Lynne Robbins TC Poems

There was movement at the barbeque, for the word had passed around,

that the ancient TC owners were away,

out at Moolie gravel air-strip, choking dust thick on the ground,

the crack drivers had gathered for the fray.

All the tried and noted drivers from the suburbs near and far

had mustered at New Norcia overnight.

For the car men love hard driving where the wild bush perils are,

and the TC snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harry, who made his pile when the TF won it's cup,

the old man with his hair as white as snow.

But few could drive beside him when his blood was fairly up -

he would go wherever car and man could go.

And Peter of the Partridge clan came down to lend a hand.

No better driver ever held the wheel.

Casting off his walking stick and taking a trembling stand,

he waited for the tyres to burn and squeal.

And Mike was there, a stripling in a brown and trusty beast.

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

with a touch of TC madness - well dedication at least.

Understood by fellow owners and prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die.

his dotage showing through his tottering tread.

But he bore the look of challenge in his bright and fiery eye,

and the grey hair flowing wildly from his head.

TF's looking hopeful, on the sidelines will they stay -

and the TC's say "Those cars will never do,

for a long and tiring gymkhana - lads, you'd better stop away,

those stones are far too rough for such as you."

So they waited sad and wistful, fretting for the sign

to show they were excepted for the race.

"Alright then lads, we can't bear to see you pine,

but don't blame us if you find yourself outpaced."

Darryl creaked and groaned on boarding his faithful old TC.

Curses muttered into ancient beard.

And the bushland echoed fiercely to the sound of spinning wheels,

as he shot off down the strip, spectators cleared.

Clinging grimly to the wheel he flung that car about,

it's poor old framework screaming in despair.

Roaring past the finishing line he could be heard to shout -

"Beat that time Sherrell, if you dare !

Barry sent those brown stones flying, but the TC kept it's feet.

He cleared the plastic buckets in his stride.

And the man from Rossmoyne way never shifted in his seat -

It was grand to see that old curmudgeon drive.

Through the scrubby trees and grasses, on the rough and broken ground.

back to the buckets at a racing pace he went.

And he never drew his breath till he finished safe and sound,

at the end of that terrible event.

Through the fog of dust and gravel, a sudden glimpse revealed,

of Mark and Peter Compton standing by.

Undaunted by the prospect of Mark's ferocious leer,

Peter stood his ground ready to defy.

The green car leapt on forward, the old boy gasping hard.

But the Doc had found his flying form at last.

Snorting blue machine churning rocks against the guards,

old Mark's euphoric dream of youth gone past.

As the twilight starts descending and the scores are tallied up,

until next year the barbie's packed away.

Thirsting badly for a nice cold ale, they head for Bindoon pub,

to thrash around the events of the day.

The years have moved too quickly for the old boy's peace of mind.

No longer young and fighting fit

But nothing in this world would prevent men of this kind,

from taking on this ancient ego trip.