Top Bike Poetry:

I'd like to thank my sponsors......................not!
Cause you see, I haven't got a sponsor,
I guess I'm lukewarm, tepid, not hot,
I stand up the back & jealously listen while everyone gets right up their sponsors bum,
So......I haven't got anyone to thank,
except my glorious Mum.

As I've been wandering around the mountainbike scene,
(And I've been a lot of places, there's lots of scenes that I've been)
I've noticed, increasingly, that you just got to be cool,
A touch hippy or alternate, original (not a fool),

So I'm thinking as I'm drinking and having a bong,
Gotta get me a new idea, make me different to the throng,
So what can I do to make me separate to the rest,
(Forget tattoos, blue hair and piercings, they've been done to death)

Beyond bio-pace, thumb shifters, accu-trax and hydraulics,
Gear-drive, 'I'-drive, hyperglide and azonic,
There's gotta be something to run against the tide,
I know! A sensation! I'm not gonna ride!

I'll walk the switchbacks, I'll walk the doubles,
I'll walk the triples, I'll clear quadrupples!
Out of the gate and walking the berms so fine,
They'll all go wild when I cross the finish line!

And I've done it, I've made it, everyone's talking about me,
You seen that bloke who walks, I think he's called Dave Olle,
He's a legend! Original! What a creator!
See him walk the course, what a smooth operator!

But hang on, wait, the attention's shifting from me,
What's happening? Not a newer fad? What can it be?
Oh yeah, there's this new bloke Dave, he's got you wrapt up,
He's so cool he just doesn't turn up.

Untitled
Edmund McManus (sent into a competition in FREEWHEEL mag, 1996)

Gonna do it my way, no matter what they say,
Tied my feet to the pedals, I'm after all the medals,
Out of the gate and down the hill, now I see I have no skill,
Think I'm gonna hit the ground (my wheel's stopped goin' round)
Before I land I will see (did I dislocate me knee?)
Over the bars I'm a headin', gonna give my skin a shreddin',
But not before that big boulder hits and shatters my left shoulder,
Bouncin off it I can see a strategically placed tree,
My head hits that but I am lucky, got my foam lid on Chucky,
Breaks it up into pieces, but I'm still conscious, Oh Jesus!
Here's the next guy down the course, why's he riding a big horse?
Hoof in groin, ooh that hurt! ground me well into the dirt,
But I'll be back to compete, pedals tied to my feet,
Next time I'll ensure, that I really know the score,
Get the date and place right, no more big horsey frights,
Now it can't get much worse,
Hairy legs on the nurse.

I Believe in Volunteers
(ripped off by David Olle from an Olympics foster's ad, but it's OK, 'cause they ripped it off from a Canadian beer ad anyway) appeared in Freewheel magazine, 2000.

I believe the Sydney 2000 games were an unqualified success,
I believe the Fairfield Mountainbike event was the highpoint,
I believe the magpie, the snakes and the volunteers all contributed to this,
I believe Paolo Pezzo is a fair and magnificient rider, and I believe she would be a top root,
And I also believe the whole gymnastics team would be a top root!
I believe I love all the volunteers that I worked with throughout the event,
And they are the real legends of mountainbiking,
I believe the Holden Jackaroo that I drove around the course could've been rolled if I tried a bit harder,
And I believe the volunteer outfits were crap, and mine's for sale if you want it,
I believe it's no wonder the NBC execs who drove 'round the course in golf carts are fat bastards,
And I believe they should have let the emus loose on the last lap,
I believe Freehweel is the best magazine in the cycling world even though it is dis-organised and only comes out once every two years,
And I believe that Vic Bitter had the best ads during the Games.

Old School War Cry
Performed by John Meillon in Peter Weir's Australian film 'The Cars That Ate Paris' (1974)

Woomera, woomera, babaloo, boomerang
Crocodile, kookaburra, wombat, orangutang,
Wee-ho, Wey-ho, Thurramungamine,
Quantong, billabong, gunner bluey pine,
Platypus, emu, wallaby, roo,
Ibis, brolga, the white cockatoo,
Nurra burra, carrah, coolamon, bankoo,
Boggabri, narrabri, nevertie, yanchor,
Hoopla! Hoopla! Ha-Ha-Ha!
Yanchor High School Ya-Ya-Ya!'

Mulga Bill's Bicycle
by A. B. "Banjo" Patterson (The Sydney Mail, 25 July 1896) Australia's first Downhill Poem

Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"

"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk -- I hate a man that blows.

But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek -- we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

The Man With Rubber Pedals
By McG, as recorded in " The Old Bulletin Book of Verse " - The best Verses from The Bulletin 1880 -1901

It has all the latest fixings, barrel hubs and narrow tread,
It weighs under 20lb or less, is as rigid as the dead,
It's the every newest pattern and the very latest grade,
And it cost you all the money in the last 3 months you made,
So you wheel it from the agent's and your bosom swells with pride,
As you mount it by the kerbside and you start it's maiden ride,
Past the trains, the cars, the traffic and everything you've sped,
Till you see a man with rubber pedals, plugging slowly on ahead.

He is fourty years of age and of antiquated stock,
Sitting upright as a soldier and as bandy as a jock,
He is wobbly, he is shifty and his handlebars are wide,
From crank to crank his tread is 18 inches and his frame,
Is a pattern that was popular when first the 'safety' came,
And as you gain upon him you are thinking 'I must show,
How a good man, on a jigger that is up to date can go!'

So you fold your arms and pass him in an attitude of grace,
When a beautific smile across his open whiskered face
Makes your conscience somehow smite you as across his track you wizz,
Lest you show him perhaps too harshly what an utter mug he is,
And when you think that he is about 100 yards behind,
The man with rubber pedals goes completely from your mind,
Till a darkness at your elbow and a rattling in your ear,
Shows the man with rubber pedals is still battling in the rear,

Then you think with some resentment, 'This is not as this should be,
This man with rubber pedals, taking all his pace from me',
Such presumption is opposed to all the honours of the game,
And if I show him up, then he's got himself to blame,
So you drop your arms and lightly touch the nickled head,
With an ankling calculated just to kill that fellow dead,
But after a mile or so, you are astound to feel,
That man with rubber pedals hanging calmly on your wheel,

So you argue out the question, and you're bustled to confess,
That the man is up to scratch, with the fitness of the best,
Still, for such as him to push you is a thing you can't allow,
He's asked for pace, and Holy Moses, won't he get it now?
You drop your head twelve inches, grip your handlebars tight and lift,
As you calves and biceps swell, by jingo, don't you shift,
Then you reckon you've left him and it's nearly time to slack,
When you hear the cussed rattle of his mudguards at your back,

He can hold his own at sprinting, that's proved beyond a doubt,
So the only way to beat him is to simply wear him out,
You set a nice 240 beat and to yourself you hiss,
That man with rubber pedals can't stand many miles of this!
As the townships travels past you and the milestones rise ahead,
Till your thighs are working stiffly and you're feeling pretty dead,
Your thighs are working stiffly, and your handlebars you clinch,
But the man with rubber pedals hasn't shifted, not an inch,


At last, in view of traffic and the fast approaching night,
You decide that it's best to take the turning to the right,
And as you turn around he passes upright as the just,
With that beautific smile of his still glowing through the dust,
Be you cycling to Sans Souci, he'll be there to do you bad,
He is on St Kilda Rd and every western camel pad,
Be you cycling in the country, be you cycling in the town,
That man with rubber pedals will be there to bring you down.