High Beam

by SJ Brown

  Premierships followed. Back-to-back pennants in 1961 and ’62. Randall played in those premierships and later in the decade captained the club to two more pennants before retiring in 1970. His total player payments over a dozen years would easily be eclipsed by what a rookie player now earned in a season. He did not begrudge that. Time moves on. But he couldn’t help feeling something had been lost. The passion. Players moved clubs on the offer of better conditions and prospects, i.e. money. For his contemporaries, to be a one-club player was the norm. You played for the jumper, literally and figuratively. And the chance of glory.

  Now a player could enjoy a financially rewarding career, and the motivation of being part of team success had ebbed. The nationwide football competition was a behemoth. Professional sportsmen entertained the large crowds. The old ways were retreating into the past and many saw it as a cause for regret. Particularly as some of the traditional football clubs were facing extinction. North Hobart was being threatened by a forced amalgamation with a neighboring club. Why? Not because it was struggling but because it suited the master plan of the corporate planners in Melbourne who wanted to maximize their control of all football leagues. It was intolerable and it wasn’t even progress.

  Randall was part of that process. AFL money from the sale of TV rights had been injected into the Tassie Devils to help establish the club and so it could compete reasonably well in its first season. Nobody wished to repeat the debacle of the second team launched in Sydney the year before. They had been lambs to the slaughter. Against his own better judgment he had agreed to serve as a board member for the year: his standing in the local football community as a past player and administrator lent credibility to the new venture. And, by and large, it was proving to be a good thing. The city of Hobart needed a boost and this club would provide that. It wasn’t all bread and circuses.

  The singular element that ensured his tenure would be brief was his reluctance to associate with Rory Fotheringham. He had come to witness the brute that was the man. An iron fist in a velvet glove barely described his methodology. To almost all he was either efficient or ruthless depending on their allegiance to him. Randall had glimpsed enough to realize he was a complete and utter sod. Pity help anyone who stood in his way.

  He could see Fotheringham now on the far side of the room. Unusually for him he was looking very relaxed. Possibly half-cut; hard to tell. What was obvious was the discomfort of Felicity Sproule as Fotheringham monopolized her personal space. There was a leer on his face as he whispered something to her. She half turned from him and Randall followed her gaze to where a small knot of footballers were standing.

  Even the most obtuse dullard would have had no difficulty interpreting the glance she shared directly with one of the taller players.

  No difficulty at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  Saturday 6th March 11am

  It was indeed a vision splendid. And James Cartwright was in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. His bike ride this morning had been an arduous test of his summer regimen of fitness. Rising early he’d saddled up around 8am for a long ride. The first half hour from his South Hobart home down through the city and along the boulevard of Sandy Bay Road was not very taxing at all. A gentle warm-up. The already strong sun was bouncing warmth across the Derwent River as he rode past a string of substantial residences with one of the best views in the country. With a bit of imagination you might think you were living on Sydney Harbor. Then though the winding bends of Taroona to the start of the Channel Highway and the stretch that got his thighs working. Bonnet Hill was a favored section of road for his cycle club members to practice time trials and Cartwright had savored the burn as he climbed. Then down into Kingston to the Southern Outlet and the long slow ascent to Mount Nelson.

  Hard work. But well worth it if his current sense of satisfaction was any indicator. He may be a touch saddle sore but the well-being in his mind overrode any discomfort. He had conquered his lethargy. Getting out of his chair and exerting himself was now a fully-fledged habit. He was in a good place. Literally, here at the Signal Station Café with its panoramic view of Greater Hobart and its surrounds. And figuratively too as he patted his flat stomach and sucked on his water bottle.

  Cycling for recreation was slightly odd. There was no practical purpose to it like commuting to work or going to the local grocery. It was simply for exercise. And the requisite attire was a bit weird. Shoes that clipped onto the pedals allowed for a smooth action as you rode but off the bike it felt like you were walking in something about as well-equipped for the task as flippers. The padded shorts he understood: they were a pragmatic necessity. The skin-tight top had initially been a cause for self-consciousness as it exacerbated the swell of his belly. But now, three months after taking up the sport he had gone down two sizes and the zip-up Lycra clung to a torso that was bordering on the athletic. The helmet was a worry. No matter how you tricked it up it still looked extra-terrestrial. Pity. He thought one of those little caps worn last century by the French riders would look pretty nifty.

  If he kept this form in place he could seriously consider using part of his sabbatical to joining some of the club riders on their annual trip to France for Le Tour. Not to compete of course. Nobody was within eons of that league. But it was possible to ride some sections of the course prior to the peloton coming through. What a great experience that would be. And just to be there for the whole carnival atmosphere.

