Episode
II
GO
WEST YOUNG MAN
When
Don Boshart heard of our abject failure as door-to-door Bible
salesmen and of our desire to go West, he drove up to Broken Arrow in
the VW, and we commenced preparation for our adventure. It’s a big,
big drive from Broken Arrow, which is near Tulsa, Oklahoma, to
California. And, as money was in short supply, we decided to drive
non-stop to save on accommodation expenses. The odd hamburger along
the way would have to suffice. We spent our final night in Broken
Arrow in Denis’s bed. Yes. The three of us in a double bed. Not the
first time, nor the last, for any of us.
The
plan was to head down Route 66, straight across the deserts of Texas,
Arizona, and New Mexico, through the great Rocky Mountains into
California, and then north to San Francisco. We’d alternate
drivers, with the first relief driver sleeping in the back seat of
the VW. True, it was tight back there, and you had your knees under
your chin, but compared to sharing a third of a double bed, the back
seat of a VW, all to yourself, was pure luxury. The second relief
driver would catch what sleep he could in the front seat.
That’s,
of course, if Denis wasn’t driving. You see, Denis COULDN’T
drive, and it was partly my fault. Well… I suppose it was
completely my fault. Before we left Australia I suggested that I’d
teach Denis to drive in my family’s one and only car: a little Mini
Minor. Just as we were beginning the initial lesson, we crashed as I
was driving to a quite location, and we both suffered concussion,
knocked out cold, when I ran into a parked car in front of us.
Remember, it was before seatbelt days. Denis apparently revived
first, got out of the car, closed the door, and then passed out,
falling into the gutter.
It
is quite disconcerting when you return to the living and find that
your training partner and friend has seemingly departed. When I
opened my eyes, Denis was the proverbial “nowhere man”! Empty
seat. Just as I was beginning to question my own mortality, the door
opened, and people began to practice their first-aid training on me.
I hadn’t noticed, but I had a spectacular cut on my head to go with
the headache that I did know about. At the time of impact my head was
under the dashboard looking for the “L” plates*
as was Denis’s.
I
tried to explain to the three amateur “surgeons” who were trying
to close my head wound that I had lost something important: my
passenger. He hadn’t been ejected though the windscreen, that was
obvious, so where was he?? About that time Denis slowly arose from
the gutter, like the rising sun, displaying his own impressive head
cut. That episode had occurred about six months before we left for
the United States and was Denis’s first and last driving lesson.
Boshart
drove most of the first day. Sometime in early evening, when we had
crossed the state line into New Mexico, I took over the driving.
Although not a good driving instructor, I was a reasonably safe and
reliable driver. My principal limitation was that I was unlicensed.
Not having a car obviated the need for a US license, and my
Australian license, which I carried for identification, had expired.
I reasoned that this little deficiency should not be a problem if I
abided by the local road and traffic laws and kept the car on the
right-hand side of the road.
My
driving stint went okay, and somewhere about midnight Denis took his
turn at the wheel. The road was straight, and there was very little
traffic ─ just the odd truck or two. Perfect for an unlicensed,
untutored, and uninsured driver.
Getting
Denis started in a car with a four-speed floor-mounted gearstick was
not going to be easy. His lesson had not progressed much beyond
starting the motor. The strategy was for Denis to compress the clutch
pedal while Boshart, the co-pilot, moved the gearstick into first
gear, and, on signal, Denis would slowly release the clutch and
depress the accelerator. Once mobile, the same procedure would be
repeated until the VW had reached top gear. Simple, when you think
about it.
After
a few false starts and several kangaroo hops (appropriate), we were
on our way West, heading down the right side of the road. Boshart
suggested I take the back seat and get some sleep as, he said, he was
feeling fine, and I had just had a long spell at the wheel.
I
have no recollection of how far we had travelled with Denis at the
wheel when I next woke. In spite of the discomfort of the back seat,
I must have slept a couple of hours at least. The first thing I heard
was Boshart suggesting politely that Denis apply the brakes: “Denis,
brakes.” But Denis’s tutorial had concentrated solely on the
clutch pedal and the accelerator. As the road was both flat and
straight, with virtually no traffic, we had not considered it
necessary to complicate Denis’s driving instructions with a lesson
on braking. The idea was to get the car moving, after all. Boshart’s
next suggestion was a little more urgent: “Denis! Brakes!” No
response. The third appeal was both frantic and emphatic: “Denis!
The brakes!” At this point I opened my eyes. Through the window of
the passenger seat I found myself staring at the underside of a huge
truck. The sloping front of the VW had literally gone beneath the
back of the moving truck.
I
cannot recall whether Denis finally found the brake or simply took
his foot off the accelerator, but, ever so slowly, the distance
between the rear of the truck and the front of the VW increased. As
the truck and the VW parted company, Denis uttered these memorable,
nay, unforgettable words: “Boshart,” he said, “you worry too
much!”
Worry
we did. That was Denis’s last stint at the wheel. With still over
half the distance to go, we were down to two drivers. Boshart
suggested that I replace Denis so he could retire from the driving
instructor role and get some shut-eye in the back seat. Denis’s
sole responsibility was to keep the driver awake.
Sometime
during the next night, while crossing the Arizona desert, I passed a
police patrol car parked beside the highway. I was well within the
speed limit and driving on the correct side of the road, so didn’t
worry. But to my surprise, the patrol car pulled out onto the highway
and began to follow me. There were no flashing lights or siren; he
just sat about 100 yards behind. I slowed to well below the speed
limit and watched the car closely in the rear vision mirror. After
several miles, the red light came on ─ no siren ─ and I was
directed to pull over. Two officers got out of the car. They asked me
where I was going and whether I had been drinking (Drugs weren’t a
problem in 1960.) So I said, “California” and “No.”
