Written about 2012 Mildura Historical Motorcycle Club “Meander” ride.

MEANDER TWENTY-TWELVE

There was movement at the HOG rooms for the word had whipped around
that Jack had briefed the Marshalls for the day,
then Adam walked the bike rows saying “Five minutes till leaving,
so get yer helmet on, we must away”.

All the keen and hurried riders from the bike clubs round about
had gathered at the HOG rooms, every man,
for the straight-road riders love those bent Mildura back-roads,
and some will scrape their foot-pegs when they can.

And old Jack rode to front them, he was leading all the way,
the old man with his white beard trimmed so neat,
but few could keep up with him when he pushed his Harley hard.
He learnt to ride patrolling on the street

And Jeffrey, he was with them on his best old Honda four,
that 750/4 when hurried, drank,
and only those who asked him knew what he kept in that bag –
a drum of extra fuel tied on his tank.

There was Chris on a Suzuki, on the Honfield there was Ken,
Moose and Malcolm rode a Harley, Kerry too,
Frank and Danny on their Triumphs, George and Ian Kawasaki,
and Ron Brown‘s short black Honda looked like new.

There was H.R.D. and Bee-Em, and a Velocette, a Guzzi,
some old bikes with their paint like shiny new,
but few could keep up with them if their owners pushed them hard.
They could go as hard as any bike would do.

They went, and found the Marshals, standing at an intersection
and pointing out the turnings, bright lime green.
The leader was bright orange and the tail-end Charlie also,
so every turn was guided, plainly seen.

They halted for a moment where the road was safe and wider
and checked to see if petrol was enough.
The old man said “Now listen, better mind the gravel corners,
they’ll bring you down, and some of them are rough”.

And one was there, but not well, and along the road it halted,
so into Dougie’s breakdown bin it went,
then it got an old companion, so they rode their ride together,
as their riders puzzled what those breakdowns meant.

And fast the riders followed where the corners corrugated
resounded to the sounds of Harley throb,
where the throttles made the motors rev and drove the bikes to Wentworth –
the boys from up the bush had done the job.

From Broken Hill, Mildura, even Adelaide they’d driven,
to ride this year’s Meander with the bunch.
More than fifty expert riders with the same ideas in each mind –
the finish at Fort Courage – Sunday lunch.

Up where they dig the mine pits and conveyor belts still rise
their tailings to the Line of Lode on high,
where the air is thick and dusty and you cannot see the streetlights
at night along their roads when you drive by,

and down around the citrus by the river and the grapevines,
and in the flat red sands where men reside
the Twenty-twelve Meander is the best – until next year,
and riders make up stories of their ride.

BOOF DOG

Fat pot belly scraping dirt,
expression shows his four feet hurt.

Mouth wide open, pink tongue lolling,
over ploughed ground he goes rolling.

He mostly stays the tractor pacing,
sometimes he goes groundlark chasing.

Finished that, back to the furrow,
stops to sniff at a rabbit burrow.

I guess he’d be glad if it started to rain,
but tomorrow he’d do it all over again.

RETROSPECT

When I was eighteen, the world at my feet
then I took the world head on each move.
Now I am older and sadder, not wise,
and with almost the same things to prove.

I have proved to myself, to my peers and the world
that each thing I did worked out fine.
My limited vision then no way could see
that life is spent walking a line.

The chances to fail, or be hurt or succeed
in proportion are quite simply due
to wider horizons from learning far more.
Getting older just widens the view.

There’s more can be done, but in the same hours
determined by want, need or drive.
Age begets cunning but loses the bite
and takes higher price to survive.

I once threw away any set back or loss
without taking lessons or heed.
My time is reducing, my options are not
and the hurt costs me more than the need.

THE COACH

I give my time to care, and coach your son,
a member of our Junior Footy team,
and you must care enough to bring him here
then stay to watch and cheer   to me it seems

a pity if you care about your son
but sit there in your car, like others do.
We need your help, in any little way.
Become involved   we’d like to meet with you.

I’ve always found that willing helpers get
a lot more back than ever they put in.
It matters not how small you give your help
the more of us, the more our team will win.

Washing jumpers, driving teams to games,
boundary umpires, simply being there
our teams all benefit if you’ll take part.
Your son, his team, and we will know you care.