The Man from Royal Talbot

There was movement at the paddock, for the word had passed around
That the pilots from Team Clown had got away,
And had joined the wild bush eagles - the day worth a thousand points,
So all the guns had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted pilots from the stations near and far
Had mustered at Birchip pub overnight,
For the hangies love hard flying where the wild bush eagles are,
And their gliders snuff the dusties with delight.

There was Holtcamp, who made his pile when he won the Birchip cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could fly beside him when his blood was fairly up –
He would go wherever kite and man could go.
And Reecy of the Overtow came down to lend a hand,
No better pilot ever held the reins;
For never kite could throw him while the weak link nail would stand,
He learnt to fly while towing on the plains.

And one was there, called Beavo on a small and weedy kite,
He was something like a racehorse oversized,
With a touch of Moyes Litespeed - three parts tawny port at least –
And such as are by flatlands pilots prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won’t say die –
There was courage in his slow and limping tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so large and bulky, one would doubt his power to stay,
And then Holtcamp said, “That kite will never do
For a long and tiring task - lad, you’d better stop away,
That lift is far too rough for such as you.”
What you really need lad is a glider more like this one
You’ll find that it’s completely thermal proof
The payment terms are easy, it’s not a hefty sum
Here, let me help you put it on your roof”

But he waited sad and wistful - only Reecy stood his friend –
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
“For both his kite and he are flatlands bred.

“He hails from Royal Talbot, up by Yarra River’s side,
Where the beds are twice as old and twice as rough,
Where a patients feet strike vinyl from their slippers every stride,
The man that holds his lunch is good enough.
And the Royal Talbot inmates in the rehab make their home,
Where the nurses run those giant wards between;
I have seen full many pilots since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such pilots have I seen.”

So he went - they found the gliders by the smelly Portaloo –
They raced away towards the towing strip,
And then Holtcamp gave his orders, “Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy flying now.
And, Reecy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Fly boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was pilot that could keep Team Clown in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.”

So Reecy flew to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest pilots take their place,
And he raced his glider to them, and he made the ranges ring
With the Flytec, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, when he found the dreaded sink,
But they saw their well-loved goal line full in view,
And they charged beneath the cloud street with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off towards the distant goal they flew.

Then fast the gaggles followed, where the sink was deep and black
Resounded to the flapping of their sails,
And the sink alarms woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From trees and scrub that loomed up from beneath.
And upward, ever upward, the wild Team Clown held their way,
Where glassy big and boaty lift grew wide;
And then Holtcamp muttered fiercely, “We may bid the Clowns good day,
No man can beat them now on final glide.”

When they reached the landing paddock, even Reecy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Royal Talbot let his glider have its head,
And he banked his glider up and gave a cheer,
And he cored a mighty thermal like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the eagles packing, but the glider kept the core,
He broke the strong inversion in his stride,
And the man from Royal Talbot never shifted in his seat –
It was grand to see that mighty legend fly.
From the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Up the thermal at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the V.B. till he topped out safe and sound,
At the summit of that terrible accent.

He was right among Team Clown now as they climbed a further core,
And the watchers on the ground were standing mute,
Saw him ply the V.B. fiercely, he was right among them all,
As he raced across a blue hole in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mighty cloud streets met
In the ether, but a final glimpse reveals
Near a dim and distant Cu Nim the mighty Clowns were racing yet,
With the man from Royal Talbot at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till his cheeks were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till he halted cowed and beaten, then he turned his kite for home,
And alone and disappointed landed short.
But the fierce and noble Team Clown continued on their way,
And flew across the goal line at Mach one;
They cranked their gliders over in a beautiful display,
And landed on the Esky just for fun.

And down by Bilby East, next town west from Tuginya
Where the weather beaten silos reach so high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Mallee bush the wheat fields sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Royal Talbot is a household word today,
And the hangies tell the story of his fly.