I
politely asked one of the officers if something was amiss. Up to
that point, they had said nothing about why I had been stopped and
had not asked to see my license.
“Well,
yes,” he said. “You’ve been weaving all over the road.” I
answered that the reason for the weaving was probably that I’d been
watching the patrol car so intently in the rear vision mirror and
that I couldn’t understand why they followed us for so long. It
might seem strange to say it these days, but they actually accepted
my explanation and suggested that tiredness might also be a problem
and that we should change drivers. Just when it looked as though we
would be on our way without the need to produce my dicey driver’s
license, the dreaded request was made: “Could we see your driver’s
license?”
But,
not to worry, I had a plausible explanation that went something like
this: “Well, you see, sir, I’m an Australian and have been here
in the USA as a foreign student.” I had been told, I said, that an
Australian license was valid to drive in the United States. I was
counting on two circumstances: first, I believed that my statement
was probably true, though I wasn’t absolutely certain, and second,
as it was now dark, I was hoping they wouldn’t notice that my
license had expired. They used a torch to examine it. The one doing
the scrutiny seemed happy enough, but the second officer, looking
over his shoulder, said, “Hey, I’ve seen a lot of these Aussie
driving licenses. I was an M.P. (Military Police) in the Second World
War and was stationed in Australia. What a great place!”
Would
you believe it? It now appeared that in less than a week, a second
American soldier from WWII was about to derail our summer work
efforts. Of course, the next thing he said was, “This license
expired some time ago.”
In
view of what followed, all I can say is that I’m very grateful for
the warm welcome Australia gave the Yanks in the dark days of war,
when they were stationed Down Under. His advice to me after telling
me my license was expired was to suggest that I should plan to have
it renewed or, better still, to get an American drivers’ license
when I reached California. (I did so a few weeks later.) I have to
say that I doubt that would happen anywhere on earth today. Without
further drama we continued on our way to Bakersfield, California,
with Boshart doing the lion’s share of the driving.
It
was Saturday when we arrived, and the place was awash with athletes
from all over the country. Each year Bakersfield hosts a major track
meet for the top athletes, and in 1960 the meet had a very high
profile as it was the final track meet before the Olympic Trials. The
University of Houston’s track team, which had included several
Australians, was there. But the best news for us was that there were
some spare beds in the motel where they were staying. In fact, three
of Houston’s runners, Barrie Almond, Al Lawrence, and Pat Clohessy,
had been members of Denis’s old Sydney athletic club, the Botany
Harriers, and all were close friends of mine.
As
well as providing a place to sleep and much needed sustenance in the
form of food and liquid refreshment, the Houston track team had
organized an end of season party at the motel. There were three other
notable attendees at this party: Al Kirkland, Alex Henderson, and
Ollan Cassell, and I should probably say a few words about each.
Al
Kirkland achieved notoriety by being the first American gridiron
football player to play rugby league for a first grade team,
Parramatta, in the Sydney Rugby League competition in the mid 1950’s.
I do remember seeing him play, and he was quite good. The photo
displayed here shows Al Kirkland on the right, sitting next to Denis.
Al Lawrence and Don Boshart are on Denis’s left. In the background
is Barrie Almond on the left.
Alex
Henderson was an Australian athlete attending another American
university. He is best remembered as the runner beaten by John Landy
in the Australian one mile championship in 1956, when John Landy
stopped in the middle of the race to go back to help his team mate,
Ron Clarke, get back onto his feet after being knocked down.
Unthinkable! Landy then chased down the entire field and passed
Henderson with eighty yards to go to win the race in 4:4.2. To stop
in the middle of the race, go back fifteen yards, assist your team
mate, and recommence the race from a standing start is energy sapping
in itself, but taking into account the loss of distance and the
disruption to a runner’s rhythm, the question has to be asked. What
time might Landy have posted for the mile in this race if he had not
stopped?
Ollan
Cassell, also a member of the Houston track team, was a part Cherokee
Indian and a top class 440 yards runner. Later in life, as Secretary
of the Amateur Athletic Union of the United States, better known as
the AAU, I’m sad to say that Ollan was at one period possibly the
most hated man in track by both athletes and officials.
After
the party at the motel…the less said about that, the better, we
headed off to our assigned beds. Those of us who were lucky got a
rollaway. But two had to share a double bed. The poor blokes who drew
the short straws were Boshart and Henderson.
Alex
Henderson, aside from being a very fine miler, was quite a shy type
of fellow. Boshart was the son of a church minister.
Before
they retired, they were each, independently, given a piece of advice
that the person they were to share the bed with was of “dubious
inclination” but would not pose a problem if they were not
encouraged by being accidentally touched. I did not personally
witness the consequences of this deceit, but the perpetrators, Almond
and Lawrence, gave a graphic description the next morning of the two
bedfellows being seen at various stages of the night clinging to
their very separate edges of the mattress and facing inwards. The gap
between, they said, was sufficient to drive a truck through. I have
to say that Boshart deserved a better night’s rest after all the
driving he’d done for three days.
The
following morning, the three intrepid travellers resumed our journey
in the VW to San Francisco, this time a reasonably short and
drama-free hop.
Next
episode: “The Tale of a Banana and a Dime”.
*
Learner plates, which are to be
displayed next to the license plate when a learner is at the wheel.
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