Motorbike Travels & Observations in the Lucky Country

The Lions Road

The Lions Road

Back in the early '70s a group of Lions Club members from Kyogle (ky-oh-gul) in rural northern New South Wales decided to try to increase trade, promote tourism and gain better access to the equally rural and remote Hinterland of south east Queensland near the small town of Rathdowney. A new farm to market road was needed. The main obstacle was the massive front of the Border Ranges separating the two states. The basalt peaks are part of the volcano caldera, or bowl, that makes up the valley of the Tweed Coast and the towns of Nimbin, Murwillumbah, and extending beyond Kyogle. A volunteer crew were organised and the hard work begun.

 Within four years' time a narrow road had been hacked, bulldozed, dynamited and graded right through and up to a narrow opening in the low mountain pass between the two states. It's an excellent shortcut as no large trucks, buses or caravans are allowed. The road twists and winds through green farmland and grazing pasture lands. Many remote working farms and abandoned cabins sit nestled in amongst the hills and along the creeks that flow out of the hills.

 On the Queensland side it is drier and the vegetation less dense, probably a result of the rain shadow that drops most of its moisture on the eastern side as it passes over the ranges. The New South Wales side gets constant rain fall (it is raining now) and as a result there are no water restrictions in force for the area. The reservoirs and rivers there are full while less than fifty kilometres away most of the dams and reservoirs of south east Queensland are at less than 40% of their capacity.

 The formerly gravelled road is sealed all the way through nowadays, its bitumen surface fairly smooth and rut free considering the remoteness of the region and the regular traffic flow. It twists and winds up and up, narrowing and switching back as it climbs. I was smiling to myself, concentrating on the difficult but enjoyable road conditions when suddenly an unmanned but heavily signed border crossing appeared with what looked like speed cameras keeping vigil over the one lane crossing. A box with a sign suggestion a donation toward upkeep of the road is posted there as well. I dropped a coupla too-large Aussie fifty cent pieces in the slot. The reason the cameras are there is to monitor people illegally transporting livestock back and forth between the two states. Australia has issues with disease spreading; the country being relatively safe from outside influences of a bovine and equine nature. A recent equine flu heavily damaged the 'industry' which is now only slowly recovering. A Rabies outbreak, as an example, has never been recorded as occurring here.

 Further on, a really beautiful vista sits about 600 metres off the main road with a very tidy picnic area and clean toilet block. I enjoyed a welcome break after crossing south into NSW from the Queensland side. On parking the bike I became aware of the sweet sounds of many birds singing and cicadas humming as I removed my helmet and soft foam earplugs. I grabbed my camera and walked across the grassy hillside the sixty metres or so to the overlook. Two large black crows flapped noisily away from the railing and I discovered that someone had left handfuls of fresh apple peels for them. I backed away and left them to return to their feast, a coupla good photos stored in my handy digital camera. An elderly couple sat reading the newspaper and eating their lunch at one of the tables under tall eucalypts. I donned my riding gear, started the engine and motored away quietly so as not to disturb the tranquility and harmony of the place.

 Heading deeper south into NSW the road becomes even more bendy and is terrific for motorbikes that handle. I rode under several narrow railway bridges and over meandering, fast moving creeks. The railway was built well before the roadway and a dozen tunnels were bored through the rocky hillsides to enable the logging and goods trains to gain altitude with less of a struggle. I kept well to the left hand side of the road and yet a couple of times had to dive even further left to avoid lazy oncoming drivers. There are a few places to overtake slower vehicles but rarely did I have to exercise my innate motorcyclist's right to do so. Most cars are travelling at 60 to 100 kph anyway.

 At one stage a school bus (not the big yellow kind familiar to North Americans) came towards me and the driver actually yielded to the right, slowing way down to give me some much-needed space. I waved in grateful thanks. Not long after that incident as I approached a narrow floodway (many of the bridges have been rebuilt after washing out during the recent heavy flooding) a Toyota Land Cruiser came barrelling down into the cement river crossing before me. I yielded but he gave no room and ran me in to the heavy and loose gravel at the roadside. My front tyre nearly washed out. The only reason it didn't was my speed - I was travelling barely 20 kph - and the two recent front end washouts have me quite attuned to careful braking and light- handed steering inputs on the 'bars. Survival is key. The driver behind him, apparently aware of my struggle on the other side stuck his arm up and waved me over since I had the momentum. I added a hearty 'thank you' wave back to him as I passed and he nodded, giving me the thumbs up.

