Читать книгу A Life of Pride - Alan G Pride - Страница 18

I confess I did sometimes ride to work unlicensed; probably my parents thought I was getting a lift with someone else. But in those days, you could get a license at 15 years and 9 months if you had a job to get to. So on the 29^th of May, 1946, I rushed over to the police station. There was a big, fat sergeant behind the desk: he hardly looked up when I said I wanted a motorbike license. I remember walking out onto the road where my BSA waited and the sergeant said to me, “Just do a circle." I did so without having to put my feet on the ground. “Then go around the block and come back here.” I did so. When I returned he was nowhere in sight, so I went back into the station and there he was, with the paperwork already filled out! So in those days, the police attitude was that if you could go around the block without killing yourself, you were good enough to get a license. No logbooks, knowledge tests or L-plates. Mind you, the streets were much quieter then – but the cars and bikes were less reliable and the Broken Hill roads were rough. Many a time after getting my license, I’d lie in bed at night thinking how lucky I was to still be alive. Then I’d go out again the next day and ride just as recklessly!

So in that way my father was quite right, motorbikes were dangerous, but nothing was going to stop me. At the same time, though, his frugality had rubbed off on me and I realised that I could enjoy riding and make money too – or at least break even. I got into the habit of cheaply buying a bike with some scratches or rust, or a few simple mechanical faults that I knew how to fix, taking it to Pro’s and fixing it up. I’d get it running nicely, keep it for a few months, then sell it.

Often, I didn’t even have to advertise it. I was friendly with a lot of young blokes starting their motorcycling lives and there was usually someone willing to take a bike off my hands.

After my first BSA, I had a 1916 Harley Davidson in reasonable condition. I kept it for about 12 months, rode it regularly and doubled my money when I sold it. This really left a big impression on me and over the years I’ve had very few new cars or bikes: they’ve mostly been second-hand and profitable.

Next was a 1929 Harley. This was just after the war period, when petrol was still rationed. A motorbike could only have one gallon (4.5 litres) a month, but you could get six gallons for a car, so the obvious thing to do was buy a car and put it up on blocks. I could then have the petrol coupons for motorcycling! So I bought a 1916 Model T Ford with a flat-top tray from a fellow mine-worker, Ron Blake, for £15.

I took it to Pro’s, as there wasn’t room for it at home, though Dad didn’t mind my having a car. A Model T Ford is unusual in its design, with a complicated gearbox and a gear change on the steering column. I did get my car license and ended up driving it quite a bit, once I’d mastered its quirks.

One Christmas Day, we’d had a lovely Christmas lunch at Pro’s. (His mother thought I was a good influence on him.) Later we youngsters decided to go for a drive in my Model T, so we packed up some leftover chicken pieces in a cardboard box, took a bottle of soft drink and off we went. Pro’s sister rode with him in the cab; his brother, Bob, and I perched on the sideless tray with Bob’s girlfriend, Grace. Pro was driving a bit erratically. He took a bend in Oxide Street far too fast and though I hung on, Bob and Grace went sliding off the back onto the road! They hit the dust with Bob still clutching a chicken drumstick and Grace screaming. Luckily they weren’t hurt, so we helped them back up onto the tray and kept going. It was all great fun to a bunch of teens, no safety rules and lots of optimism and good luck to keep us alive.

Sunday morning races were held on the main road going out of Broken Hill toward Sydney, the 'Mad Mile.' The 'racecourse' ended at the point where the train line crossed the road, and a lookout would be posted to warn of approaching trains. Lots of people would come to watch – it was certainly more fun than church! My friends and I were right in the thick of it and I often won.

I eventually sold the Model T to Pro, and typical Pro, he painted it with yellow and black stripes, dotted lines around the doors, and under the dotted lines, ‘tear here to open’ – just like a Cornflakes pack. So we both ended up with lots of petrol coupons for our bikes. Seven gallons should have been enough, but once we had our licenses, we started going on longer and longer trips and racing our bikes against each other.

The bright lights of Adelaide, the nearest city, beckoned us – over 500 kilometres from Broken Hill on terrible roads, all dust and corrugations. I’d knock off work at the mine mid-afternoon on a Friday, go home for a change of clothes and tear off to Adelaide. A stop half-way in the tiny town of Oodla Wirra, fill up with petrol, check the tyres and have a pie, then into Adelaide in the early hours of the morning. I loved speeding and hearing the roar of my own motor, which meant that I’d go through some of the tiny outback towns raising a hell of a noise at 1a.m. This infuriated a local cop, who made it his mission to catch me. But the police bikes weren’t as gutsy as mine and I got enormous joy from having him eat my dust. Once, my ego got so oversized that I went past his police station standing up on the bike, with my pants down!

Sometimes I’d be caught, by him and others. I was so blasé about it that my regular speeding fines, which arrived by post, were also paid by post instead of my bothering to attend court. I had my own income now and would do as much as I could get away with.

Aunty Maud would leave the sleepout door unlocked at her place in Adelaide so I could crawl into bed, wake up covered in dust and have a wash, before heading out into the weekend. Then on Sunday afternoon, back to Broken Hill for work on Monday. I must have been late getting back too many times, though, as Wally and I, motorcycling back to Broken Hill from a trip out of town, were once unexpectedly rained in; this made us late for work and I was told that I'd be docked a week's pay if it happened again.