WOMBATS.

~ creakingbones ~ 1 Comment

Wombats are unique, nocturnal and very hairy Australian marsupials. They are large animals and live in vast tunnel systems that they seem to enjoy digging.

They are lumbering rotund animals with distinctive noses and have  an overall appearance that makes you want to cuddle them. Very, very unwise though because their strong,  powerful legs and sharp paw nails can be used as an effective defensive weapon.  They can also be very much on the nose.

Being nocturnal it is during the night that they are most commonly seen, unfortunately lying  dead beside our country roads after being struck by motor vehicles.

On a brighter note, being uniquely Aussie, the name has many interpretations.

For example, if someone’s nick name is ‘ wombat’, the inference is that the person so named is ‘thick as a brick.’

If the title, ‘like wombat stew,’ is applied to food, the inference is that the food tastes absolutely awful. As an aside, no one in their right mind would ever consider eating wombat as they are protected fauna.

Which brings me to my reason for waffling on about wombats.

A few months back, while just swanning around the country side  south east of Canberra, Australia’s Capital , we found ourselves on a dirt road named Majors Creek Mountain Road.

There right at the start of the road was an interesting cafe called Wisbeys Orchards.

We enjoyed a great breakfast and there, for all to see and buy was a great collection of, wait for it, WALLOPING WOMBAT  jam.

Of course we had to purchase quite a few large and small jars to sample back at home on our toast. Yummy, yummy, yummy.

Even the large jars are small,  here is how they look:

Small jars first.

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Now the larger jar.

 

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We will be going back soon to replenish our stocks as visitors to our place always get a pleading look on their  face after having some on fresh bread with a cup of tea. We feel so sorry for them that we let them take a jar(only the small ones though)with them when they leave.

We can recommend the jam and you can contact Wisbey’s on telephone 02 48 464 024.

We have no relationship whatsoever with Wisbey’s but we enjoyed their fare so much we thought you should know about it. Particularly WALLOPING WOMBAT jam.

Hoo roo for now.

 

ABANDONED AND UNLOVED.

~ creakingbones

For the past 16 years or so, when driving between the little villages of Laggan and Taralga in the southern highlands of New South Wales, I’ve been intending to stop and photograph an old Series 2, 88 inch, Landrover utility, looking all alone and forlorn in a paddock beside the road.

For one reason or another, I never did stop, until today.

Taralga, population somewhere between 300 and 400 people has two pubs and a few great little cafes. One of those cafes was the destination for today’s breakfast.

It’s hard to beat a country cafe breakfast.  This morning we each enjoyed Earl Gray tea, presented  in a heavy Royal Doulton teapot, containing real tea leaves, not tea bags and accompanied by Doulton cups and saucers.

That was followed, for each of us by:    two beef sausages, grilled tomato, button mushrooms, a large quantity of crisp bacon, two excellently poached eggs, two slices of buttered toast and an hashbrown.

After eating everything on the plates, we waddled out to our Landrover and decided to take the long way home via Laggan and Crookwell.

Landrovers have been my passion for almost fifty years. In all that time I haven’t owned a car but have owned three Landrovers. My first was an 88 inch Landrover hardtop which I replaced in 1984 with a  County 110. We still drive it and in 2001 bought a new 110 Defender to keep it company. We were in the Defender this morning.

As we travelled towards Laggan I was surprised to see, where it had stood, for many many years, on the crest of a hill,  the little 88inch Series 2 Landy.

Seeing the old 88inch today brought back many happy memories of the hundreds of thousands of miles we travelled in our old 88.

This time I did stop. The light was right with some cloud base producing a pleasing   diffused soft light and there were no no sheep in the paddock.

Luckily I had my little Leica D-lux 6 tucked away in my pocket and it was an ideal tool for the  task ahead and I made the images I wanted without any problems at all.

 

 

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So, there we are, nice memories.

Hoo roo.

 

WATER WATER EVERYWHERE.