 Within 74 kilometres of veering off the highway in Rathdowney, Queensland, The Lions Road meets up with the main east-west route known as Summerland Way. In fifteen or so kilometres the town of Kyogle appears. It's a clean farming town with a coupla petrol stations and a busy main street full of shops and cafes. I have visited before on a road trip up from the south and had enjoyed a pot of tea with scones and fresh jam and cream whilst sitting at a table on the crowded footpath. The locals seemed content as they went about their business. This day I had much the same feeling. I will return and check it out further.

 With darkness soon approaching and a fresh tank of 98 octane premium I rolled along on the country road toward Nimbin (a hippy haven and pot growing town of some reknown) and along the river Tweed into Murwillumbah. I had an hour to go to get home after coming full circle round the mountains, the road rolled under my wheels, the bike thrumming along. Jagged Mt Warning rose to my left, shadowing the arvo sun as it faded into cloud cover, the sky changing from vivid blue to burnt orange to fireball red. Another sweet day of motorcycling in paradise nearly done with a few more miles left to smile and enjoy.

Central OZ Autumn Moto-Walkabout

Day One:

I’ve been known to point the old motorbike’s front tyre in a different direction from where I’d thought I’d go just the night before. It isn’t exactly living on the ragged edge, but keeps life interesting for me. I went to sleep the night before my departure knowing I’d be in Port Augusta, South Australia before too long, and the wide open expanse of either the Nullarbor Plains or the red centre would be before me, a crossroads reached and a choice to be made.

Slightly slipping the clutch of the '77 BMW up the steep driveway at Banora Point in Northern NSW, I headed out, the morning sun bright against the blue sky. I had given myself about a month to go walkabout. I wanted to gaze out upon the slow-rolling waves of the Great Southern Ocean near Adelaide in South Australia. Winter was approaching and it could be cold riding down there at that time of the year. I do live my life with variety. I enjoy the distraction of reading two books at once. I can carry on multiple conversations and think I’m giving both my attention. I’ll eat Indian curry one night, Mexican the next. I try not to leave too many loose ends so I had my cold-weather riding clothes packed away in the watertight panniers.

Southbound on a cool but sunny Sunday morning on the relatively traffic-free Pacific Motorway the bike hummed along nicely, my iPod choosing a soothing array of music and keeping me company. I like the distraction inside my head. I was trying to clear away some built up cobwebs and music helps. Sometimes it was rock from Porcupine Tree pounding away, and other times more acoustic sounds from Paul Kelly, or smooth electronica from Zero Seven. The bike felt just right; not too heavily loaded, well-balanced and agile, and the riding gear I’d chosen kept me comfortable against the mid-morning chill.

I’d ride to the Clarence River-side town of Grafton NSW that day and then head up into the low-lying coastal hills towards Glen Innes and the New England Highway. I had no firm plans to make a certain distance, just whatever felt right for the day. It’d been about five months since my last longish ride and the posterior muscles had to be reacquainted with the firm saddle.

The winding route up the Gwydir Highway was just what I needed after the Pacific Highway’s many roadwork sites and large truck traffic. The Gwydir had recently received some fresh tarmac and I was eager to explore the newly-mounted Pirelli Sport Demon tyres’ limits. I was not disappointed. I rate the section going up and through Washpool National Park near Nymboida as one of my favourite roads to ride in Northern New South Wales!  The more spindly lowland hardwood bush land gives way to dense, almost tropical ferns, towering old growth eucalypts  and offers sweeping vistas of blue-hued mountain ranges with every tight turn. The road surface was damp in places as this late in the year the sun can’t penetrate deeply enough into the temperate rainforest to dry the bitumen surface. I overtook a few slow-moving cars and trucks and followed several faster-moving motorbikes up and up until we levelled off on the rolling high plains of the New England Plateau.

