Sofala Ride 18th May 2023

 I arrived at McGrath’s Hill Maccas. The instructions were clear. A 9.30 departure, Frosty leading. Good old Frosty!

 

Only Richo was there. He wondered if he’d got it wrong? Wayne turned up a minute or two later, having dropped into Bunnings to get some polish for his knobs. So concerned was Wayne, he called Frosty. No response. 

 

Slowly the crowd, such as it was, built up. Six of us. 9.30amarrived and according to the manual we must be gone. We quickly elected Andy to the job. Everyone was happy, except Andy. It was 9.31. Andy boomeranged the leadership role to the most pathetic rider, me, and knew he could rely on my impatience to just get going. At that point, Tony and Ross dribbled in, still looking for the right way from last week’s ride. They fell, confused, into line.

 

It was quite chilly, but otherwise a beautiful morning. We floated up past the grass farms, reciting “How Green is my Valley”. The sun shone, illuminating a clear blue sky. A large military aircraft lounged its way around the near skyscape. I couldn’t see any red stars on it so assumed it was the one we have, up there to justify its existence to the taxpayers of Australia. We were all very happy, including Tony and Ross who thought, at last, they had someone to follow.

 

As one tries not to fall off going up Bellbird Hill, one reflects “…wonder what the rest of the World is doing?”.

 

We knew, by this time, Frosty was having a breakfast of roti prata in Malaysia.

 

And, because I can do this stuff, I can tell you what was happening in Sodbury, Kent, England. A latter day’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” was in full swing.

 

“My sweet, my cheery dressed salad, king of the compost” uttered Mrs Adaminaby, as Christian, the gardener, demonstrated just how fertile Mrs Adaminaby’s little garden could be and how beautifully colourful. Mrs Adaminaby gloried in Christian’s broad sweated back, glistening in the large mirror over his shoulders. “Ooooohhhhhh…” Mrs Adaminaby chortled, as Christian let out a decidedly agricultural grunt. Christian was not wondering what the rest of the World was doing.

 

In the meantime, Mr Adaminaby, a reputable fund manager, was on his way on the 8.23amtrain into the City and was reflecting on Christian. He even commented to Jones, his fellow passenger.

 

“By golly, by golly…my turnips have never been better since Christian joined us as gardener”. Jones briefly lifted his head from his Financial Times.

 

Our little group meanwhile careered, in a way, west along the Bells Line of Road, towards that really big part of Australia called the Outback and onto Bowenfels. We were cold. At one point the temperature went to 8 degrees but somehow it seemed colder. We were not to be deterred, and after brief refreshments bounced our way off toward Tarana, turning right at the fork in the road at Tarana, not left, and through Brewongle. What a nice little road.

 

Whilst this was happening, a late-night telephone call went on between Kyiv and Moscow; between Vladimir Putin and Volodymyr Zelensky.

 

“You started this” exclaimed Vladimir. “All we wanted was for you to get back into the family business, and what do you…insult Mother Russia so we have no choice!”

 

“Vlockoffsky”, retaliated Volodymyr. “Business is better with the EU, eternal cash flow – nice Euro, no rouble rubbish , NATO guns, more money, nicer peoples. Even that nice Mr Biden!”

 

“And stop shooting our soldiers” a saddened Vladimir responded. “Most of them are fresh out of prison and they are just trying to save you from the Nazis”

 

Volod: “Shove ‘em back in prison – they’ll be safer there…won’t they?”

 

Vlad: “Well stop shooting them and running them over with your tanks. We’re running out of body bags”.

 

Volod: “What happened to the last lot I sold you, you miserable basket case of assorted manure!”

 

Vlad: “El cheapo body bags… we can only get three bodies in them…I’ll have to go to China”

 

Volod “Yair…Vlockoffsky”

 

This little conversation took us pretty much to Sofala. We didn’t quite get to the end of it, instead looking to throw some money at the local community café. The local community café told us to vlockoffsky – don’t open Thursdays - so we sat in the park, shivered, and wondered about our window to the World. We’d lost Tony and Ross….again.

 

Stephen Davies.