~ creakingbones ~ 6 Comments

Last Tuesday morning about 3.30am, my wife woke me to let me know that the tiled floor in the ensuite was wet. On inspection I found that not only were the tiles wet, but so was the carpet in the bedroom, the hallway, the sewing room and the large built in wardrobe in the main bedroom.

Water was gushing from inside of the vanity and I saw that the hot water hose leading to the was basin tap had ruptured. Luckily the stop cock was near at hand and when the water ceased to flow the true extent of the inundation was easier to identify.

Our insurance company provides  a 24 hour claim service and by 4am I was on the phone talking to a most helpful staffer in the call centre. As I listened in, I heard her contact an emergency water damage recovery service and advise them of our problem.

The staffer advised me that the recovery crew would get in touch with me no larger than 9am that morning, and that is exactly what happened.

Not long after, a crew arrived, inspected the damage, took photos, asked a squillion questions and set about their recovery task.

This included me having to move the entire contents of my wife’s sewing room, including books from the built in bookshelves, many, many  bolts of fabric, more reels of sewing thread than I thought possible for one individual to possess and enormous rolls of wadding.

The only available dry space was in the lounge/dining room so that is where it is all now located.

Fortunately, my wife had left for golf before the crew arrived and was spared from the heavy lifting.

Some hours later after high pressure vacuuming of water from the surface of the saturated  carpet had been completed,  a massive dehumidifier was installed in the saturated bedroom and five large blower fans were placed in strategic spots where the carpet had been pulled up.

When turned on, the volume of heated air lifted the carpet away from the floor to the extent that each area gave the appearance of a kids jumping castle.

The recovery crew were at pains to explain that because the carpet was wool and the underlay rubber based, over concrete, it would take some time to totally dry before replacement or renovation could be determined.

In response to my question of how long would the process take, I was informed at least five days with the machines running 24 hours a day.

Additionally, a builder would be required to remove the built in bookcases and the bathroom vanity. This could not be undertaken until the drying was completed.

The fans are working overtime, you can tell because the noise is almost unbearable.

We had been offered motel accommodation by our insurer but as the Easter weekend holiday was upon us, there was no opportunity to have our four legged pets cared for in a cattery so a move was out of the question.

I’m now sleeping on a camp stretcher in the shed, my wife is on another camp stretcher at the furthest end of the house. At least there the noise is reduced to no more than a whisper.

On the positive side, the whole house wasn’t inundated as my wife woke before major damage was done. We also had a large supply of old bath towels which we flung across the deepest water pools and I was able to reach the stopcock in a reasonable time.

Additionally, I can advise that the stainless steel mesh covered rubber tubing used to connect the mains hot water to all taps in the house have a tendency to rupture. A plumber has advised me to inspect them regularly and replace them all, including the cold water hoses every ten years or so.

Another positive was that it has provided a break from the day to day monotony and I was able to make a few quick images of the damage using the iPhone.

Here a few of them for your amusement.2The start of the inundation just outside the ensuite.

 

3A bit more, this time with addition of some soap from inside the vanity unit.

7Some of the contents from the sewing room.

8

Just another view of chaos ville.

9The main bedroom and the humidifier. The purple object is to prevent the carpet from flapping against the walls.

10The chest of drawers to the left of the image is about to be moved too. Luckily the bed can stay; for the moment.

11One of the blowers beside the floor to ceiling book case that has to be removed by builders.

13A blower in the bedroom.

16Another in the ensuite.

17Yet another in the walk in robe.

By the end of next week the builders will have been and gone, the assessors will have determined what will or will not be replaced and life in Cassa Creakingbones will return to normal, if normal is ever the norm here.

Hoo roo for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE UPS AND DOWNS IN A DAY IN THE LIFE OF CREAKINGBONES.

~ creakingbones ~ 6 Comments

For some unknown reason, when the ambient temperature exceeds 35 degrees centigrade outside the air-conditioned comfort of Cassa Creakingbones I become determined to do hard labour outside.