Arriving at The New England Highway in Glen Innes I fuelled up on what would be the last of proper 98 octane premium petrol in a while. I ate some lunch and enjoyed a hot cuppa tea in a local café. Turning South amidst the blazing leaves of Autumn I immediately felt the cooler air. I stopped and donned another poly layer, all the better to ward of the evil chill encroaching on my psyche.

The towns of Armidale and Tamworth lie at a higher altitude relative to the coast and I really felt a distinct change in the weather. Grey rain clouds appeared to threaten but in the end didn’t drop anything on me. That night I made Gunnedah and a wonderful camping site that I’ve stopped at every time I’ve ridden this route. The non-heated pool got a miss but the quick hot shower (we are in a 1,000 year drought) melted away the day’s muscle aches. I ate some dinner from an average Chinese takeaway ‘palace’.  It was quite mediocre Chinese food in a large country town washed down by English ale and served up by Korean immigrants with heavy OZ accents and devoured by me, a hybrid Aussie-born/Amurcan!

Sated and succoured I slowly walked back the half kilometre to the site through the grounds of an old stone Catholic church, its grounds dark with gravesites and history, and rested a while on the bench in the darkness, zipping my fleece vest up against my neck to ward of the encroaching night. The Cockatoos carried on just before dusk, gathering as they do in their many hundreds, right above me in the gum trees surrounding the camping ground on the edge of this picturesque but sleepy town. I’d covered about 700 kms.

Coming soon, Day Two:

Sleep To Dream

The old squared-stone warehouse stood in what seemed to me a seedier part of old Portland. The rain-slick streets were empty of traffic and pedestrians. It was late. Faint light from yellowed street lamps filtered down through the lightly falling rain. I shivered, turned up my collar and walked away from the warehouse toward the alley way, drawn inexorably down in to its depths as into a short, dark, narrow tunnel, the light at the end pulling me on.

 At its end that light softly highlighted a neighbourhood of small, tidy, one-storey brick houses, their gardens of thorny-stemmed red & white roses and leafy green vines grew sinuously over arbours, surrounded by neat, white picket fences. The lingering scent of new rain and freshly-mown grass flared my nostrils, filling my senses.

 In one house a slender cat sat curiously watching my approach through an irregular, multi-paned window, its lace curtains drawn back and tied. I unlatched the wooden gate and heard the rusty growl of hinges as I swung it wide. At the end of the footpath the sturdy front door sat ajar, a wreath of pine in the centre, with an oversize brass doorknob, and soft lamplight glowing across the walk from inside. I stepped up the stone stairway and stopped. A slight young woman appeared before me and leaned into me as if to place a gentle kiss on my face. She stopped short, popped a small, white object into my mouth, saying, 'You need this,' and walked away excusing herself. I sensed I had to wait.

 In a moment she re-appeared from a back room behind her neat kitchen, pulling on her long overcoat and saying softly that she'd be back in just a moment. I watched her quickly disappear down the front path, through the open gate and across the street to another house, looking left and then right as she crossed, the soft rain still falling. No cars passed by on the narrow street. The slender cat sat staring into darkness through the curtained window onto the street outside. The taste of a mint burst open, filling my mouth deliciously.

 In a moment she re-appeared, this time with a vibrantly pretty blonde-haired woman, a smiling Uma Thurman sort, but aged about fifty, who then said she'd been waiting for me. We sat in the kitchen and sipped tea and had low, murmuring conversation. I couldn't understand many of her words. The other woman was no longer there. I learnt that there was a house with a garden for me there. I never learnt why she'd been waiting for me. The cat turned in place and as cats do, slipped silently across the living room floor into the darkness and was gone. I was alone but felt welcome to stay. The mint flavour in my mouth had dissolved. Acrid tea acidly burnt my tongue.

  The dog asleep at my feet on the bed stirred and scratched. I rolled over and sensed the soft and comfortable pillow. The darkness of very early morning giving way to the slowly appearing pre-dawn light. I closed my foggy eyes and slept on.

