centre.

By 1980, a new rail line connecting Adelaide with Darwin was completed and the Ghan line was no longer required. Over successive years the track was pulled up, the rails and sleepers disposed of and a dedicated group of volunteers maintained some of the old railway stations and theirs outbuildings.

It’s possible to travel along the old railway line by four wheel drive and relive what it must have been like to do the trip by steam train.

MFTS – SPIRIT CITY

26/05/201526/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 4 Comments

The only residents in the small town of Miners Hill are ‘spirits’.

Why is this so you ask? ‘Don’t ask me mate’. If I said that I’d just be perpetuating the myths that swirl around the place like mists in the dead of winter.

The answer is simple really. Just take your pick. (1) It’s just a matter of supply and demand. (2) basic economics or (3) gross mismanagement.

I’m going to tell you it’s a mixture of (1) and (2). You see, Miners Hill was once the richest source of tungsten in the world. In fact, the mob that ran the place thought they could monopolise world supply, set any prices they liked and sit pretty forever.

Mismanagement alright. China had Tungsten too plus cheap labour and no unions.

Result, a worldwide Tungsten glut, prices plunged, Miners Hill was forced into liquidation.

Everyone left town.

The end.(150 words)

Barbara Beacham is the kind hostess of this challenge, Mondays Finish the Story. She provides us with a photo prompt and the first sentence and we have to finish the story in 150 words. This is my response to the challenge. If you would like to participate in the fun just click on this link, MFtS.

FIVE PHOTOS – FIVE STORIES- DAY 2

26/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 2 Comments

Yesterday as I began this five day exercise, I uploaded a photo of my Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic with some of the Flinders Ranges in the background.

The Flinders Ranges are a prized tourist destination in South Australia and Wilpena Pound, contained within the ranges is somewhat of a mecca for visitors.

‘The Pound’ as we call it is located about 430kms or 267 miles roughly north west of the State’s capital, Adelaide. It is accessible by sealed roads from Adelaide and is a perfect long distance destination for riders of cruiser style motor cycle like my Harley.

From where I live to the Pound, is about 1,600 kms or roughly 1,000 miles each way. That’s taking the shortest route via Broken Hill, a big mining town in the far west of New South Wales.

After leaving ‘The Hill’ you know when you are getting near ‘The Pound’ when you come to the South Ausie town of Hawker.

HAWKER - THE KEY TO THE FLINDERS RANGES — HAWKER – THE KEY TO THE FLINDERS RANGES.

As you can see from the size of the town’s population, Hawker is not exactly large in size. However it makes up for that by its friendliness, facilities, great food and that important ingredient for combustion engines, fuel.

From Hawker it’s only about 30k’s let’s say 20 miles further on to ‘The Pound’.

At ‘The Pound’, visitors have multiple accommodation choices, ranging from luxury to tent sites. Or, you can pitch your tent in relative isolation yet remain in comfortable walking distance from the facilities. On this occasion, isolation suited me down to the ground and I pitched my little tent in a great spot.

I’d only just finished pitching my tent and covering the Harley when a massive camper van parked itself in nearby clearing and discharged an army of occupants who immediately set up camp tables chairs and that evil of all evils, a boom box of some sort. Paradise gained,Paradise lost.

It was early afternoon and I was too tired to pack up and find somewhere else so I decided to stay put. It was a wise move because just after 6am the next morning they were packed up and gone. My prayers had been answered.

The purple flowers you can see in the photograph are the signature of a noxious weed we call Patterson’s Curse. It is a genuine curse for graziers although in some parts of Australia it has a more benign name,’Riverina Bluebell’. It’s a tough little bugger, hard to kill and once it takes hold, words like bugger can’t adequately describe how we feel about it. One positive though, bees adore it.

As the monster camper van and it occupants were preparing to leave, I was getting ready for my walk up into the hills surrounding ‘The Pound’. Depending upon the route you take it can be extremely difficult or relative easy. I took the middle track, I refuse point blank to call it a trail. Although I’m reasonably fit, I still found the going hard in some spots. On reflection I know the reason why.

Once on the high ground though, the effort is rewarded by the splendid views. Here are a few of them:

PART OF THE CLIFFS SURROUNDING 'THE POUND' — PART OF THE CLIFFS SURROUNDING ‘THE POUND’. THE FOLLOWING IMAGE IS A GENERAL VIEW OF THE FLINDER’S RANGES TAKEN FROM THE SAME SPOT.

LOOKING DOWN INTO' THE POUND' — LOOKING DOWN INTO’ THE POUND’

In this photo you can see the extent of the purple coloured Patterson’s curse.

This walk took me about 7 hours from start to finish and I was pleased to get back to camp. I’d really loaded myself up for the day’s photographic activity, tripod, Nikon F5 film camera, Nikon D200 digital camera and of course, a range of lenses, not to mention various speed Kodak Tmax film, filters and all the other photographic paraphernalia we think we will need but never do.

Added to that were two water bottles, food, map, compass and park guide book. No wonder the few people I encountered during the day looked at me as if I was a madman.

