What would
Dot do?
Gunna gunna gunna...it's
been the litany around Chateau Guido for a while and I'm so sick of it that
I'm on the verge of throwing up. That's it, I've damn well had it with this
shite about talking over when we go for a ride next.
Next Monday. Can hear the rumble of the flat six - it's not angry so much as
mad. The mad cackle as the pots fire and simply say something weird like "point
me at a horizon and I'll find it".
This is long overdue and I couldn't give a fat rat's arse about whether anyone
else is joining in. What drives me mad about this whole plot is I consult all
sorts of busy folk to see if they'd like to come along. First they yes, then
they say no. Schedules are like that. But here's a tip: when you just say you're
going, suddenly people find the time.
That's it, sod them, and the rest of the plot, it's Monday morning and I'm going.
Am taking the long way up there, then settling for a day of exploring the hinterland,
then wandering back to the pub for a read. Over a deep and clear gin and tonic.
Last time I did this, I got to read a classic version of the Berewolf legend.
Not sure about the reading this time, but it has to be really good. I'm about
done with the crime novels by Kinky Friedman (of the Texas Jew Boys fame) and
the PD James et al route. It's a bit of a challenge, really. Kidnapped and Catriona
has some attractions, but there has to be some new territory out there - local
knowledge says that the used everything emporium in Corryong (the town swears
it's the resting place of The Man from Snowy River) has the sludge from deceased
cocky estates. Though on the last few visits it seems to be the resting place
of obscure WWII (the big one, as P Smith would say) books and gems for Mills
& Boon collectors.
Okay, here's what I really want. A backroad ride into Falls Creek, matched by
the literary discovery along the lines of The Master & Margarita (by Mikhail
Bulgakov). Which is asking a hell of a lot. It's hard to beat the Falls Creek
road, in any country, for get-it-right-you're-in-heaven and get-it-wrong-you're-in-traction
alternatives. As for the reading, well The Master et al chats about the devil
visiting Moscow and taking over the minds of the populace for a few nights with
no days in between.
It's not for everyone, but I'm hopeful that some cocky (or Ms Cocky?) out there
picked up something on their travels through Europe - on the way back from Cambridge,
Oxford, finishing school - read the book, then left it in the bedside cupboard
for the liquidators of the deceased estate to find and place in the Corryong
used-everything shop.
Which puts the donors back a couple of generations, about my grandmother's lot
in time. She who played violin for an orchestra, then stopped to get married
(?!) but found the time decades later to introduce her grandson to the joys
of the wicked Mr PG Wodehouse and his novels. Althea was about the same generation
as the Motor Maids - probably the world's oldest women's motorcycle group -
and, seeing the glint in her eye I'm pretty sure she missed out on bikes only
by mistake.
Her namesake, one of my daughters, hasn't. And since we've wandered off into
that territory, I can recommend a squiz at www.motormaids.org.
Now where were we? Going for a ride and finding a book. This riding bizzo seems
to be a leisure pursuit for most, and what worries me is that if I find it hard
to organise a ride (given an embarrassing number of bikes, a shortage of time,
good contacts, and no shortage of experience) how are the rest of us going?
Well here's a tip. Just say you're going and make up the rest from there. The
time you thought you didn't have is a little like luggage, it expands to fill
105 per cent of the available space.
If that doesn't work for you, look at this picture of Dot Robinson, of Detroit,
Michigan, the first President of Motor Maids. Does this look like a person who
blathered around wondering if she'd go for a ride? No. So next time you wonder
if you should go, ask, "What would Dot do?"
Guy "Guido" Allen
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