 The old squared-stone warehouse had long, high windows and the light from inside threw equally long, high shadows out into the rain-soaked street. Someone was inside working away, though it was very late. An unlocked steel door begged me to enter. I stepped into the light of a brightly lit office with a busy desk. A large whiteboard full of thumbnail sketches sat at the head of the room with a smiling man standing beside it, gesturing welcomingly for me to sit and have a look.

 I sat and recognised the images on the board as that of 'Dave' of the Original Portland Motorcycle Company fame, dressed somewhat oddly as a sort of a Superman character, a trail of ghastly '70s rainbow colours and sparks following him as he flew about the CBD of downtown Portland. The new owner of this BMW shop, a man known as 'Scott,' told me of his desire for an iconic character to help retain the old and draw in new customers to his motorbike shop. The images reminded me of a long-ago Original PMC T-shirt of a swift motorbike blasting through the night sky of Portland with a rocket's flaring tail behind it. A cartoon-like suggestion of speed and power propelling it forward.

 I frowned and argued that the image was rather quaint and that I was surprised that I'd been asked to comment. The juxtaposition of the old BMW shop in town, which is actually owned by an infamous pair of brothers, in fact in direct competition with the owner of the new BMW shop across the city, was unsettling and abstract, even in this state of mind. We agreed it was not to be used and wadded all of the unrelated papers on his desk into tight balls, scattering them about the room, our mutual laughter echoing. We then shook hands warmly.
 

 The light overhead remained harsh and bright, too bright for late night decisions, as though an interrogation was expected. I could hear the soft rain falling on the corrugated metal roof overhead, a suggestion like that of water torture. The long slender shadow of a cat passed quickly by the window. I was then outside the warehouse standing in the falling rain. I felt no chill in my bones as the cold, wet and darkness of the blackest night of my life overcame me.

 Uma turned and smiled her famous smile at me, then gently opened her cat-like eyes, and blinked twice, very slowly, full with power and suggestion. I expected a feline purr. I got a soft low lioness' growl of warning. I became aware.

 The morning light streamed in the bedroom window. With fists loosely clenched I rubbed my real eyes awake. My heart beat slowly, steadily, a single bead of sweat rolled down my brow.

 My motorbike sat undercover, waiting just outside, with a full tank of petrol. I had an escape route from things unknown and unseen.

The First Ride

This arvo I took the bike out for its first ride after tightening a few things and making adjustments to this and that. The partial K1200S fairing is now fully installed and viable. I went South in the direction of Murwillumbah along the slow flow of the Tweed River's sugar cane fields towards the basalt tower of Mt Warning, which perhaps you can can see in the background in a few of the photos. The late-afternoon air was sunny and warm, near 28, and a bit humid after the recent heavy rains - over 100mm in two days! - which has finally stopped. The sky was a brilliant blaze of greys, orange and red amongst the broken clouds and no wind blew in gusts as it has the past few days. It was ideal for a combo of motorway and fast two-lane riding.

The Hand Of God.

Have you ever done something clever, brave, exhilarating or death-defying, or even just plain stupid, and there was no one there to take a photograph of your exploits?

 Motorbike riding is like that. Try attempting a blind, decreasing radius curve at a rapid pace on an unfamiliar road. Parachuting the first few hundred metres of a freefall from an aeroplane at five thousand metres very likely gives one that feeling as well. A NASA rocket's thrust skyward, or a bungie strapped tightly to one ankle as you head straight down toward the rocks of a shallow riverbed, a free style slalom down fresh powder with the ominous rumble of an avalanche at your backside, or a dive to the depths of a clear sea surrounded by coral and colourful fish achieve the goal.

 A riskily chosen investment? A swiftly pedalled bicycle ride downhill on skinny, high pressure tyres with nothing but tiny friction brakes against a wheel rim and fabric between your skin and spilt blood. Perhaps even a simple rush hour drive on New York City's Cross Bronx Expressway might get wind up your skirt!