As I sat in the Resort’s great restaurant, showered and relaxed, I reflected on my day’s activities, I concluded that the people I saw up in the hills were absolutely right, I was not only mad but stupid. I’ve been a bush walker and photographer for years and today I had broken one of my most important rules. Always travel light in the bush. This has always been my mantra. Today I’d loaded myself up like a pack horse. Stupid old goat I thought to myself. As I never use the word never, I can’t assure myself that I’ll never make the same mistake again.

Back in my tent, the air mattress felt like a bed of nails, my sleeping bag was too tight and the torch batteries had gone missing. I thanked my lucky stars that I only had another 10 days or so of camping on this trip. Another positive was no mobile phone signal.

The Flinders Ranges have much to offer visually and for the adventurous there are many more dimension to explore. My Harley and I don’t care much for travelling on the dirt unless it is absolutely necessary so I didn’t see everything the Flinders have to offer on this ride.

Next time I’ll come in the Landrover and bring every bit of gear I can get my hands on.

Hoo roo till tomorrow.

FIVE PHOTOS-FIVE STORIES DAY 1 – MY INTRODUCTION TO THE JOYS OF MOTORCYCLING.

25/05/201525/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 18 Comments

Annepm2015 has nominated me to enter the Five Photos-Five Stories challenge and I’ve accepted her nomination.

Over time, a number of bloggers have graciously nominated me for various challenges but unfortunately I’ve been unable to take up any of the nominations for a variety of reasons.

Things are now looking up at Cassa Creakingbones and when Annepm2015 mentioned Harley Davidsons in her invitation to me, how could I resist? So here we go, five photos and five stories over five days.

MY HARLEY HERITAGE SOFTAIL CLASSIC. — MY HARLEY HERITAGE SOFTAIL CLASSIC WITH A SOUTH AUSTRALIAN FLINDERS RANGES BACKDROP.

I’ve always loved motorcycles. I can still vividly remember my first ride on a real motorcycle when I was about 14 years old. A mate of mine in the surf club had a Vincent Black Prince motor bike, one of the first mass produced motorcycles that could easily exceed 100 MPH. His name was Jim and he was probably about 10 years older than I.

Anyway, one day I rode pillion as Jim took me for a ride through a large National Park near where I lived. No traffic, no helmets, no leather jackets, no protective clothing, no Highway Patrol, just the open road, very hight speeds and excitement by the bucket full. I was absolutely amazed that anything could give such an adrenalin rush. I was hooked and I loved the raucous exhaust sound.

When I got home and told my father he nearly had a fit. As a young bloke in the 1920’s he rode a Rudge, another fast English motor cycle. His motorcycling career ended abruptly when he hit a stationary train at a country level crossing. He survived but his love of motor cycles didn’t.

My father demanded that I abstain from riding anything on two wheels that was powered by anything other than two legs. I reluctantly agreed.

However, when I was 22 years old, doesn’t seem like over 50 years ago, my then employer decided I would make a good high speed Special Traffic Patrol ( now known as the Highway Patrol) cop.

It seemed like a dream come true when I lined up with eight or nine others to commence the training program. We were issued with khaki cotton boiler suits, leather gauntlets, crash helmets that looked like Nazi storm trooper replicas and the most idiotic sunglass type eye protectors imaginable. Of course we had no visible insignia so that if we created mayhem on the public street, no one would know who we really were.

After a five minute lecture on the technical issues, gears, brakes, kick start, spark, advance and retard, choke, clutch and throttle, we started our bikes and followed the instructor straight out onto a busy Sydney road. I’m not sure who was worried the most, bus drivers, truck drivers, taxi drivers, car drivers, pedestrians, pedal cyclists and the occasional dog, not to mention me.

Our instructor was definitely oblivious to everything as he weaved in and out of the traffic with our little group following blindly behind. After what seemed to be an eternity we arrived unscathed at Centennial Park, a large public area with a number of sealed roads, some hills, a few lakes and dirt tracks.

After a short stop where we were congratulated for not being involved in any accidents our training really commenced, with the added information that if we dropped our bike for any reason, we had to pick it up ourselves, get back on and keep going.

My issue bike was a Norton, I think a Feather Bed. It was a feather bed on the bitumen but on the dirt tracks it was more like a bucking broncho. I can’t remember how often I fell off but I know that by lunch time I was totally stuffed. I wasn’t the only one to feel that way and that made me feel much better.

After three days of hurtling around Centennial Park, both on and off the bitumen, we were taken out onto the open road and followed our lead instructor and his helpers down through the Royal National Park where I’d pillioned with Jim all those years ago.

We didn’t reach warp speed on the training run but it was rapid enough to get the heart beat well raised and bring a smile from ear to ear.

Back at Centennial Park for our final debrief and endorsement as high speed riders, disaster overtook me. I overestimated my ability when negotiating the only hairpin bend in the park, dropped the bike mid corner, slid with it off the road, hit a tree and guess what, no more Norton. It was a write off.

