Tuesday, January 25, 2011


So we went - we found the cafe by the big mimosa clump -
We raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at pies from the jump,
No use to try for fancy eating now.
And, Ross, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the bikes in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

And a great lunch under the shade of the snow covered mountains.
Another great Biblio moment. We raised our glasses to Ian and Sherrey and looked forward to seeing them next year. And then to Cooma and Queanbeyan.

So Ross rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his Beemer past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the exhaust, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded bars,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the motors with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

biblio 2010

Then fast the riders followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their exhausts,
And the pipes woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild bikes held their way,
Where mountain ash and Kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the bikes good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Flores took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of big potholes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the Beemer have his head,
And he swung his bars round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the Beemer kept its feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Biblio never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that Sydney biker ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never pulled the brake till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the bikes as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the gearshift fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild bikers racing yet,
With the man from Biblio at their heels.

And he led them single-handed till their exhaust was white with smoke.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain bike he could scarcely raise a trot,
It was mud from fork to fender from the ride;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was Beemer bike a cur.

And down by Kosciuszko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The gang from Biblio are a household word today,
And the librarians tell the story of their ride.

Thredbo and the bikes
At last Thredbo, no library to visit but great views and fresh air..

Turistas at Thredbo 2
All accounted for...

Thredbo in November - still some white stuff up top
Snow on them there hills..

And then back to Queanbeyan for a few ales a thunderstorm and a feast at the local Thai.
Coffee stop on the way back from Thredbo
Coffee stop

This Biblio gig can be hard work....

And at dinner there was talk of that days ride to the mighty mountain up the road, of rides we had and bikes we rode and how we would rather be there than work.

The Mild Ones are: Ross Balharrie, Pam Young, Alan Arnold, Alan Walker, Brian Young, Leon Alavoine, Ian McCallum, Sherrey, Roger Clark, and Alan Flores.

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