 When you make it through what ever it is you've just done and you feel that tingly electric rush, you're standing there alive at the end. Breath in and breath out. You feel alive, completely and utterly awake and 'in' your body. There are forces here that run very deep. They rumble beneath your surface, and you are often unaware. But when the adrenaline is unleashed and courses through your bloodstream it's as though you've felt the hand of God.

 What need is there of a photograph to record or prove you've done it to others? You know. The rest of it is just sport, entertainment and recreation. The feeling inside tells you. You have that image ingrained within. You've been touched.

 Give me the hand of God any day!

T.E. Lawrence Quote

"To explain the lure of speed you would have to explain human nature; but it is easier understood than explained. All men in all ages have beggared themselves for fast horses or camels or ships or cars or bikes or aeroplanes: all men have strained themselves dry to run or walk or swim faster. Speed is the second oldest animal craving in our nature, and our generation is fortunate in being able to indulge it more cheaply and generally than our ancestors. Every natural man cultivates the speed that appeals to him. I have a motor-bike income."

~T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia)

What Else Can a Biker Do?

I started to like bikes a long time ago in the dark ages of the two wheel-addled mind of my youth. I'd jump kerbs on my home-built bicycle, pretending I was Steve McQueen leaping off the edge of a high dune, or Malcolm Smith easily winning the ISDT as in the 1971 cult classic Bruce Brown film, On Any Sunday. I read the monthly moto-mags in the back of the library ‘til they were dog-eared. Most of my mates preferred the black and white Swedish porno-mags of the day. I worked out that I could multi-task.

The first I could call my own was a late ’60s Briggs & Stratton-powered 2-1/2 horsepower mini-bike that didn’t run, which had sat outdoors in my neighbourhood, untouched and unloved for some time. I was forbidden to buy it with a stern lecture from my overbearing father. I had a paper route and sold vegies by the roadside, so I’d saved a fair bit of money for a 14 year old lad. None of my mates, with the limited mechanical skills of a teenager, was gunna buy it. As a farm boy we had a dark barn where things could be ’kept’ a while unnoticed. It held secrets well, so I reckoned I could dare defy the master and bought the wreck for the then princely sum of $30.00, while he was away working.

I cautiously filed the bumps down on the old ignition points and set the timing. A local machinist’s skill with a lathe had me a new centrifugal clutch bushing for an additional $5.00. After a few tugs at the rope starter cord I had the decrepit thing chuffing along at a smooth idle.

I bounced off muddy berms and dashed through the pine forests near my house with reckless abandon. I ripped up the grassy meadows of the lower 40 and tore through the sand pit at the end of the property. It revved to the moon! The suspension was shit: low pressure air in the tyres. It had no real brakes. But my fate had been sealed. I was in denial. My dad came home early on a Thursday arvo instead of a Friday.

From the relative safety of 300 metres I saw him turn into the gravel driveway, exiting the old Ford slowly, his head turned in my direction. He stood straight, crossed his arms and gave me the thousand yard stare. I was doomed. He walked slowly towards me through the vegetable garden, checking carefully to see if I’d done the required watering and weeding whilst he was away.

“I see you’ve done what I told you not to do,’ he said. I knew well what he meant and trembled in my boots. In the fabled olden days no one went against their parents’ wishes. It was not done. I expected the worst.

Eagerly and with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm and chatter than was required, I told him of my luck at making the bomb run and how I’d worked out what no one in the neighbourhood who wanted the mini-bike had thought of. He had doubted my skill and persistence. He asked if he could ride it. I rolled it towards him nervously, showing him when to yank on the pull start cord and how to twist the throttle just so. Off he went.

I did not sit in that seat for another half an hour. Darkness fell. Mum yelled out the back door that dinner was ready. All was right in my little world. I had approval.

A month later dad bought a Honda trailie and I picked up and stripped-down a Yamaha step-through, 3-speed, 2 stroke scooter. I unbolted the valanced mudguards and spooned some proper nobbies onto the skinny rims. We rode all that Summer and on into the next, and the next.

