Bazza regales the blokes at the pub with tales of his recent motorcycle adventure through the Flinders Ranges — a spiritual experience with an outback baptism.
IN FULL MOTORCYCLE REGALIA, including dried hard mud on taped boots, Bazza, with a red, wind-blown face managed a wide smile, as he wended his way to the bar table.
Mick shook his head and nodded at a schooner struggling to keep the last of its froth afloat.
“Well, well, Bazza…… still pretending you are an18 year old, riding around on the old Kawasaki? I thought you would have the common sense to invest in a camper van, have your feet up and have a cold one with some new found mates at a caravan park. You know… deep conversations about the size of your van and grey nomad tricks to save a dollar on holidays. Not you, Bazza…by the look of you, it looks like you have come off the motorcycle or been rolling in mud to get a bit of attention.”
Bazza took a generous sip and wiped away the last of the froth.
“Ahh…. Doesn’t hurt to act your shoe size every now and then, Mick… just to keep Father Time on his toes. In fact, I spent the last week or so in the Flinders Ranges, with a couple of old mates on a motorcycle tour….. mind you their bikes were considerably more modern.”
Mick took a sip, leaned back and sighed.
“Ahh… Bazza….. always a decade or two behind with innovations, and a good half century with your views on life. Anyway… I know you are busting to tell me…..what were the key takeaway lessons from your annual motorcycle pilgrimage to places most of us just visit on a map.”
Bazza loosened his jacket and a cloud of dust had Bella, the publican, raising her eyebrows.
“Well… lesson number one, Mick… make sure your tyres are pumped up for road use. I ended up with a flat at Wagga Wagga with the tube disintegrating. By gee, I got a nice little lecture off the otherwise helpful bloke who changed it. So onwards, across the Hay Plain... I have no idea what that country used to look like as we have left a mark wherever you look, whether it be farming with cotton, corn, wheat or grazing. Even the smells reek of human intervention….. feedlots and the like. We have done a pretty good job of leaving a massive footprint over the past couple of hundred years…. and it was all swirled up in a storm of dust with the prevailing winds.”
Mick raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin.
“Now… come on Bazza… some positive observations before I drown myself in this schooner.”
Bazza chuckled.
“Well on the dining side, Mick… South Australian pubs are far more adventurous than their NSW counterparts. Goat curries, emu, kangaroo and even crocodile for counter lunches offered a bit more choice to the ever present chicken parmigiana back home.”
They shared a laugh.
“But the ride through the Flinders Ranges was the highlight. It was a mythical and spiritual adventure sweeping through millenniums of time. I tell you, Mick…. at times I felt like a surfer in a majestic landscape, slicing through tectonic plates effortlessly folded and stacked by forces beneath us, over time unimaginable with the secrets of life’s beginnings fossilised within. It really does make you feel like a speck on a speck, in terms of place and time.”
Mick eyed Bazza from head to foot for some time.
“Crikey Bazza. With all that mythical floating through the landscape, I am somewhat surprised by your dried mud appearance and enough dust to upset Bella.”
Bazza rubbed the back of his head and creased his eyes.
“Well… Mick. I managed to fall off at the only major water crossing on the whole trip. If I was to stay optimistic and spiritual, I could call it my outback baptism by mud.”
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Australia License
Support independent journalism Subscribe to IA.
Related Articles