Outside tasks completed, it’s pleasure to venture back inside and relax with a cold beer and some cheese and biscuits.

Now you can imagine my state of shock when, on coming inside after toiling in the fields, I found the beer fridge to be completely empty.

Being a man of action when faced with such a dramatic state of affairs, I grabbed the keys to the Landrover and without a second thought drove directly to the nearest purveyor of fine beers.

Now in my haste to depart Cassa Creaking bones, I’d neglected to change from my working clobber which consists of ‘Rugger’ shorts and T-shirt.

Here in the Land Down Under, ‘Ruggers’ are synonymous with working men’s shorts and are usually worn with sandals, thongs or boots. They have an elastic waist band and a draw string to keep them up.

Here is an image of the ones I was wearing in the grog shop yesterday and yes, the toes are mine..

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I made three trips to the check out. One with a bottle of Wild Turkey, one with two dozen bottles of XXXX GOLD and one with a carton containing two dozen bottles of Crown Lager, the beers of absolute choice in Cassa Creakingbones.

Now it’s with the carton of Crown Larger that this little yarn really begins and here for interest sake is an image of the carton:IMG_0170

OK, the bill paid, I carried the Wild Turkey and the XXXX Gold out to the Landrover and whilst so doing , I felt my Ruggers begin to move in a downward direction. Not a problem, happens all the time and with the goodies now in the vehicle, I hitched up the Ruggers and went back into the store to collect the Crownies.

Now by this time, almost 4.30pm, the store was crowded.

My Ruggers were a bit saggy with the weight of the vehicle keys, a pocket knife, assorted junk and my wallet with its stack of credit cards.

Using two hands to support the carton of Crownies which I was holding against my stomach I made my way to the door when disaster struck.

My bloody Ruggers chose that time to simply prefer the floor to my waist and down there they bloody well went, straight to the floor and around my feet.

Luckily a bloke standing near me grabbed the beer and I grabbed the shorts.

Now fortunately, my navy blue Bonds undies protected my modesty and I  don’t expect a call from any porn producers as a result.

I reckon it made the day for the customers and staff. As I beat a hasty return to the Landrover I could hear the giggles and laughter through the swinging door.

I know the grog shop has closed circuit TV. I’ve checked U tube and I’m not on it, yet.

I’m going back there tomorrow to see if I can get a copy of the footage. What a hoot.

Just goes to show though how right my mother was when she told me, ‘always wear clean undies when you go out dear, you never know what might happen.’

Hoo roo for now

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW RUMOURS BEGIN.

~ creakingbones ~ 3 Comments

Last night I attended a regular get together to chat about individual projects, plans and aspirations with a select group of local photographers. It’s an ad hoc sort of thing, sometimes just a few of us turn up, sometimes almost a full house. The only ‘official’ thing that happens is that someone in the group picks a date and a meeting place and then emails everyone with the information

I was first to arrive at the designated meeting place and not long after I’d found a vacant group of seats and a table I was approached by a mature aged woman who is well known to me.

She didn’t say hello or make any form of greeting, other than to say, ‘ Wife kicked you out of the house eh?’ I grinned and just nodded.

At that moment, another of our photography group arrived in the form of a shapely, well dressed young woman who took a seat opposite me. As I introduced them to each other, I could see by the look on the face of the mature aged woman that she was convinced she had caught me in a lovers tryst.

Then, without a further word she walked away to another table where a group of mature aged women were sitting. They were directly in my line of sight and I noted that they immediately looked in my direction and two of them had a bit of a giggle.

My friend and I chatted for a while before she received a call from another of our group who apologised for being late and said he would meet us in the dining room.

Believe it or not, the mature aged group of women were already in the dining room and our table was adjacent to theirs. From my selected seat they were still directly in my line of sight and I could  also hear their whispered conversation but not clearly enough for me to understand what/whom they were talking about. I could certainly guess.