That was 34 years ago. Sadly, dad’s gone now. I can still see him smiling, dusty and tanned in his ancient silver metal flake Bell helmet. He’d ride cross country just because he knew a joint where he could have a good feed and a coldie, throwing his tattered swag out under a tree next to a water hole along the way.

I recently restored his old Beemer in honour of our riding time together and ride every day in celebration. It keeps my own wheels turning. What else can a biker do?

The Outline of a Life.

 The other day I was playing round with the computer and decided to download Google Earth. I did the usual thing with it that most everyone does. I took a look at the house I was living in Washington State for the Summer in the Northern hemisphere. I scanned my elder brother's acreage in Queensland. I dropped in on my former workplace. I took a look at some of my favourite places from on high. Then I brought up the farm that I lived in from the mid to late '70s. I can clearly see the outline of my life there.

 The lines of the gardens and orchard are still visible, though obviously in need of reinvigoration after nearly 20 years of disuse and abuse by the current dwellers of that hallowed ground.

 I pulled weeds in lengthy rows, mulching and planting alongside my brothers as a kid, the sun often at our backs and us on our knees. The sound of my father's voice as he drove the spade into the well-tilled earth, near constantly drumming a lesson into us that would became a background drone. I hated him behind his back. He moved so quickly and anticipated that you could read his mind and pass the appropriate tool as we mixed cement or split hardwood with the maul.

 He knew how to build a stone chimney that would last a lifetime or to plant and grow sweet, nine pound beetroot or long, slender asparagus. But he could not properly gap a spark plug or set points in a 2-1/2 horsepower Briggs & Stratton four stroke. That was left to me.

 We often dreaded a silence or break in his words, as it could mean attention was being paid to a misstep we'd made and brutal with swiftness a clap on the head would be laid down against us.

 There was always something to be said, something emanating from his mouth. A tirade, a torrent of words, often sarcastic, usually witty, though rarely kind. We heard the words and filtered what we needed to, me and my three brothers, me being the second eldest. It was something to endure. Inwardly I laughed at my cleverness in thinking that I always knew when he was talking shit because his mouth was moving.

 Cord wood was stacked neatly and drying in rows under the sun on the hillside behind the vast gardens. We always grew a hothouse full of new green life well before most. A fire blazed in the cellar furnace come the Winter cold because of our efforts in thinning the dense woods. A market stall full of leafy green, yellow and orange Summertime goodness at the roadside was often there for sale.

 The money from the sale of fresh veggies I pocketed and saved towards a new bicycle or eventually my first motorbike. Pumpkins bigger than a beach ball lay scattered across an acre of Autumn garden. Corn stalks stood upright and drying after the harvest. A stone wall and praying mantis eggs, loads of earth worms and companion planting keeping insect plagues at bay and helped airate the soil.

 No man-made chemicals were ever used. Compost and manure fertilised the well-tilled and rich brown soil to amazing heights of production. We kept barrels of rainwater at each downspout with a few shovels full of year-old chicken manure down the bottom with which to water the plants. "Chicken tea" we called it. It stunk and was as rich as life.

 A long-time friend of the family and especially of my younger brother, used to jokingly mock the tone of my father's voice with the sternly delivered phrase, "Jodi, weed the fields". It was simultaneously an admonishment and a firm order. It was how things were to be done in that household. "Mach schnell" and "roust" became the phrases used to get us to move along. "Hands, sit" meant to wash up and plant your bum at the table at mealtime. "Area 51" was what 51 Heald Street in Pepperell was known as.

 My big brother Shane learnt to nick off early in the workday, even resorting to tending his own garden so he could distract and bolt when he'd done his share. Quite successfully did he tend it too, much to dad's odium, but likely with a small measure of pride in him as well, he having taught us all how to nurture a seed from sprout to lively and productive produce. He was not averse to pride in us in small doses, though he rarely showed emotion. Dad's laughter often was mocking and with a whiff of schadenfreude, rather than joyful.

