Accent
First Love
Brushies
Conflict
Give Me Courage
Trip around Australia
Homeward bound
Haiku
Huon Pine
Life is a jigsaw
Images
What is a race?
The Fourteen Mile
Strings
Chronicle of a Tree
The little wallaby
Whale Watching
List of 2005 stories
|
The Fourteen Mile
I guessed he was from country where corners are rare and hills non-existent. Along the straits he was so close to my rear
end I could hardly see him in my wing mirrors. But when we came to a corner he fell back a hundred yards. An incapable fool
in his shiny, high rise, chrome plated, overrated European four-wheel drive. I was driving the unit’s main rescue vehicle.
A white, slab-sided, five ton truck with aerials, ladders and lights on the roof, logos on the side panels. A very
distinctive and memorable vehicle, the only one of its type in the State. The big engine hauled us up the road at a
reasonable, legal speed, so I was not holding the fool up. Also I detest tailgating. I was tempted to dab the brakes and
slow to a crawl through the real windy bits, but sanity prevailed. I just maintained my pace along the road I knew so well.
Then on the downhill straight just before Liapootah, he roared past. Must have been 20 k over the limit. At the end of the
straight, the road curves to the right and begins its long, winding ascent to the central plateau. Naturally the fool slowed
to negotiate the curve at about half the safe speed and I closed on him rapidly. I had no intention of passing him unless
he pulled up, but it looked like he thought he had a race on his hands. So we proceeded up the hill. He crawling around
corners and zooming along the straits. I closing and braking, then falling behind as he floored the pedal. At the top of
the hill, the road runs through undulating forest country. There is a sharp right hander by the canal, which needs to be
taken slowly, but it is mainly an easy drive. Easy, that is, until you get to the long descent down to the Nive River and
the long ascent the other side. It is steep, and it is windy, and I knew the fool would creep down and crawl up. But I was
not worried. You see, I knew about the Fourteen Mile.
This is a gravel road that cuts across to the highway a few kilometres from Derwent Bridge. It is narrow and has lots of
curves. No speed track and you are likely to meet log trucks, tractors or fishermen towing boat trailers. So you go
cautiously. But it is still a heck of a lot quicker. At the junction, I slowed and swung onto the gravel. In less than half
an hour I was back on the highway and heading for Bronte Park. This meant I was heading back towards the Nive valley, which
I had bypassed by taking the Fourteen Mile. Two minutes later, the fool came round a corner. I can still recall the look on
his face. There was that darn great rescue truck he had passed nearly an hour ago. He knew it had not passed him. He
thought he had won that race. And here was the darn thing. Not only had it got in front, it was coming back. I raised a
solitary finger in salute.
|
|