All eyes were on the two of us and as I pulled the chair out for my friend, I got a wink from one of the observers,  grins from the others  and I couldn’t miss the look of disapproval on the face of the woman who is known to me.

Shortly after, our other photographer arrived and he and the recipient of his phone calls exchanged hugs and a few kisses. Are they an item? I’ve no idea but they are certainly friendly and show it.

Now as I’ve said, the occupants of the next table were in my direct line of sight. I nearly laughed out loud when I saw the disappointed look on their faces as they saw my two friends embrace and be affectionate towards each other.

Then it struck me how rumours start and travel like wildfire, particularly in a small country town.

I assume that only the timely arrival of my male photography mate has prevented the tongues wagging with exaggerated reports of my activities last night. Perhaps I shouldn’t use the word assume as we all know it really means making an ass out of u and me.

Unfortunately, no other photographers from the group turned up and it wasn’t long before the three of us decided to call it a night and I headed off home.

When I got home I repeated the evenings events to She Who Must Be Obeyed who immediately suggested that it might make an amusing bit of blogging.

So there you are.

Hoo roo for now.

 

 

 

SOME TYPICAL AUSTRALIAN LANDSCAPES.

~ creakingbones ~ 9 Comments

Recently a friend in Canada nominated me to post seven ‘nature’ photographs over period to seven days on Facebook.

Part of the deal was that in addition to posting the images, I had to nominate seven other unsuspecting photographers to do exactly the same thing.

I agreed but immediately struck my first hurdle. As a Facebook virgin I had no idea how to ‘tag’ my nominees nor how to correctly place my posts on my timeline.

That prompted my Canadian mate to take on the role as my Facebook coach. I think I’m still a bit of a disappointment to him but ‘them’s the breaks’ as the saying goes.

Now on the photographic front, ‘Nature’ images include Landscapes and Wildlife and I noted that landscapes were the images of choice for this assignment.

Accordingly I followed suite and here below are the landscapes I submitted.

DSC_0082 copy 2This is the dry river bed of the Finke River in the bottom end of the Northern Territory. When it occasionally runs it  carries an enormous volume of water. Some wag put this kids bicycle frame in the sand near the crossing’s wheel tracks. It certainly adds perspective.

sculpture _DSC0111 copy 1  This image was taken at sunset at the sculpture monuments on a hilltop outside Broken Hill in the far west of New South Wales. The sculptures dominate the skyline of this arid plains landscape.

DSC_0169 copy3 copyThis NSW police speed warning sign looks totally out of place on this outback stretch of track just over the Queensland/New South Wales border on the approach to the tiny outback  town of Tibooburra in far west New South Wales.

hills 001 copy2Here my friends are looking across the Snowy Mountain range from near the summit of Australia’s highest mountain, Mt Kosciusko, 7,310 feet or 2228m metres. Not high by international mountain heights but we love it all the same. The fact that Kossi as we call it is in New South Wales, my home State make it all the better.

20130630_Lake George_0008 copy 1Lake George nestles between the hills along the Federal Highway between Canberra, our Nation’s Capital and Goulburn, my home town. In places, the lake abuts the highway and it was from one of those spots I made this image. The wind farm on the range across the lake is one of the largest in the State and is still a little controversial because of its dominance of the skyline.

THE WEIR IN INFRA RED copy 2Some years ago I had my old Nikon D100 SLR converted by Life Pixel Infrared of Mukilteo, WA, in the USA, to only make infra red images. This IR image of the Marsden Weir on the Wollondilly River just down the hill from my house gives an interesting touch to this landscape.

darling at bourke for tafe copy 1This image is of the Darling River at North Bourke in far west New South Wales. The Darling is the mightiest river in the State and flows in a south westerly direction to finally join with the mighty Murray River at Wentworth in New South Wales. When taken together these two mighty rivers rank at number 4 of the worlds longest river systems.

I know the preceding image is final image required but I could’t resist throwing in the following one of the Murray River near Nuriootpa in South Australia. Comparing both rivers, the Darling appears to be the healthier of the two.