 I had my chance for relative escape, and took it too. The old barn, which we had dug the foundation out from under and shored up the pilings over one long Summer, was my refuge from the heat and the monotonous toil. There were tools in there and engines too. I carefully sharpened the blades on the lawnmower, changed the oil on the tractor, charged and maintained batteries and oiled up the rusting and aged spanners and wrenches our grandfather had given us in his will.

 I nailed pegboard to the walls and created a space, a workshop of sorts, attempting to organise the disarray and mess into some sort of useful working space. I had a vice, a hacksaw, an electric drill, and a small collection of metric hand tools. I learnt tidiness there. I dislike clutter to this day. Clutter and scatter about distracts me to no end.

 My two younger brothers were left to water and weed and hear the latest political rant or social commentary, and suffer the occasional blow to the back of the head for not paying attention or being careless with young tender plants. Our backs were tanned, our heads bowed. We supplicated ourselves for daily survival, for fresh food from the garden, a warm place to sleep, stability in the instability, and made plans for our respective escapes. We were privileged. Others did not have it so good, we were told. But we did not believe. This was not our version of the promised Utopia.

 I was in the garage and Shane was off down the road, his long hair untied and bobbing into the 1970s distance. I can see him go now still. Our version of freedom in that somewhat restrictive household was escape. Mum slowly aged as she uncomplainingly boiled mason jars in the kitchen over a blazing woodstove, in Summer heat and Autumn cold, jarring the garden's goodness. It got us through the cold Winters, and all of it fortified us for a lifetime, unbeknownst and foggy then to our teenage pot-addled minds as it is clear today.

 It seems so long ago. I reflect on it and am thankful for my upbringing, for being exposed to different ideas early on, of knowing right from wrong and of sussing out the good and the bad. Some anger lingers in me still. I worked and toiled as all people do at all stages of their lives. But to hear the uninspiring philosophy drilled into my young and inexperienced head that "life is a short, intense struggle" was too much to bear at age seventeen. And so at eighteen I was gone, never to return to the farm or my parents care again. My brothers all did the same in their time and in their own way.

 "Wisdom is not the prerogative of youth" was a buzz phrase I heard repeatedly as a boy, and I understood it well. It certainly was a good impetus to get the hell away and make a life for one's self. I, as everyone does, had to make those universally repeated human mistakes for myself.

 Here I sit, nearly five years down the road from my father's early death, reflecting on his life and his impact on me. A voracious disease took him, fast and furious and with no mercy. He stomached it to the end. He, the man of steel, of daily ritual of work and discipline, a student of reading and of writing, of sweat and "hard yakker". The Olympian, the marathon runner, the classical piano player, the amazing persona of Dean Allan Thackwray is gone these five long years. In body but not in spirit.

 We all thought he had another ten in him. We watched him go, firm with belief in his afterlife and firm with resolve to the end. Rest in peace, you lived your life in turmoil masked by tasks and a tad too much grog than was good for you.

 I am left to wander. Or better yet, I'll clarify that I choose to wander. The peripatetic son, I was called. I used only those lessons given by him that were necessary to paddle my way through the white-water rapids of life's rocky obstacles. The rest I've made up along the way, eschewing a whole heap of others that either made no plain sense to me or that I was intellectually incapable of grasping. Some I left out simply because I did not agree with the philosophy behind them. Life with others is not meant be an argument. Just gentle and respectful disagreements.

 I'm doing alright. I know what I'm capable of. I have an interest in things of the mind and in the health of the body. I'm not afraid of anything except failure to live my life my way. That I am doing wholeheartedly. Is this a confession? Not really. I have no idea who really reads this, or who cares. No matter. It's my place to express myself and so I do.

 I'm grateful for my health, thankful for the hard work, appreciative of the lessons drilled into me and for those personal realisations that came to me outside of the master's intended teachings. Sifting through it all I have come to some of my own conclusions, as he likely intended me to. I am awake and aware each and every day to new experiences and honestly become more open and "liberal" to new ideas, not closed off and "decided" about my perceptions of the world and of others' opinions. I keep my eyes wide open and my head down. I'm fierce in my resolve and wide-eyed to possibility and change.

 Nothing Polly Anna about it.