Living with Murphy
I first became aware of ‘Murphy’ many years ago, probably long before he had formulated his law of ‘what can go wrong, will go wrong’, and he has been a faithful companion ever since.
Murphy is very versatile and his ingenuity knows no bounds. One of his first appearances in my life was on a dark Sunday night on a lonely road skirting the river Avon in Hampshire, England. I was about 12 at the time and I’d walked from our home in Fordingbridge to the little village of Bickton with mate Ken. It was about three miles each way and when we got there, Ken said, “Take my bike to go home, I wont need it.”
It was a new bike and had lights run from a dynamo driven by the back wheel. Making great speed along the deserted road, I suddenly saw in the beam of light a galloping horse! We lived on the edge of the New Forest and New Forest ponies were often wandering the area. I locked the brakes and this immediately plunged me into darkness as the dynamo was no longer turning.
What I hadn’t noticed was a second, dark pony galloping alongside the first and I hit it fair and square, sending me over the handlebars to land on my side on a bunch of very hard keys in my pocket that left a bruise for days. Unfortunately, it didn’t do Ken’s new bike any good either, so I was up for repairs to it as well as nursing a very sore leg.
When I was in my mid-teens, Dad had an old Triumph 500cc motorbike he used to ride to work. One Saturday afternoon, he was on his way back to milk the cows at the farm where he worked, and had an accident that put him in hospital for quite some time.
This left me at home with an unattended motorbike and I grabbed the opportunity to ride it up our yard and then push it back again as there wasn’t room to turn round. It often took hours to get it started as it had no compression lifter and was very hard for me to kick-start. It was during World War II but although petrol was rationed, I managed to scrounge some coupons from a fellow I knew.
One day it just wouldn’t go and I wheeled it through the house to the back garden where there was a bit more room to push-start – or so I hoped. It had a hand throttle and first gear didn’t work. I’d watched the racers of the day make their starts by running alongside their bikes, bouncing on the saddles to get the back wheels turning as they engaged the clutch and then swinging their legs over the bikes as they roared off into the distance. That’s for me, I thought, as I pushed the bike backwards towards the neighbour’s fence to give as much room as possible.
The first part went okay. A quick run, a bounce, engine turning over with me alongside but not firing. Murph stepped in then and just as I’d decided it wasn’t going to start, it gave a couple of mighty bangs and I shot in through the back door to end in a roaring heap on the floor of our backhouse where we stored coal and potatoes. Mum rushed in from somewhere – very white – and shouted for me to stop the engine.
“Not likely,” I said. “I’ve been all morning trying to start it.”
It was a long time after Dad returned from hospital before we dared tell him about that incident!
When Dad finally was able to get around again and think about riding a motorcycle once more, he realised I would soon be old enough to get a licence to ride. In England, you could get a motorcycle licence at 16 and drive a car when you were 17. Not wanting me to ride the heavy 500cc Triumph, he sold it very cheaply to some friends of mine and bought a little 250cc Panther that he thought would be safer.
Wrong! One Saturday afternoon, just after passing my driving test and getting a licence, I went for a ride on the Bournemouth-Salisbury road and was overtaken by a motorbike and sidecar. This was no ordinary outfit but an International Norton that belonged to a man who worked in the same iron foundry where I had just been taken on as a core-maker.
This was like the Nortons that used to win the Isle of Man TT races every year back then and it left a beautiful and distinctive smell of Castrol R racing oil as it roared past.
Here was a challenge I couldn’t resist and I opened the throttle to keep up with the flying Norton. I kept on his tail until, in the little village of Breamore, we struck a large patch of manure left by a herd of cows.
The Norton went through with hardly a slip but I was going too fast so Murphy saw to it that I finished up sliding through the manure on my rear-end, with the bike going its own way much to the astonishment of the crowd of people waiting across the road at the bus stop. With bent handlebars and footrests, I limped home to incur the full force of the old man’s displeasure.
I incurred it again just after that when I converted the Panther to a foot-change gear shift. It had a three-speed hand-change but I disconnected this and put a foot lever on instead. This change required quite a degree of skill to manipulate although it allowed much faster racing changes. Dad hadn’t been riding the bike and having one day spotted the new gear change wanted to try it out. Changing straight from first gear to top and then back to first with a fearful grinding and revving he ordered me to put it back the way it had been designed.
IS THIS THE DRY SEASON?
Up here in Far North Queensland, they don’t have the four seasons. Instead, they have the Wet and the Dry. Recently for two days of the Dry, the heavens opened and the rain bucketed down, causing ‘lakes’ to appear all over the Walkamin Van park where I spend the southern winters. I’m told there were some visiting ducks but I didn’t see them!
At least they didn’t have to mow the grass for a few days and the park is lovely and green.
TWO-YEAR CELEBRATION
Walkamin Van Park opened in 2005 and stayed with the same owners until two years ago. Lucy, who ran the place with the help of two managers, was a lovely lady and all the regular people who came from down south chasing warmer weather were a bit worried when the park was put on the market. They wondered what changes the new owners would make.
They needn’t have worried! Mark and Dallas, the new owners, are great and have made a lot of improvements.
Mark had an irrigation system installed so the grass is always green, he’s established extra gardens and got rid of the bindi weeds that had spread widely throughout the park.
Dallas is a great organiser and we have shared many special occasions, like ‘Christmas in July’ during their ownership.
To celebrate their first two years of ownership, they invited everyone to join them in the ‘Shed’ for dinner, music and dancing – it was a great night.
INNOT HOT SPRINGS
The hot springs I mentioned last month were at Innot – a place I usually drive straight through and, as usual, the trip as far as Ravenshoe was wet, misty and twisty, but it was good to be behind the wheel again.
There were only four of us at the muster but we enjoyed the weekend. Two of us went for a dip in the pools and two stayed dry! I had to stay dry to take photos!
Dinner at the hotel was tasty and worth the little walk across the bridge.
My next outing with the ACC Rainforest Ramblers will be later this month at Wonga Beach.
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