Thirroul’s Tony Ryan travels back in time, thanks to a space-saving spare tyre
After finishing a night shift, I walked out to the car park, ready for the 70-minute drive home. After driving 30-odd metres, I noticed something wrong with the car. I pulled over to see the right rear tyre was as flat as the hat the old ‘carters’ wore at the Bulli workers club.
It was dark at 6am, the rain was coming down and the wind was howling (best described by my grandfather as a ‘lazy’ wind – it would not go around you, it just went through you).
After I’d emptied my car boot of all my footy training gear and boots and balls, I found out that I had a ‘space-saver’ tyre as the spare. Despite the challenging conditions, I was soon on my way.
The thing about a space-saver tyre is: you can only go 80km/h. And once you pass Heathcote and Waterfall, doing 80km/h is not popular. Cars were flashing lights at me, I think a few were indulging in a bit of road rage until they saw my tyre, when a bit of empathy might have snuck in.
It reminded me of when I was a learner driver. The old man was keen for me to get as many hours behind the wheel as possible, but he’d never allow me to go faster than 80km/h.
On a country trip up the Hume Highway at night I could always see a sea of white lights in the rear-view mirror. This could well be several hundred metres, but he would not let me speed up or pull over. It did get a bit nerve-racking when you saw the next overtaking lane was 17km away. Nor did it matter when eight cars would try and overtake at once when there was the slightest break in the oncoming traffic.
One lesson stands out. We had just gone out on a 42°C Melbourne day and we pulled up on tram tracks at a set of traffic lights on a very steep hill. As the lights turned green, I struggled to take off (manual car, as we all learned to drive in) on the hot tram tracks. After a couple of stalls, panic crept in as there were a few beeping horns behind me. The old man, who has never been renowned for his patience, started a barrage of abuse during which he questioned my intelligence, capabilities and, oddly, my parentage. So, after more kangaroo hops than you’d see at Symbio, I finally drove the car through the intersection and pulled over. I got out, said I’d had enough and was not getting back in the car. There were a few choice words thrown in. The old bloke slid into the driver’s seat, informed me to make my own way home and took off.
At that time I questioned my actions as it was frightfully hot and I was about 35km from home. I roughly knew where the closest train station was so I took off in that direction.
Upon arrival after a 20-minute walk, I realised that I’d left my wallet in the car. No money for the train fare, let alone a can of Coke. The thought of spending a day’s wage on a cab did not appeal to me so I thought I’d dodge the fare as it was a Saturday and the station wouldn’t be manned. To my surprise, there was a bloke at the station collecting and checking tickets.
Plan B was to walk to the next station, but the heat and dehydration were taking a toll. A few garden hoses were taken upon to quench my thirst.
Being the other side of town, I wouldn’t say I was lost, I just didn’t know where I was.
Finally, I found an unmanned station, like an oasis in the desert, and started my journey home.
A few hours after my hasty departure from the car I made it home. I had walked only two steps into the house when the old man was yelling at me for taking off. He said he had gone back to look for me but couldn’t find me. I wasn’t sure what he’d expected me to do – wait against a lightpole like the girls in Wentworth Street? He knew I’d left my wallet in the car, so he asked how I got home and fair to say there was another lecture on thievery which, in his mind, dodging a fare was akin to. (I am hoping the statute of limitations applies for the hideous crime of dodging a fare.)
So, the moral of the story is just give the “L” plate drivers a bit of courtesy and understanding as we all have to remember we were behind the wheel for the first time at one stage as well.
Now, I don’t want to paint too harsh a picture of the old bloke, but a few years later he was a goal umpire in an AFL game I was playing in and he made a horrendous mistake. I advised him that he was too old and should give it away. He informed me that if I said another word to him he’d report me and I’d have to go to the tribunal. I explained to him that if he did, he’d have to drive me to the tribunal as my car was in for a service. Luckily common sense prevailed, but the coach did take me off the ground for arguing with an umpire.
