Stories Page
HIDDEN STORIES
Pages from a Scrapbook Mind
My mind isn’t a filing cabinet. It’s a scrapbook.
Some memories became songs. Some became stories. Some found their way into books. Others have simply been sitting there for years, waiting to be remembered.
These are a few of them.
Grab a cuppa and pull up a chair.
RUN OUT OF TOWN AT SIXTEEN
Scraps.
At sixteen, life was crystal clear.
Just like looking through a brand-new windscreen.
Sixty-six years later, that screen is covered in bugs, road grime and sporting more than a few stone chips and cracks.
The only thing that remains clear is in the rear-view mirror.
Let’s deal with the clear windscreen first.
This was the day that changed my world.
It was 3.55 pm on a Monday afternoon, at the end of February 1960.
I had turned sixteen in December.
Gid Anderson huffed and puffed, climbed off his pushbike, carefully removed his trouser-cuff clips and eventually decided that he had regained enough breath to speak.
Having ridden all of three blocks to deliver a message that would change both of our lives forever, in hindsight I can understand why the gravity of the situation forced him to risk heart failure.
Gid had been the town’s sole police officer for as long as I could remember.
Over the years, our opinions had differed on several occasions, all of which had decidedly negative outcomes in my favour.
Having worked from about the third day I could walk, I had saved enough money to buy freedom.
A second-hand Velocette 350 cc motorcycle.
Yep. At fifteen years of age in Riverton, New Zealand, you could obtain your driver’s licence, and it automatically included your motorcycle licence.
I was almost three months into a five-year apprenticeship as a vehicle spray painter when the cumulative impact of my recent lifestyle recreation caused a severe downturn in my local popularity.
It all began a few months earlier.
About a week after I left school.
I’d never ridden a motorbike before.
Dale Duffield had.
We caught the bus for the 24-mile ride into Invercargill.
Tappers Motorcycles smiled as they gladly took a firm grip on my hard-earned savings.
With me riding on the pillion seat of a shining but used Velocette 350, we headed home.
So far, so good.
At the Lorneville corner, Dale pulled over.
“Your turn,” was all he said.
“But… but…”
“It’s just like a pushbike, only you don’t have to pedal… and it’s a bit heavier. You’ll be right.”
Dale was the class clown.
Always had a joke or a story.
Why should I doubt him?
He was my friend.
He rides a bigger bike than this.
So, what’s to doubt?
The badly wounded pudding-bowl crash helmet Tappers donated free of charge was about three sizes too big for my pinhead.
The only reason I could see anything was the WWII flying goggles Tappers sold me at a generously exorbitant price.
Even then, gravity enjoyed a laugh.
It was a constant battle to keep pushing the goggles up to stop the helmet’s weight from turning them into a leather-and-glass moustache.
Clutch, hop, five or six… somehow turning into forward momentum.
We wobbled, swore, panicked, swore again and swerved out into the traffic.
I can only assume that the other drivers didn’t want to die either.
They wisely took evasive action and made room for the two swearing, pale-faced, kamikaze-style riders on the black-and-chrome weapon of mass destruction with a death wish.
Within minutes, I was hooked.
It had a top speed of 85 miles per hour, and that’s what we were thundering down the road at.
Dale was shouting something about death, or destruction. It may have been destiny or destination. I wasn’t sure, but it started with the letter D, I’m pretty certain.
His grip on my jacket was more than a bit friendly, I thought.
The Velocette roared.
I roared.
Dale roared.
That there were three different variations of roaring occurring simultaneously never registered.
I was flying.
Dale and my relationship never quite felt the same afterwards.
I often wondered if it was something I said… or didn’t say… that caused the uncomfortable chill.
The Velocette reached its highest peak of personal adoration within a couple of months.
Tappers were absolutely delighted to trade it for a brand-new AJS 350 single.
Having replaced the free pudding-bowl helmet with one that actually fitted, the recently adorned red, white and blue stripes gave it a seriously impressive look.
Displaying for all the world to see, I was a road warrior with a serious skill set.
The helmet’s futuristic design made that obvious.
Or so I thought.
Either way, it was still a pudding bowl.
The only difference being, this one fitted.
The AJS became an extension of myself.
If I could have slept on it, I would have.
To increase the harmonic beauty of its exhaust note, a large rubber mud flap that covered the exhaust pipe, causing the exhaust note to bounce back and amplify, was surprisingly effective.
Whilst I regarded it as a stroke of sheer genius, there were some residents of Riverton’s senior population who felt they were entitled to a slightly more serene retirement.
Hence Gideon Anderson’s selfless determination to make sure their wishes were duly granted.
The verdict.
“I’ve had enough complaints to fill a book about you and that bloody motorbike.
You’ve got till 6 o’clock to get out of Riverton, or I’ll lock you up.”
“What?… but… but…”
5.58 pm
A small bag tied on the back seat, guitar on my back, the AJS gave the sleepy little town a final bellow of farewell as Riverton faded in my rear-view mirror.
