Having fought a losing battle against Murphy (see Murphy's Law), for the whole holidays, it was time for one final showdown. A day, a place, a camera, a bike, and a baked bean sandwich was organised with my good mate TBP.
The day, was Thursday, 4th October.
The arena, was Menangle.
The camera(s), a Canon 1100D, and a Nikon L120.
The bike, was a piece of shit.
The baked bean sandwich, wrapped in cling wrap.
We agreed to meet at Macathur at 0745 hours. TBP lives in Hurstville, and I, Rozza, live in Summer Hill, so we made our own seperate ways to Macarthur. When we got off the train at Macarthur, we quite literally bump into each other, having been totally oblivious to the fact that we had been on the same train together for at least the past half hour, at opposite ends.
We covered every possible leak in our battleplan in this war waged against Murphy and his damn law.
Our next objective: the train to Menangle. We waited on the station for the 0757 service, and did not move. Despite an enormous urge to locate a public bathroom, I held on, determined not to give Murphy the opportunity to put a score on us....So I waited, and was rewarded with the train turning up very shortly after.
10 Minutes Later...
After another attempt by our guard to hydraulically compress us with the door as we got off, we managed, and we saddled up and were off.
The day, was Thursday, 4th October.
The arena, was Menangle.
The camera(s), a Canon 1100D, and a Nikon L120.
The bike, was a piece of shit.
The baked bean sandwich, wrapped in cling wrap.
We agreed to meet at Macathur at 0745 hours. TBP lives in Hurstville, and I, Rozza, live in Summer Hill, so we made our own seperate ways to Macarthur. When we got off the train at Macarthur, we quite literally bump into each other, having been totally oblivious to the fact that we had been on the same train together for at least the past half hour, at opposite ends.
We covered every possible leak in our battleplan in this war waged against Murphy and his damn law.
Our next objective: the train to Menangle. We waited on the station for the 0757 service, and did not move. Despite an enormous urge to locate a public bathroom, I held on, determined not to give Murphy the opportunity to put a score on us....So I waited, and was rewarded with the train turning up very shortly after.
10 Minutes Later...
After another attempt by our guard to hydraulically compress us with the door as we got off, we managed, and we saddled up and were off.
We rode (or rather, huffed and puffed) up the hill, on a gorgeous, tree lined, gravel track. I rode slowly up the hill, and around the corner onto Menangle Road, enjoying the vast lush green paddocks that stretched out on both sides heading up to the railway overbridge.... then I sensed something was behind me.
Holy Shit!!
Behind me, was a dual trailer steel truck, bearing down right behind me. Off like the clappers I go, but pedalling flat out seemed to make me advance at about half a mile an hour, so plan be was invoked: I bailed off the bike, half wheeled-half tossed it into the bridge rail, and jumped up onto the armco barrier. (that the steel roadside barrier that stops cars winding up as a crushed mess at the bottom of the embankment)
This slight brush with adventure having buoyed our spirits, or more correctly, TBP's spirits, evident by him shitting himself laughing, we moved into position on the Menangle Overbridge, and almost on cue, the Melbourne day train roared past.
Murphy 0 Boys 1 (see the previous Tale of the Rails if you don't understand this little catchphrase)
Murphy 0 Boys 1 (see the previous Tale of the Rails if you don't understand this little catchphrase)
"What's due next?" I said to TBP
"Dunno mate, maybe Berrima Cement train?"
"Gee that sounds a goer."
"Bloody oath. Reckon we should go down to the crossing? The shade's buggering up even Buckley's chance of a photo."
With this thought being digested, I became aware of a slight buzzing noise. I sprang around looking for it, thinking there'd be a train, but alas, the buzzing was not coming from the railway line. The sound evolved into something not unlike a lawnmower, and my imagination began to toy with the idea of someone riding a lawnmower up the steep hill, screened by a thick line of bush.
From around the corner...
came...
a postie, riding one of those distinctive, crappy red motorbikes. For those playing overseas, the posties ride around on a motorbike counterbalanced by the Queen's Royal Mail in crates either side of the rear wheels. He went up and down the road a few times, always revving up for us
came...
a postie, riding one of those distinctive, crappy red motorbikes. For those playing overseas, the posties ride around on a motorbike counterbalanced by the Queen's Royal Mail in crates either side of the rear wheels. He went up and down the road a few times, always revving up for us
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