The issue khaki boiler suit I was wearing got ripped to bits. I did’t get a scratch, not even a bruise, but was immediately scratched out of the High Speed Motor Cycle Course. Totally unsuitable for the STP.

As a consolation prize I was authorised to be what was known as a Divisional Rider, picking up and delivering the mail, running messages, getting the Sergeant’s lunches and other equally vital and important jobs. What a let down.

Fortunately for me, I was shortly afterwards,’ In the Interests of the Service’ transferred 300 miles away to an inland country town where ‘Divisional Riders’ did not exist. For the next six years I enjoyed my country General Duties.

My interest in and love of motorcycles didn’t diminish and I snuck in the occasional ride on a bike a mate generously lent me.

As the years went by, I had occasional love affairs with BMWs, Hondas, Suzukis and Triumphs

Then I came to my senses with the realisation that there was only one bike that made you look absolutely fabulous and terrific when you caught a glimpse of yourself in a shop window as you rode by. That bike was and is an Harley Davidson. It has to be black of course.

The rest is history.

Hoo roo for now.

ANCIENT HISTORY REVISITED

23/05/2015 ~ creakingbones ~ 7 Comments

Yesterday I was searching through some of my scrap books looking for a newspaper article about my old motorcycling mate who is having a few health problems at the moment. Eventually I located the article, dated March 28, 2003, copied same and posted it to him this morning.

As I dropped the envelope into to the Post Box I thought it would be a nice trip down memory lane to search further and see what else I could find.

Being a good record keeper and an egotist, I’ve got photographs together with newspaper and magazine clippings about my friends and myself going back to the 1940’s.

As I ploughed through early stuff I thought how boring it would be for others if they had to read about my successes in Surf Life Saving competitions, general swimming competitions and school military cadets, not to mention ploughing through the monotonus mochrome images made by my doting parents of me as a toddler in the usual compromising and embarrassing positions.

Fast forward through the clippings and photographs to April 21st, 1968.

After a quick look at the news clips and photos of the day I was reminded that April 21, 1968 was a Sunday and I was working in Sydney’s Domain Park where speakers got on soap boxes and exercised their democratic rights to rant and rave about their favourite subjects to the curious listening crowds.

My offsider and I knew that there could be fireworks in the Domain that day as members of the then Australian National Socialist Party (Nazi) Party were allegedly coming down to spruik their venom about Sydney’s Jewish community.

Sure enough, not too long after lunch time, seven members of the ANSP arrived wearing their brown shirt uniforms complete with swastika emblems.

To quote from Everybody’s Magazine of May 1, 1968,’ The crown jeered and threatened but did nothing. Then, onto the scene strutted Party Leader………….. guarded by four “stormtroopers” in full regalia of brown shirts, peaked caps, leather and swastikas. It was too much for the crowd ‘.

The article goes on to say how the mob surged forward and attacked the brown shirts as the police ran forward to break up the melee and separate the warring parties.

That was when the fun started for my mate and I. It took over thirty minutes to break up the brawling and half a dozen or so were arrested. Only two were injured and taken to hospital. I was one of them. Luckily my injuries were relatively minor although the sight in my right eye was damaged and that eye no longer registers 6/6 when tested.

Later on the offenders were all convicted of various offences. No one was sentenced to imprisonment and I was glad about that as I thought at the time there was severe provocation and the violent outcome was inevitable.

I recall that one of the individuals who assaulted me told me later that he thought I was a Nazi because of my short hair . He told me that when he saw me move towards the Nazis, a cloud of red descended across his eyes, he could only think of the holocaust and that was why he attacked me. I recall that at the time he was in an highly emotional state and I could understand his angst.

Apart from some short term facial scaring and the eye problem, the worst part of it all was that I had to get a new suit as dry cleaning couldn’t get rid of the stains and one of the pockets had been ripped off. On the positive side the organisation paid for the new one, so, I purchased a suit of better quality and cut. I thought I deserved it.

I had to laugh to myself this morning when I looked at one of the newspaper cuttings. My mother had written on it, ‘Our poor little Pie Crust’. What a terrible pet name to give a strapping young detective.

Anyway, here are some images taken on the day and a small news cutting.

POOR OLD CREAKING BONES — POOR OLD CREAKINGBONES

Over the next few years I had my nose broken three times, had black eyes, often suffered cuts and abrasions, damaged both knees during chases on foot, lost the top of a finger on my right hand, and to quote Maxwell Smart, ‘ and loving it’.

Friends ask me,’ Would you do it all again?’ My answer, ‘Yes’. Then they invariably ask, ‘Did you shoot anybody’. Fortunately I am able to answer ‘ No’.

It was a great life, I worked for short times with the NYPD, LAPD, RCMP, New Scotland Yard, The French Surety National and was able to visit the National Police HQ in Jerusalem, and a number of policing establishments in Turkey and Syria.

Those thirty five years have passed in a flash. Many, many memories, not all of them pleasant but the good ones far outweigh the bad.

By the way, I’ve deleted my name, to protect the innocent as they say and promise not to seek out any more stories from my scrap books and memorabilia.