And De Fun Don't Done (14 page)

‘Well, what do you reckon, Hank?' said Les. ‘We head for those rocks?'

Hank gave a weather eye and adjusted his baseball cap. He got on his bike, nodded, then like John Wayne leading the troops out of Fort Bravo started pedalling off towards the rocks in the distance.

Norton couldn't believe how easy it was belting the old bike along the beach. The tyres were hard and dug in, it had heaps of weight and once you got it into top gear it skimmed across the firm wet sand like it was jet propelled. Norton hit the brakes and skidded all over the place. Look out America, he laughed to himself. Here comes Les Norton. BMX Bandit.

Hank, on the other hand, was pedalling slowly along like an old primary school teacher taking herself to church on Sunday. He wasn't even in top gear and already he was doing it tough, plus he didn't appear all that keen to get his shiny new ‘Italian' racer splashed with salt water. Les watched him for a few moments then turned around and cruised up alongside.

‘So how's it going, Hank?'

‘I'm doing just fine,' puffed the American, wobbling along in second gear.

‘Yeah. That's good.' Norton pedalled along with him for a while through and around the people walking along the beach, but it didn't take long to get punishingly boring, present company included. ‘Well, I might have a bit of fun. I'll catch up with you towards those rocks.' Hank didn't reply as Norton slowed up and let him get a few yards in front.

Okay, thought Les. It's mug lair time. Let's see what this fifty dollar special can do. He threw the old bike into top gear, stood up on the pedals and zoomed past Hank like he was standing still. In no time Les was again whizzing along the beach, warm wind in his hair the tyres crackling and hissing almost musically as they zipped across the hard moist sand. There was a scattering of people walking past but spread out enough so you wouldn't hit them. A little kid ran up on Norton's left, Norton veered right, straight into a few inches of water washing across the beach. The old bike screamed across the incoming wave, spraying sea water in every direction and all over Les. Norton roared with delight as it splashed across his face and sunglasses. After that, Les just pedalled faster and faster, straight across every little wave rolling up along the beach, spraying more water everywhere. It was great, and nobody seemed to give a stuff. Les criss-crossed the beach then zoomed up onto the dryer sand where he'd noticed those tidal pools. They were luke warm and about a foot deep. Norton went through them like Wayne Gardner, and any people walking or sitting nearby got doused. He flogged the bike
through the pools, along the beach then down the rise from the pools, flat out into the sea. The bike stopped dead in about a metre of water and Les would have done himself an injury only he flung himself over the handlebars to land flat on his back in the ocean, just managing to save his sunglasses as he did. Laughing like a loon, Norton picked up his bike from were it was lying in the water, climbed aboard and got going again. Norton was making a complete dill of himself and should have been thoroughly ashamed. He wasn't: not in the least. While he was making a fool of himself, though, Les had been keeping an eye on Hank. He was back about half a kilometre and the rocks were a little closer than that in front now. Dripping with water, Les again turned back and pulled up alongside Hank. Boofhead's face was starting to get a bit of colour up, and it wasn't from the sun.

‘So how's it goin', Hank?' asked Les.

‘I told you,' puffed Hank. ‘I'm doing just fine.'

‘Yeah. It's heaps of fun ain't it? I told you to get yourself a bike.'

They pedalled along in silence, winding in and out of the punters. Hank seemed to be taking it all very seriously instead of just getting out and having a bit of fun. Norton got the feeling Hank was a bit allergic to any strenuous exercise. Despite their slow pace, Les noticed the rocks at the end getting closer.

‘Hey, Hank,' he said. ‘Can your bike do this?'

‘What?'

‘Hang in there, Charlie Brown, and I'll show you.'

Les took off his sunglasses and pedalled past Hank up the slope near the tidal pools, where he sat on his bike for a moment waiting for the water to recede. As soon as there was a washout, he jumped up on the pedals, slipped the old bike into top gear and belted down the slope across the wet sand, and with spray flying everywhere rode straight into the surf again. As soon as the waves hit, he jumped up, put one foot on the handlebars, another on the frame, then ‘hung five' for about a second before
somersaulting over the front of the bike onto his back. It wouldn't have been enough to earn you a place in the stuntman's Hall of Fame, but it was definitely enough to get you thrown off the beach for being a complete dill. Les picked himself and the bike up out of the water, shook the water off, then pedalled back to Hank.