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Hoo roo for now.

 

TALKING ABOUT CANCER.

~ creakingbones ~ 8 Comments

The other day I read a blog by fonzandcancer where he explained how a diagnosis of cancer not only impacts on the sufferer and family but also on friends and associates.

In short, he sets out that many ‘friends and associates’ simply fade out of the picture as they are at a loss how to inquire after the sufferer’s prognosis, treatment, and are unsure how to ask, ‘How are you going”.  To be on the safe side, they conveniently disappear from the scene.

By coincidence, yesterday I attended a morning tea hosted by a young female friend who is in remission after successful surgery and chemotherapy arising from her diagnosis of cervical cancer.

My friend bravely, frankly and most competently addressed the thirty or so attendees with sometimes vivid descriptions of her journey.

Only once during her lengthy address did she falter momentarily, arising from reliving her life threatening experience. Swiftly recovering my friend outlined the support she received from her husband, two children, her in-laws, parents and friends.

Many members of the audience were her friends and I noticed that besides myself there was only one other of her male friends present.

We often read how men dislike talking about their health and it struck me that fonzandcancer’s experience is most probably an off shoot of our silence about our own health and translates into a reluctance to hear about other persons health outcomes.

I must be a strange one as when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in late 2014 and underwent radical surgery to remove the cancerous prostate I couldn’t restrain myself from telling everyone who would listen how lucky I was.

I was only hospitalised for three days, suffered very little post operative discomfort and almost zero post operative leakage.

The major downside was that my surgeon insisted that I refrain from riding my Harley.

With one male exception, only my female friends inquire after my postoperative health. The male exception is a cancer sufferer himself and we regularly exchange notes and have a laugh about the way others relate to our circumstances.

Almost eighteen months have passed since my surgery and I saw my surgeon last Wednesday. Fortunately he does not need to see me again and no further medical interventions are required so far. And, yes, I can get back on the Harley.

He has written to my GP setting out the occasional monitoring I’ll require for the next wait for it, next seventeen years.

As that will take me past the age of 93 I’m more than happy with that outcome.

Now that gives me another reason to tell all and sundry about my experience. No need though to bother you except to say, when a friend tells you of their cancer diagnosis, don’t just fade away, stick around and give all the moral support you can. It does make a difference.

Hoo roo for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STILL ENJOYING PARTS OF THE LAST CENTURY

~ creakingbones ~ 5 Comments

One of the great things about being a motorcyclist is accumulating T shirts. After you have acquired your first T shirt, they just seem to multiply and fill drawer after drawer.

Strangely, the same phenomena occurs with caps, except the leather variety of course.

Now the other day as I donned my favourite Harley cap that I had bought from Dudley Perkins Co in San Francisco, CA, back in 1992, She Who Must Be Obeyed said to me,’ Why are you still wearing stuff you bought way back in the last century?’

What a revelation! A bloke likes to wear his age well, but advertising you are still partially stuck in the 20th century. No way, after all, just being in the 21st century is a genuine bonus, and 16 years in to boot.

Now tomorrow being Valentines Day I thought I’d show the Mistress of Cassa Creakingbones how much I valued her observations about my headwear. How to do so without buying heart shaped chocolates was the problem.

Then it dawned on me, T shirts from the 20th century.

Under cover of darkness I ratted through my wardrobe(closet to my American friends) and the drawers of the dresser.

What a find, ancient T shirts still neatly ironed and folded, just waiting to be worn.

Not long after first light this morning, I snuck into my studio and photographed some of the collection before I tucked them all away in the studio’s loft, to be retrieved and discussed when the heat is off.

Now I hope my Harley owner friends who read this blog will forgive me for including evidence of an occasional lapse where I’ve been astride a BMW since getting the Harley bug in 1992.

The following images from some of my last century T-shirt collection are here for your amusement. I’ve cropped off most of the shirt fabric as I’m sure oceans of black are of no interest to you.

