Sharp, hot stink of Fox

My jaw dropped as I watched these little beauties rattle gracefully down the grass track and onto the concrete apron of the old WW2 airforce base on Lake Macquarie, just north of Sydney. If only my father were alive to see this!! Scrabbling through my folders I unearth the photo taken in 1942 after he joined the army at Middle Head in Sydney to train as a 'DonR' - a despactch rider. But now, for the life of me, I cannot think of the type of motorbike Dad had. My head says a type of BSA, but the indistinct logo cannot be distorted into anything remotely like 'BSA'. The title of this post comes from 'The Thought-Fox' by Ted Hughes: Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head.

A lurk of lanes

Trickling down from Oxford Street to Five Ways, there is a lurk of lanes secreted into the escarpment. Being raised on 'Swallows and Amazons' and assorted adventures of The Famous Five and The Secret Seven, I am inclined to give my fevered imagination free rein as I wind my way homeward.

The red apron

He stalked the alley, shuffling from one side to the other, responding in a sotto-voce faux-reasonable tone. Oh, to be gunning her up the freeway, his hair disheveled, his skin tingling. That must wait. She must wait. He must wait - inside.

Theme Thursday - The mystery of the human brain

Vascular dementia is a mystifying ailment.

This afternoon I showed my father the 1942 photograph of him astride a motorcycle in his backyard in Florence Street, Hornsby . He could remember it was a Panther and that its headlight had a blackout cover. He told me the story of remoulding the exhaust pipe to ride lower to avoid it burning his younger brother’s leg. He told me the story of riding a BSA through the mud and slush of New Guinea in 1943 as a Signalman riding despatch between command posts. He linked this to his love of bicycles, walking from Hornsby to Pennant Hills in 1935 to buy his first pushbike for 10/- and how he wished, upon his demob in November 1945, he had set up his own cycle shop.


Then, without so much as a pause, he turned to me and asked me about a specific photo on his wall.

Who is she?
She is Olwen.

Why did I have her photo on the table in my tent in New Guinea?
You were engaged to her.

Who is she?
She was your wife.

Did you know her?
She was my mother.

(Pause) So, am I your father? Yes, Dad. You are my father.
(Pause) That was a good bike that Panther ...

Then I really made his afternoon by producing his Army Driver’s Licence which showed he was licensed to drive a range of vehicle types (1A, 1B, 2A, 3B and 5B) but not tanks.

He chuckled.


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