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The Mountain Biker from Snowy River

There were ripples on the lattes for the rumour had been spread

That a cash prize had been offered for the ride

That they did each Sunday morning – a thousand dollars, it was said–

And a row of fancy bikes was parked outside.



All the tried and noted riders from the city and the East

Had gathered there for brunch at ten a.m.

For the locals like hard riding – if it's followed by a feast –

And the Coogee slopes are made for such as them.



There was Henderson who made his name when racing Malvern Stars

The old man with his Lycra faded white

Yet few could ride beside him when he took the handlebars

He could go wherever you could take a bike.



And Clancy of the Overflow came down to try his luck

No finer rider 'ere put foot on pedal

He still finished up the time trial on the day his brakes got stuck

And he crossed the finish line on smoking metal.



And one was there, a stripling, on a step-through ladies' frame

A one-speed with a springy leather seat

With a brake that you backpedalled when the time for stopping came

And rubber pedals underneath the feet.



But the man looked tough and wiry – just the sort that won't say die –

As the fastest road race riders often are

And his bike was built to take whatever came down from on high

In the wicker basket on the handlebar.



But the frame was old and rusty, one would doubt its power to stay,

And the old man said, 'That bike will never do

For a long and tiring road race – lad, you'd better stop away,

These hills are far too rough for such as you.'



So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his friend –

'I think we ought to let him come,' he said;

'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

For both his bike and he are mountain bred.'



'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a mountain bike would fall apart on every second ride,

And the man that holds his own is good enough.'



So he went, but on the first ascent, the town boys formed a clump

They cranked away, and shifted down to low

And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.



And, Clancy, you must catch them, and catch them early on.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could pass the peloton,

If they're in front when they come down the hills.'



So Clancy rode to catch them – he was bent over the bars

And his feet flew round the cranks like bl**dy h*ll,

As he led the group of chasers – overtaking several cars

With the jolly sounds of tinkling from his bell.



But fast the town boys pedalled up the Coogee Bay Road slope

Where the eager watchers gathered on each side

And the old man muttered fiercely 'We haven't got a hope:

No man can catch them down the other side.'



On the Carrington Road summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest whisper 'Jeez',

The slope was one in four and the bitumen was full

Of pot holes: you could slip and skin your knees.



But the man from Snowy River let the one-speed just freewheel,

And he turned his head around and gave a cheer,

And he passed some of the town boys as their brakes began to squeal,

While the bystanders looked on in very fear.



He sent the gravel flying, but the bicycle was sweet,

The potholes hardly bounced his rapid glide,

And The Man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat –

It was grand to see that mountain biker ride.



Through the red lights and the stop signs and the parked cars all around

Down the hillside at a tearing pace he went;

And he never pedalled backwards till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.



He was right among the townies as they climbed Clovelly Hill,

And the watchers back in Coogee standing mute,

Saw his pedals turning madly, he was right among them still,

As he raced along up Brook Street in pursuit.



Then they lost him for a moment, where two Coogee gullies met

Up in Randwick, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside, the town boys racing yet,

With The Man from Snowy River at their wheels.



And as the shadows lengthened, he passed the thinning pack

Just taking on one rider at a time

Till he pedalled down the bay road, with the sunset at his back

And with daylight second, crossed the finish line.



But his trusty ladies' step-through looked a bit the worse for wear

With a sagging saddle and a twisted chain,

With crooked rims and ruptured tires and bearings glowing hot

It looked as though she'd never ride again.



So among the cappuccinos in the café by the Bay,

Where the men in Lycra tell their stories tall

The Man from Snowy River is a household word today –

And that's his bike, there, hanging on the wall.

©Joe Wolfe, with apologies to Banjo Patterson and his Man from Snowy River.