Last Century T shirt 3_20160213_0001 copy 2In 1962,my employer sent me to the United States of America on a study tour. My first port of call just happened to be the above Harley Dealer in LA where I bought the cap that’s caused today’s feverish exercise.

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0012 copy 2As a guest of the LASD I was presented with this great T shirt and  I’ve worn it many many times here in The Land Down Under.

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0014 copy 2Similarly, I’ve proudly worn this LAPD T-shirt presented to me by the Department, way back in 1992.

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0021 copy 2This and the following images are not in chronological order as they speak for themselves.

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Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0017 copy 2

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0019 copy 2

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0009 copy 2

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0010 copy 2

Last century t shirts No 2_130216_0006 copy 2

When time permits I’ll photograph the balance of my last century T-shirts and in the mean time I’ll come to a decision as to their ultimate fate, in full consultation of course with the Mistress of Cassa Creakingbones.

Hoo roo for now.

PS. The lengthy report I submitted to my superiors after three months overseas conducting  fastidious, meticulous and learned research contained no mention of Harley Davidson dealerships in the USA, Canada and other countries.

 

 

HEALTH AND MY HARLEY DAVIDSON.

~ creakingbones ~ 5 Comments

Back in late 2014 a blip on my health radar and subsequent surgery caused an immediate curtailment of my regular Harley rides.

Now, after almost eighteen months of regular visits to my GP, Specialist and of course the pathologists (who always seem to be lurking in the shadows) I’ve been given the green light to get back on the bike, subject to a few more tests next week.

During the enforced break, my enthusiasm for motor cycling waxed and waned.

With a dry weight of 719 lbs or just on 326 kilos, and fully fuelled at 761 lbs or 345.2 kilos, I had genuine doubts that I still had the physical strength to  manoeuvre my Heritage Softail Classic around the shed, let alone hold it upright when I brought it to a halt out on the road.

I looked at lighter cruiser style bikes, some of which were over 100 lbs lighter but they just didn’t have the appeal of my Harley, nor did the riding position suit my body shape.

Anyway, a few weeks back, while I was having trial runs pushing the bike around the shed, I suddenly remembered that on all my previous Heritages I’d scrapped the original mini ape bars and installed Fat Boy bars instead.

Fat Boy bars are lower and slightly narrower than the standard Heritage  ones. Why didn’t I make the change when I bought the current Heritage in January 2014? I haven’t the slightest idea.

So, two weeks ago I rode the Heritage over to my favourite Harley Dealer and arranged to have the Fat Boy bars fitted.

Now it so happens that every time I ride over to any Dealership anywhere for service or repairs, it rains.  Now I hadn’t been on the bike in the real sense for well over a year and guess what? The weather didn’t let me down. It not only rained, it was a deluge. Over 100 klms, nearly 70 miles in the downpour and I was like a drowned rat when I finally walked into the workshop. Didn’t do much for my confidence either.

I’d discussed my riding dilemma with the chief spanner man on a previous occasion and as weight was my chief concern he suggested I fit a saddle bag quick release kit and smaller sissy bar and pad. Seemed like a great idea and I gladly accepted his advice, after all ten or 12 lbs off is better than nothing at all.

Then to compliment the deal the bike would be delivered to me at home when the work was finished. How’s that for great customer relations.

The bike is now safely back home, the boys did a terrific job and not only is the machine just a tad lighter but it looks great too. The changes have really given me two bikes for the price of one.

With the panniers and windscreen in place I’ve still got a grand touring machine.

Minus the screen and the panniers I’ve got a street machine.

Now all I have to do is wait for a fine, warm day, start the bike, roll out onto the road and work at getting my mojo back.

Now, here are two images, the first is the before, the seconds the after.

Heritage with a bit more bling_0603_0002 copy 2The Heritage Softail Classic complete with screen, panniers and large sissy bar and pad.

Heritage changes_080216_0003 copy 2What a difference, minus the screen, panniers and large sissy bar and pad. The Fat Boy bars make a vast difference to riding position and manoeuvrability.