CHAPTER TWO
24 miles later — 6.30 pm
Invercargill sits on the 45th Parallel.
Long summer twilight.
Short winter days.
It’s late February.
No bed.
No home.
No job.
I don’t know a single person in this city.
I have £11 in my bank account.
12 shillings in my pocket.
Three-quarters of a tank of fuel.
It’s Monday night in a city that rolls up the footpaths by 5.30 pm.
Pinocchio’s Milk Bar was still open.
Two motorbikes parked at the kerb.
Big bikes.
Triumph Speed Twin and an AJS 500.
My 350 looked like a toy beside them.
Five people sat crammed into a booth just inside the door.
Three guys and two girls.
I didn’t have a proper shoulder strap for my guitar.
The gold dressing-gown cord, with its fancy tasseled ends, was the best I could come up with.
Standing in the doorway with the head of my guitar protruding over my left shoulder, complete with its highly decorative gold tassel, loudly proclaimed that the village idiot had arrived.
Before I could retreat, one of the guys waved me over to join them.
The other four just looked on with a mixture of humour and curiosity.
Their faces said it all.
It must be Space Week. The latest Mars exhibit just landed.
No one spoke.
They just grinned and stared.
The big guy who had waved me in, who turned out to be Bruce, finally broke the deafening silence.
“Play us a tune,” he said, pointing at the guitar head growing out of my shoulder.
An hour later, I had a bed, a couple of new fans and a slightly more promising future.
Bruce lived with his parents and two younger sisters.
His sleep-out was barely big enough for his bed.
The second half of the shed became my new home.
Bruce had lost his driving licence a couple of months earlier.
I became his chauffeur.
I mistakenly thought he liked my music.
A guy I met had a Norton Dominator sitting abandoned in the corner of his father’s garage.
His licence had gone on holiday along with Bruce’s.
I could only imagine they were hanging out somewhere warm, sitting back in a milk bar, surrounded by good-looking lost licences, listening to a jukebox whose personality wasn’t hampered by the pettiness of a volume control.
The Dominator looked cool.
I bought it.
The image needed an upgrade to match.
A fake-leather jacket with a fur collar cost me £3/10.
I looked the part.
Pinocchio’s Milk Bar had a new celebrity.
My first paid gig.
Free milkshakes.
It was a start.
After a few gigs, I demanded a pay rise.
I graduated to Spiders.
Nev rode a Triumph Tiger 100.
It was quick.
You could just tell by the way it sat there outside Pinocchio’s.
It was ready to pounce.
It had speed written all over it.
The Norton looked every bit as good.
Sleek.
Beautifully designed tank.
Polished mudguards.
It oozed beast.
Who’s the fastest?
Let’s find out.
Saturday morning.
It’s April.
Still plenty of good weather left.
Teretonga Raceway. A local club race day.
Bruce and I modified the Norton.
A couple of homemade clip-on handlebars mounted on the front forks.
A rubber pad on the tank to lie on.
Exhaust mufflers?
Unnecessary weight.
A WWII sheepskin flying suit, a few sizes too big, became my racing leathers.
My racing permit had to be signed by a parent or guardian.
The similarities between my mother’s handwriting and mine were loudly noted by the scrutineer.
Five bikes on the starting line.
A slow start.
Three laps out of six completed.
Lap four.
Nev and I battle for last place.
The Norton is holding its own.
The turn into the long home straight looms up.
The Norton roars.
The Tiger 100 roars back.
I swing to the outside.
I’ll overtake on the apex of the turn.
I cut in.
Nev needs more room.
I’m not going to give it.
This is what living on the edge is all about.
Nerves of steel… and a brain to match!
There is nothing like flying into a corner at suicidally high speed to produce unforeseen design problems.
My homemade handlebars locked into his homemade handlebars.
That was about the time I discovered the consistency of blacktop texture.
25 mph or 125 mph, it stays consistently hard.
Like a flat stone skimming across a still pond, I shot off into the lupin bushes like a human cannonball.
The bulky flying suit saved me.
Miraculously, the only real damage was my sadly deflated ego.
My road racing career ended before it had completed its first race!
The beach races were a huge part of the motorcycle fraternity’s weekend ritual.
There could be twenty bikes there on a good day.
An old bloke turned up ocassionally, was just one of the crowd.
I didn’t have a clue who he was.
His bike, an old Indian, looked like he`d put it together during an epileptic seizure.
I didn’t have a clue about much of anything at sixteen.
I only knew one thing.
His name was Burt someone, and he was bloody fast.
THE GOLF COURSE — 1988
THE GOLF COURSE — 1988
I’d moved with my partner Judy to the Southern Highlands.
We had a 60-acre property with an old house and a lot of lovely old trees.
I’d rebuilt the house, added ensuites to each of the eight bedrooms and added a huge community room to the back.