There you go, Hank,' said Les, water still dripping everywhere. That's called a wombat-hang-five-with- tuck. Come on, let's see you have a go.' Hank ignored Les and pedalled along, trying to look as if he was above doing anything so stupid. Norton grinned at him. ‘Yeah, I thought so, Hank. You mightn't be a tourist, but underneath you're just another yuppie with a new toy.' Les shook his head in disbelief. ‘Fair dinkum. What am I gonna do?'

They reached the rocks, which turned out to be just an expanse of crumbly sandstone running out into the water and off into the distance. There was a concrete pathway and above this a few walled-off houses with cactus plants and the odd stumpy tree in the front overlooking the ocean. Hank rested his bike against the wall; Les did the same and without taking his clothes off jumped straight in the ocean to flounder around in the water while Hank floundered against the wall trying to get his breath back. Les flopped around, checking out a number of names carved in the sandstone. It was sort of nice, but it could have been a beach in Saudi Arabia it was that hot and the water so salty and tepid. Les would have killed for a cold, freshwater shower. A number of punters strolled past, taking in the sea breeze. There were definitely no fit- looking bikini girls like Norton was used to back at Bondi, and the politest thing Les could say about the men was that none of them looked like they were starving. In fact, surmised Norton, if a famine ever hit Florida they'd probably eat each other. After a while Hank looked like he was ready to leave, which meant Les had to go also. They mounted up, with Hank once more leading the platoon and Les bringing up the rear. They'd got about a mile or so with Hank wheezing and Les playing ‘splashies'
along the water's edge, when Les turned around to see that Hank had got off his bike and was pushing it across the dry sand. Hello, thought Les. John Wayne's horse has gone lame and he's going to have to shoot it. He pedalled back and stopped alongside Hank.

‘What's up?'

‘I want to go to the store.'

Another trail led up from the beach, they followed that to the street then pedalled along till they got to the main road and a small shopping centre, stopping outside a mini-supermarket. Inside, the air-conditioning felt like the Steppes and there looked like millions of different brands of cold drinks. Les would have been content to keep going and have a drink when they finished, but he ended up with a bottle of something called Lime Gator- ade. When he got outside Hank had a can of Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was something Les had never seen or experienced before — getting some exercise and having to stop in the middle while someone had a cigarette. He drank his Gatorade and stepped back to escape the fumes.

‘That was a good ride,' said Hank, very matter-of- factly. ‘I always knew I still had it.'

‘Yeah, you ride like the wind,' said Les. ‘Only because your bike's a lot better than mine.'

Hank sucked in a lungful of smoke along with a supercilious smile. ‘You noticed, huh?'

‘How could I not notice? It was almost poetry in motion.'

They eventually finished their drinks and headed back to the beach.

They pedalled along, Les still ripping it up near the water's edge and Hank plugging along further up towards the dry sand. The Coke and a cigarette seemed to have sparked him up a bit somehow; he was going a bit faster and Norton got this feeling Hank was planning something. Les was a few yards in front, after splashing through some more water, and was about to take off again when suddenly Hank tore past him in top gear like
a man possessed. About fifty yards ahead was a pool of water a few feet wide that some kids must have dug. There were a couple of sandcastles on either side of the pool and a wall of sand around the edge a few inches high. Hank went for it. Hey, go killer, thought Les. Hank burst through the first wall okay and tore through the shallow water: Norton was impressed. With water spraying out on either side Hank got up on the pedals to crash through the opposite wall. He was going like a rocket too and looking good. But as he hit the other tiny wall of sand the front forks snapped, the handlebars dropped and Hank sailed over the front. He did a quick somersault and finally landed on his back in a tangle of arms and legs. He was lucky he didn't break his neck. The bike fell back into the pool, the front wheel all buckled up and the back wheel still spinning like a wobbly roulette wheel. Norton screeched to a halt alongside Hank. Unlike the American's, Norton's face was jubilant.

