A Life of Pride. Alan G Pride
Chrysler Airflow car with a beautiful aerodynamic body, almost as fancy as a Cadillac or Packard.
Perhaps I was just along for conversation – but no! When we got north of Yanco Glen, the land rose up in sandhills, steeper and steeper, drifting over the dirt road. Some of them were nearly a kilometre long. Soon we were bogged! Baz opened the boot: in there he had two huge rolls of rubber-backed carpet. And my job was to dig the sand out from under the back wheels and put the carpet down for the car to run on. I must have done this two dozen times during the day. And when we got to the gates between properties, I had to get out to open and close them.
It was late when we got to the station. I was exhausted. The station family, about nine of them, gave us a warm welcome and a huge dinner. Remote stations like this were so isolated, they loved visitors. They’d see Aboriginal boundary riders and sometimes shearers, but rarely people from town. I was impressed by the place the next day. It had its own gardener tending a big garden, kept green with bore or tank water. The vegetables were all wire-netted against the birds, rabbits and ‘roos. The station people killed their own meat too, keeping it in a ‘meat room’ shaded by a big tree next to the homestead. There were no fridges out there (in 1945-46), so the joints of meat lay on long tables between layers of salt. Saturated towels were hung up to try and cool the air.
The actual mining camp was a further 20k's away. Baz and I drove out in blistering heat. There was the big drill bringing test ores up, mullock heaps and workers in tents. We spent two days fixing the broken truck, our only shade the vehicle itself. Then it was thankfully back to Broken Hill, struggling over those sandhills again, while I wielded the shovel and rolls of carpet.
My holidays on the coast had shown me what a remote place Broken Hill was; Quinyambie Station gave me a whole new definition of remoteness! It was fascinating, but I’d never want to live in such an isolated place.
[*Marilyn writes: 'Dad referred to the station as 'Quinnaby'. Research turns up no station of that name, while Quinyambie fits the distance and location described.']
Chapter 10
Freedom on Wheels
I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d be old enough to drive a car and ride a motorcycle. My dad had won motorcycle races and had some trophies, plus a well- kept 1926 Douglas bike in the back shed – yet he was dead against my riding, saying it was too dangerous. This struck me as unfair. I’d generally been an obedient boy, but the attraction of motorcycles was too great. At age 14 I’d been captivated by the sight and sound of a very capable black-leather clad rider, on a magnificent red and chrome Levis King 500. I made a habit of waiting on the same corner at the same time each evening, just to watch this rider sweep smoothly around the bend with footrest almost touching the bitumen. I’d then wait while he accelerated into the distance, listening for his change into top gear long after he’d disappeared from view. I dreamed of owning one of these beautiful handmade machines, but didn’t see another like it until 1973. In the meantime I’d met ‘Gidgee’ Stevens, a bit older than me, and from him I bought a 1924 Rudge motorbike, in pieces. With no transport, I’d have to carry a piece home every night. But Dad said, “Don’t you dare bring a motorbike here!”
Kevin ‘Pro’ Hart, a boy about my age, lived nearby in Thomson Street. We went to different schools, but often played together and I was always welcome in his home. His mother was a lovely lady who thought my father was too strict, so she let me bring the Rudge parts there and Pro and I reassembled them.
The bike never ran well, though – it was really just a bunch of spare parts, bolted together by kids who hardly knew what they were doing. I ended up selling it to Pro, who pulled it apart again and sold the parts separately.
Meanwhile I wanted to know all about riding bikes and driving cars, so I borrowed a book from the library and learned the technicalities off by heart. I’d sit in a chair in my bedroom pretending to ride and drive, going through the actions. Eventually, when home alone, I found Dad’s car keys, crept into the garage where he kept the Oldsmobile and carefully reversed it out of the garage and back in again.
That was my first experience behind the wheel. A big risk! If Dad had caught me, I’d have copped so much trouble, let alone if I’d damaged the car.
My first motorcycle ride was a bit different. A friend had a 1939 Silver Star BSA 350 cc and said I could ride it around the block, if I didn’t damage it. I managed that without a scratch! Well, the next thing was to get one of my own. I got a 1924 250 side-valve sausage-tank BSA, very primitive, and I rode it – unlicensed – around the back alleys. It lived under the grapevine trellis at Mrs Hart's for four years, as did every other motorbike I had around that time.
Chapter 11
License Antics
I confess I did sometimes ride to work unlicensed; probably my parents thought I was getting a lift with someone else. But in those days, you could get a license at 15 years and 9 months if you had a job to get to. So on the 29th of May, 1946, I rushed over to the police station. There was a big, fat sergeant behind the desk: he hardly looked up when I said I wanted a motorbike license. I remember walking out onto the road where my BSA waited and the sergeant said to me, “Just do a circle." I did so without having to put my feet on the ground. “Then go around the block and come back here.” I did so. When I returned he was nowhere in sight, so I went back into the station and there he was, with the paperwork already filled out! So in those days, the police attitude was that if you could go around the block without killing yourself, you were good enough to get a license. No logbooks, knowledge tests or L-plates. Mind you, the streets were much quieter then – but the cars and bikes were less reliable and the Broken Hill roads were rough. Many a time after getting my license, I’d lie in bed at night thinking how lucky I was to still be alive. Then I’d go out again the next day and ride just as recklessly!
So in that way my father was quite right, motorbikes were dangerous, but nothing was going to stop me. At the same time, though, his frugality had rubbed off on me and I realised that I could enjoy riding and make money too – or at least break even. I got into the habit of cheaply buying a bike with some scratches or rust, or a few simple mechanical faults that I knew how to fix, taking it to Pro’s and fixing it up. I’d get it running nicely, keep it for a few months, then sell it.
Often, I didn’t even have to advertise it. I was friendly with a lot of young blokes starting their motorcycling lives and there was usually someone willing to take a bike off my hands.
After my first BSA, I had a 1916 Harley Davidson in reasonable condition. I kept it for about 12 months, rode it regularly and doubled my money when I sold it. This really left a big impression on me and over the years I’ve had very few new cars or bikes: they’ve mostly been second-hand and profitable.
Next was a 1929 Harley. This was just after the war period, when petrol was still rationed. A motorbike could only have one gallon (4.5 litres) a month, but you could get six gallons for a car, so the obvious thing to do was buy a car and put it up on blocks. I could then have the petrol coupons for motorcycling! So I bought a 1916 Model T Ford with a flat-top tray from a fellow mine-worker, Ron Blake, for £15.
I took it to Pro’s, as there wasn’t room for it at home, though Dad didn’t mind my having a car. A Model T Ford is unusual in its design, with a complicated gearbox and a gear change on the steering column. I did get my car license and ended up driving it quite a bit, once I’d mastered its quirks.
One Christmas Day, we’d had a lovely