Then it became Sylvan Guest House.
A friend came to stay overnight and, over breakfast, made a casual statement.
“Coop, why don’t you build a golf course here? It would be great.”
He’d seen them build a green at our local course.
I’d never been on a golf course, let alone hit a golf ball.
I’d watched a lot of golf on television, though.
I thought, hell yeah, I can do that!
TOO EASY!
Ten years later, it was still a beautiful work in progress…
As all golf courses are.
He forgot to tell me about the maintenance.
So I became a greenskeeper.
I didn’t have the right machines, so I had to build a modified version of what was required.
Thanks, mate!
Love you too!!
CLIMBING HUAYNA PICCHU IN A FRAGILE STATE OF MIND
South America — 1989
Mick Hamilton was a fellow musician, an all-time cynic and one of my best mates.
In 1989 we travelled through South America together.
We arrived at a small resort that was still in the early stages of construction.
Gringo Bill’s.
The rooms were concrete block, unpainted, with bare floors. The main room was destined to become the dining room and general meeting place. At that stage it contained a few chairs, a table and an old round-top refrigerator that weighed about as much as a pocket battleship.
Inside it was stacked with beer.
Small bottles and large ones.
Mick and I had barely settled into our first beer when a group of guys arrived like a hurricane had just come through the door.
They were from Israel and fresh out of the army.
One of them carried a small travelling guitar.
Mick decided he was the twin brother of Klinger from MASH*.
Bill cooked dinner for his guests.
A HUGE bowl of French fries and tomato sauce.
The booze arrangement was simple.
You took either a small or large beer from the fridge and wrote your room number on the pad hanging from the side.
A large B or a small b told Bill which one you’d had.
We’d settle the account in the morning.
By about four in the morning, the fridge was empty.
We were all hammered.
Our voices were shot to hell.
And the bloke with the guitar finally worked out who Klinger was.
He stared at Mick and delivered his drunken revelation.
“He’s that bloody poof from MAS*H!”
And apparently that settled the matter.
The next morning, after staggering out of bed, settling the booze bill and trying to focus on the railway track we appeared to be walking along, we headed for our intended destination.
Machu Picchu.
That two-mile walk is one of the most arduous I can recall undertaking in many years.
When we stepped off the bus that had carried us up the mountain to the arrival car park, the hangovers had kicked into full top gear.
And the day had only just started.
Exploring the site was every bit as awesome as every article and glossy magazine description promised.
And then some.
Of course, no trip to the magnificent ancient city of the Inca is complete without climbing Huayna Picchu behind it.
With a force-ten hangover.
The Stairs of Death.
The narrow paths.
The lack of handrails.
All designed a millennium ago to ensure that every hungover idiot with intense vertigo received the full multi-underwear-changing experience they richly deserved.
The view from the top is like nothing I have ever known.
It is breathtaking.
In more ways than one.
There were words painted on the rock telling you that the drop into the Urubamba River, which you could only just make out below, was about 2,680 metres.
That information was very comforting.
If you were a cliff jumper.
In spite of our mental and physical handicaps, we made it up.
And down.
Halfway down, our life-saving concentration was temporarily disturbed by a loud yell that echoed across the valley.
One word.
“KLINGER!”
They had made it to the top.
THE DAY BERT REYNOLDS CAME TO THE DOWNUNDER PUB
Knoxville World Fair — 1982
Col Joy dragged me up to Knoxville from Georgia to help run a pub he’d just had built at the World Fair grounds.
I was to run the entertainment and play.
No problem.
I employed several artistes, auditioned and selected a backing band, got the stage and dressing room sorted, had the PA installed, and away we went.
The first act started at 10 am.
I closed with the band I’d selected as my backing group.
Smoky Jam.
They came from Athens, Tennessee, in the Smoky Mountains.
Hence the name.
They weren’t just good.
They were world class.
While wandering around the fairground, I came across a local group playing bluegrass.
Their lead singer could have been actor Burt Reynolds.
He was the perfect doppelgänger.
My warped sense of humour jumped out of the box and ran riot.
I had an idea.
Word spread around the fairground that BERT REYNOLDS from Smokey and the Bandit was appearing at The Downunder Pub on Wednesday night.
Of course, the place was packed to the rafters.
The front doors of the pub were huge sliding glass-and-aluminium doors.
Perfect for what was about to happen.
It took a day of hunting around to find an exact match for the Firebird from the movie.
I paid a couple of Canadian girls with a slab of beer to act as eye candy.
We were ready.
10 pm.
The doors flew open.
The Firebird convertible arrived.
The crowd erupted.
“BURT!”
“Burt” jumped onto the stage.
We played Rocky Top, the fair’s theme.
“Burt” sang.
Then he jumped back into the car and shot off back into legend.
To this day, 99.9% of the punters still believe it was Burt Reynolds.
And I have never felt the need to correct them. 😂
To be constantly, continually continued… 🙂