It Begins

My parents have never liked motorcycles.  Which is a shame really, because I’ve always loved them.  Cars too.  Anything with an engine, really.  What’s that?  You just got a new ride on lawn mower?  Sweet.  Can I have a go?

As a kid, I was constantly begging my father to buy me a mini-bike.  He always gave the same response: ‘when we buy a farm’.  He was a country boy who had ‘done good in the big smoke’, and family holidays were often spent visiting relatives in regional Victoria and New South Wales, so the idea that we would one day move to a farm didn’t seem so far-fetched.  As far as I was concerned it was clearly just a matter of time.

Then one fateful evening my father came home and made an announcement that would haunt him for years to come: ‘Guess what guys, I bought a farm!’  In my excitement I completely ignored the horrified look on my mother’s face, immediately jumping instead to the only conclusion that mattered: I WAS GETTING A MINI-BIKE.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered if my father has ever looked back on his actions that day with at least a slight sense of sheepishness.  Clearly, here was a man who had never heard the phrase ‘a happy wife makes a happy life’.  Because this news did not make his wife happy.  From that day on, every marital argument went along the lines of:

Him:                       ‘How on Earth could you have spent $500 on a bloody couch cover!?’

Her, coolly:         ‘You bought a farm.’

Despite my ever persistent enquiries as to when it would arrive, the mini-bike never materialized.  ‘When am I getting my mini-bike?’ I’d now ask.

‘When we move to the farm’ was now the answer.

I couldn’t work out what the hold-up was.  We bought the farm, now we buy the mini-bike.  Simple.  Certainly the regular visits to Ararat Honda to sit on the various Pee Wee 50’s and 80’s didn’t help.  Perhaps he thought that I would eventually grow out of ‘it’.  He was wrong.

                In those pre-Internet, pre-Digital TV days, and without the luxury of a VCR, the only way to watch Formula 1 or the 500cc Motorcycle World Championship on the east coast of Australia was to stay up and wait for the delayed telecast on Channel 9 on Sunday nights.  Usually the races were scheduled for broadcast after the Sunday evening movie, meaning a start time around 11 pm.  Too late for a kid.  Especially on a school night.  But after checking the weekly television guide on Sunday afternoons, I would set the alarm on the old clock radio I found one afternoon in the garage, go to bed when told, only to wake as the glowing digital numbers struck 22:55, with no one the wiser.

                For these special occasions I’d keep hidden high up on the top shelf of my closet a sugary treasure trove of Strawberries and Creams, Redskins, Mates, Freckles and Raspberries.  The Raspberries were my favourite.  There could never be too many Raspberries in a bag of mixed lollies.  After reclaiming my booty and climbing down the rickety scaffolding made up of open drawers, chairs and the occasional He-Man action figure (used as a chock for stability), I’d skulk into the living room, and slowly, gingerly twist the volume knob on the television down to mute before switching it on (this step was imperative as failure to do so could result in parents being woken in the next room, resulting in disaster).  Once on, I’d carefully increase the TV’s volume just enough so I could hear the howling 500cc two strokes being wrung out half a world away.  ‘Not too much now’ I’d think, quietly.  ‘ Just enough.’  As the cathode ray tubes warmed, the dark room would soon be filled with a flickering blue hue, and in the middle would be me, sitting cross-legged on the floor, rotting my teeth, enthralled.

Sometimes though, things didn’t exactly go to plan.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Bugger!  It was Dad, on his way to the bathroom.  Or the kitchen.  Possibly both.

                ‘Watching the 500’s.’  I’d say, eyes firmly fixed on the carpet.

                ‘No you’re not.  Get back to bed.  At.  Once.’

‘But!’ I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes, ‘if Wayne Gardner finishes 4^th and beats Randy Mamola he’ll be the first Aussie to win the world championship!’  I didn’t actually understand what any of this meant at the time, but Barry Sheene had said so in his inimitable, breezy way during his pre-race expert analysis, so it must have been true.

                Strangely, uncharacteristically, he began to soften.

                ‘Where did you get those lollies?’

                ‘Milk bar.’

                ‘Where did you get the money?’

                ‘Mum.’

                ‘Sounds like she and I will have to have a chat about that.’

Sounds like someone forgot he bought a farm.

Curiously, no one else in my family shares my obsession.  It wasn’t inherited from a father who found comfort tinkering in the garage.  Nor was my older brother ever particularly fussed about compression ratios or tyre compounds.  Over the years though they have come to accept it, if not necessarily understand.  I now have a nephew who looks to be cast from the same die as me, but he’s still too young to fully appreciate a Marc Marquez two wheel drift, and he thinks it’s hilarious to steal my spot on the couch when I get up to grab a beer in the middle of a race.  Still, even though it goes against my rule of not trusting anyone who routinely eschews trousers, for the time being I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt…

                With the exception of Max Biaggi, not many people who start motor racing in their late teens or early twenties become world champions.  I can speculate on what might have been if my parents had come through on the mini-bike, but as it stands I can only look on from behind the barriers and wonder what might have been.  As I said before, I love anything with an engine.  And while F1 might be the pinnacle, I’m just as interested in the weekend warrior who drives 6 or 8 hours week after week just to lay down some hot laps.  So that’s what this is about.  The full gamut of motor racing.  One week might be a round of the World Endurance Championship, the next might be a local motocross meet.  If someone’s there to hold it wide open, I’ll be there to watch (and in turn write about it).