Remembering crazy days at the wheel: at Doug Lehmann's wake, with the 1927 Buick Silver Jubilee I co-drove/endured with Peter Lehmann in the 1988 Redex Adelaide-Burke-Blatherskite Variety Club Bash: she didn't look like that when we got back ... Lehmann hated letting me drive ... "You don't understand German stubbornness" he'd yell through the wind and mud ... photo Milton Wordley
Life without a license: keeping the wheels of commerce turning long after abandoning the wheel
by PHILIP WHITE
It's nearly thirty years
since the writer sat at his table in the city with a bag of university tobacco
and a bottle of Highland Park, watching his driver's license expire. As a
risk-taking petrol-headed booze artist who found it infernally difficult to
frame his will to the law, that damn ticket to ride was a threat to society and
life in general. Better remove it from himself than end up enduring the
ignominy of being lectured by the fuzz and a stern judge pointing gimlet eyes
over the half-frames to deliver the ceremonial removal-as-punishment business.
No copper or wigman was
gonna take that dude's license away.
I write about that dude,
that dudenkopf, from a vast distance
now: in many ways he was not me. We change with the sliding time.
But having buried too many mates who were victims
of the road, and very narrowly missing being buried himself on too many
occasions, it was time to stop. Before the frothing mad Whitey killed somebody else.
Showing the sort of
responsibility it took to punish oneself with a lifetime grounding was most
unlike that unruly young'un with his love for speed and the thrill of risk.
But the fact was simple. A
person who spent most of each working day with his nose in a snifter, or a
thousand of them, could rarely boast of a blood alcohol level that fit
responsible driving, whether he spat or not.
.
For my first decade
without personal wheels, I lived in the city. That was a breeze. A free bus
would collect me from my door and take me to the Central Market. There were
eateries everywhere and if the pub I lived in was not enough to quench the
recreational - as opposed to professional - thirst, there were six more thirst
emporiums within a short swagger.
When I lived in a more
conventional apartment, the fledgeling Adelaide Independent Taxis were always
on hand, and I found a most expert and rapid driver name of Tom Koutsantonis
who quickly learned my patterns.
But those were the days when
Geoffrey Rush was the waiter who brought me food and Anthony LaPaglia was the
man who sold me shoes: no surprise then that the future Treasurer of the state
was on hand to drive a chap about.
Village life.
Then came the big risk. I
moved to the country to be near my ancient parents til they accepted the move
to the Twilight Farm. Life took some planning. To make use of the nearly-empty
cars that go everywhere all the time takes a certain local political skill.
At first I lived near a
general store, so day-to-day supplies were a short walk away. Now the parents
have gone to join the saints in glory and I live instead on the main road that links the
McLaren Vale vignoble to the Adelaide Hills and the rest of the South Mount
Lofty Ranges. No shop; no bus, and cabs are unaffordable if indeed they could
ever find me.
Two major tourism regions.
Wine and food: all the stuff government loves to promote. Somehow it expects
all those wine and food lovers to drive around these beautiful hills and vales
without imbibing half the products grown and
manufactured to entice them.
No bus. Not one regular
bus directly linking McLaren Vale to Mount Barker or Hahndorf and the freeway and the rest of the Ranges.
Not one.
It was good recently to
bump into Vern Schuppan at the new Greenock Creek tasting rooms in Marananga.
As a bloke who's won the Le Mans 24 Hours and the Monaco Grand Prix, not to
mention some seconds and a third at Indianapolis, my old Exeter mate and erstwhile East
End neighbour knows a thing or two about driving. Not to mention how to retain
one's right to drive on the public road.
I always feel remarkably safe driving
with Vern.
With Michael Waugh and Vern Schuppan at the new Greenock Creek tasting/sales/B&B complex at Marananga ... photo Leo Davis
Showing an alarming lack
of foresight, I raised the topic of the autonomous car, and how eagerly I await
being able to summons a driverless vehicle at will. The affable Schuppan got
alarmingly close to a snigger so I changed the subject.
Vern showing how not to drive at The Exeter Hotel ... this was at Dreadful's wake ... that's the Sunbaker Special Dreadful was building at the time of his death ... photo Philip White
I'd intended to talk of
the ridiculous suggestion I heard some nutty polly utter, saying the user of
the driverless car must still have a license to drive. That seems to miss the
point of technological advancement. It excludes the infirm and the likes of
rat-brained me from the chance at responsible travel.
But the notion stands. If
the Treasurer can't afford the Transport Minister the funds to install a proper
pubic transport system linking two of our principal tourism regions, bring on
the autonomous vehicle and quick.
It's easier to get a chopper than a cab in McLaren Vale ... photo by DRAGAN
As the Treasurer faces the
thought of living without the river of gold called traffic fines, which is
something he surely knows a lot about, there's a big rethink due. It's nice to
imagine the surge in wine tourism and public income that would result from
visitors being able to legally partake of the alcohol products the Tourism
Minister tirelessly promotes. Time will tell.
In the meantime, I get by,
begging a ride to the shop once a week with kindly neighbours heading that way,
and carefully planning travel to places I visit in the pursuit of my profession,
like Marananga. Working the phone, finding someone else with an empty chair
heading in the same direction.
There's a huge flaw in my
stance, of course. It's a cop-out, expecting friends to take the responsibility
of the wheel so I can actually swallow the product I study and promote.
Abstinent wine-lovers are fairly thin on the ground.
So forgive me Vern, as I
call for a vehicle without one of you at the dash. I'm sure there'll still be
chances for your brilliance to shine, and I'll always love to sit in the
bleachers or the back seat and watch.
In the meantime, I take
small delight in explaining my situation to disbelievers.
"You haven't got a
license Whitey? How long since?"
"Nearly thirty
years."
"Jesus man, what did
you do to get thirty years?"
My explanation -
"It's not what I did mate ... It's what I stopped doing" - always
brings a look of stunned disbelief.
But I promise you: the
roads are a damn lot safer without me at the wheel. I should be paid to stay off 'em.
Ain't sanctimony
sickening.
I wouldn't even dare to ride a bicycle to The Ex these days
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