Pitty I can’t show you the smile on my dial.

Hoo roo for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MY INTRODUCTION TO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF TWO WHEEL TRAVEL.

~ creakingbones

Back in the Dreamtime when I was about 13 or 14 years of age, one of the older blokes in our surf club bought a motor scooter. I remember it was yellow and looked terrific. It was pretty tiny and tinny come to that when compared to another member’s Vincent.

The Vincent was jet black and that made it look even more enormous when parked next to the little yellow peril.

I think that we all took turns in going for a ride on the scooter. I’d never ridden a motor scooter, a push bike, sure, and didn’t I get a rush from that scooter. I’ll never forget tearing around the back streets of Cronulla. I thought I was absolutely the ant’s pants.

Of course I didn’t have a licence, no eye protection, no shirt, no shoes, just a pair of speedos ( swimmers or trunks for non Aussies).

Luckily for me and the owner of the scooter, there was not a trace of any police around and I got back to the beach with the broadest smile possible on my teenage dial.

I was hooked! Two wheels was the only way to go and I don’t mean on a push bike either.

Then, a few weeks later we were off to a surf carnival at Manly. You can imagine my delight when the Vincent owner offered to take me on the pillion from Cronulla to Manly and home again after the carnival. Of course I accepted his offer.

The first problem was how to hide the ride from my parents. My dad had once owned a Rudge in his younger days. His younger days nearly ended when he hit a stationary train near a little country NSW town named Mumbledool where he taught at the one teacher school.

That incident convinced Dad that motorcycles were the mother of all evil and he had forbidden me to never, ever, get on one, even when it was stationary. Mum held the same opinion.

Fortunately they were so used to me going to carnivals in the club’s truck that the question of transport to carnivals never arose and so there was no need for me to mention that Manly this time would be different.

The second problem was clothing. In the club’s truck all I need was to wear my speedos and a club shirt, carry a towel, a wind cheater and have my trusty thongs (rubber sandals) on my feet. The few quid (Pounds- Dollars didn’t come into use until the 14th February, 1966)I had was tucked inside my shirt pocket.

In order not to arouse suspicion I left home on foot dressed as I always did for a surf carnival.

At the clubhouse, my Vincent rider didn’t give me a second look. At least he was wearing a leather jacket and long pants complete with sand shoes and sun glasses.

After a few short instructions about hanging on to him, leaning when he leaned, keeping my thonged feet on the pillion pegs and hanging on to my towel. off we set.

What an experience. The speed was amazing, we weaved in an out of the few cars on the road, were across the Sydney Harbour Bridge in no time and down and up the approach and departure roads at the Spit Bridge.

In no time at all we were at the Manly Surf Club.

I was so glad to get off that bloody Vincent I nearly danced a jig.

From the moment we left Cronulla I’d been at war with my thongs. They are flimsy little buggers at the best of times and the combination of the rushing wind trying to drag the thongs and my feet off the a narrow pegs made me keep my toes curled up, my calf muscles tensed and thoughts of falling off foremost in my mind.

Fortunately it was mid summer so I wasn’t frozen stiff but my eyes felt full of grit.

Of course my pilot asked how I’d enjoyed the ride. I had to get home after the carnival so I told him it was fantastic and I was looking forward to the return journey. I remember he looked a bit incredulous so I reinforced my comment by telling him that I couldn’t wait to save up enough money to get a bike of my own when I was old enough. That seemed to satisfy him.

It was the same story on the way back to Cronulla and when I got home my parents were so delighted that I’d won the Cadet Surf race they didn’t notice my red eyes and sunburned face, arms and legs and the white criss cross of the thongs straps across my sunburned feet.

Since that dramatic day, I’ve never been a pillion passenger on a motor cycle and I’m going to keep it that way.

I eventually did graduate to motor cycles, Triumphs, BMW’s, Suzukis and finally Harley Davidsons.

I’ll keep those stories for another day.

 

Hoo roo for now