‘Mate,' said Les excitedly, ‘you did it. A full-frontal- wombat-with-tuck. That's got to be one of the ballsiest things I've ever seen. You're no yuppie, Hank. You're a fuckin' thrillseeker. What made you decide to do it? You made mine look pretty tame too, I have to admit.'

‘I didn't try anything,' hissed Hank. ‘The fucking front forks broke.'

‘What? Bullshit! That's a Clive Masters Villawood.' Norton looked astounded. ‘I don't believe it.'

No doubt about it, though, Hank's bike had collapsed just like the ones Les read about back home. Hank's $350 Italian Sports Racer was a lemon. Another Australian had shit on him. Hank was on his hands and knees, covered in wet sand, still trying to figure which way was up. Les laid his bike down and went to give him a hand up. As he did, Les couldn't believe his eyes. The same fifty dollar bill was in Hank's back pocket and had edged out. Les looked at it again, looked at the sky for temporary forgiveness then removed it the same as he did before and put it in his pocket as Hank rocked unsteadily on his feet.

‘So what do you want to do now, Hank?' asked Norton.
‘My bike's still going. Can I give you a lift?' For some weird reason Les started singing an old Rolf Harris song. ‘Did you think I would leave you lying, when there's room on my bike for two…'

Hank's eyes spun round, his whole body seemed to quiver. ‘I don't need a goddamn lift!'

Hank picked up what was left of his bike and began trudging back to the car. Les pedalled alongside him for as long as he could, offering his condolences, before finally heading back to the pick-up where he could have a good laugh in peace.

Hank eventually arrived, scowled at Les, then threw what was left of his bike in the back and climbed in the front.

‘Where to now?' asked Les.

‘Back to that goddamn bike shop.'

‘I should jolly well think so too.'

When they got there the goddamn bike shop was closed. Till Tuesday. Norton thought Hank was going to go completely under this time, he was ranting and raving that much. Back in the car his face looked like an eggplant.

‘Can you believe that?' he fumed, when he finally stopped shaking enough to light a cigarette.

‘No,' answered Les. ‘It's got me stuffed. I thought in America shops opened around the clock and it was all service.' Les watched Hank dragging on his smoke. ‘Still, when it's all boiled down, it does serve you right, mate.'

‘What do you mean, serves me right, you jerk? The fucking front forks on that sonofabitch snapped!'

‘Fair enough. But all's I'm saying is, you shouldn't have bought some fancy wog brand of bike.' Les nodded to the back of the pick-up. ‘Look at mine. Roadmaster Star. Delaware Bike Company USA. I wouldn't have bought it if it had of been some wog thing. While I'm here I'll be buying American, mate. It pays dividends.'

Hank sucked more smoke into his lungs and let it burst out again. It hadn't been a very good day, either for the pocket or the ego. In fact, if they'd have taken every rotten day Hank had ever had and stacked them one on
top of the other, it's doubtful they would have made a day as rotten as this one.

‘So where to now, mate?' asked Les.

Hank sucked in some more smoke and hit the ignition. ‘Home.'

‘You're the boss.'

Norton didn't say a great deal on the way home. There wasn't much he could say. Though he did mention that if Hank wanted to go out for a drink somewhere that night Les would be only too happy to shout. Hank muttered something along the lines of he'd think about it. It had been a great day for Les. Watching Hank buy that shonky bike then go on his arse was almost as good as watching him get covered in shit. He was the original Sad Sack, no doubt about it, and no wonder his girl left him and he had no mates. But Les also had that condo, or whatever they called it, to check out. He doubted if Hank would want to go over there this afternoon, the mood he was in, so he'd have to leave that till first thing tomorrow. But Les would be there, even if he had to go by pushbike or walk.

By the time they got back to Swamp Manor Hank looked rooted, both mentally and physically. He had a sand rash across his chin, on his knees, down one shoulder and around his elbow. Les could see his arse and back was aching and though he tried to hide it Hank was limping when they got out of the car. He muttered something about Les calling over to his house at nine. Norton watched Hank limp off home with what was left of his bike under his arm and tried not to laugh. It was impossible. Norton guessed that if they did go out that night it wouldn't be for very long.