  “Good workout, mate?” The question came from a burly man who was walking on to the terrace carrying a bottle of water.

  Cartwright’s reverie was broken. He looked at his inquisitor. Short brown hair, ruddy complexion and a body you would charitably assess as stocky. A roll of fat protruded over a pair of football shorts. A pair of Nike trainers and a tatty Russell Athletic singlet completed the workout ensemble. The sweat patch on his front resembled the silhouette of a small panda’s head. Beneath the top was a mat of curly chest hair saturated with perspiration.

  “Yes, so far. Beautiful morning for it.”

  “Wouldn’t be dead for quids, eh? Great part of the world.” The man was taking in the view as if seeing it again after a long time away.

  “Definitely. Get up this way much?”

  “Nah. Live down the hill in the Bay. First time up here in years.” He took a swig of water. “Yeah, years. Last time would be when I was with some visitors ’bout a decade ago. Had a tourist guide with us. Nice old biddy. Explained how the station master used a whole series of flags to signal messages to ships coming up the estuary to port. She went on a bit but everyone seemed to find it interesting.” He sat down at the table next to Cartwright and extended his hand. “Roger.”

  “Jim. Nice to meet you.” A brief shake.

  “Same. Reckon I need to do a fair bit more to get as trim as you. Still, it’s only Day One. Only way is up, eh.”

  “First fortnight is the tricky bit. If you can crack that then you find the exercise becomes part of your schedule.”

  Roger nodded. “So I’ve heard. I’m a bit time poor. But I’d better do something. Not keen on the gut for a start. That’s gotta go. Too much sitting down. Desk at work. Restaurant tables. You get the drift.” A wave of his hand to signify the whole cycle he seemed locked into.

  “Sedentary lifestyle. We’re not evolved for it. Too much sitting, not enough walking. Way too much processed food. Carbs are the killer.” Cartwright knew it all. He was trying to pitch it at a level this man would understand.

  “Yep, you’re right there. And the booze. An occupational hazard I’ll need to ease up on.” He half turned. “And don’t forget the sugar. It’s bloody everywhere. Cookies, soft drinks, the works. Half the kids are addicted to the stuff. No wonder they get irritable and can’t concentrate. Worse than smack.”

  Cartwright couldn’t help but feel the brushstrokes were a bit broad but the general thrust was right. A colleague at the university had eng
ineered a similar weight loss to his own by simply eliminating sugar and processed carbohydrates from his diet. And by walking a few kilometers each day. It was as if his paunch had literally fallen off.

  “The good news is the exercise becomes a bit addictive. Endorphins and all that. You stop prevaricating and look forward to sessions on the bike or whatever. What have you done today?”

  “Walked along from my place in Churchill Avenue and up the track. Beaut views for the last kilometer or so. Definitely going to make the time to do it regularly.” He slapped his stomach. “Need to, eh?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “Don’t reckon I’ll do your thing though. Not that it isn’t good, mind you. Just the drivers round here are pig ignorant. People get in a car and they go into some sort of daze. Miss everything. Don’t indicate. And don’t get me started on the stupid pricks who text while they’re behind the wheel. Worse than the hooligans out in the ’burbs.”

  Cartwright merely nodded. It seemed this chap was an unbroken series of diatribes.

  “Some of the cyclists don’t help themselves either. Last week a bunch had spread ’emselves to block a whole lane of the Huon Highway. Traffic backed up. Idiots. Thought they were in the Alps on the friggin’ tour.” He smiled at Cartwright. “No offence.” A pause for another mouthful from the plastic bottle. “Not that they could be. Wrong shape.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Too big. Not like me as in porky. But muscular. Real road riders have to be built like whippets. Otherwise they’re too heavy. That Armstrong bloke was only any good once ball cancer had wasted a lot of his bulk away. Most pro sportspeople include bike training as part of the pre-season but as tour riders they’d be useless. Muscles too big. And the wrong sort of drugs. They must give that EPO a belting.”

  Feeling he should stick up for his new pastime, Cartwright said, “But you have to admit those riders are some of the fittest people on the planet.”

  “Fit for what? Life? Don’t kid me. They’re not even healthy. And it’s not just the drugs I’m talking about. There is that, of course. They’re juicing up all the bloody time. Including Armstrong. He’s never going to admit it and nobody who runs the sport really wants to find out. Too much riding on his success, pardon the pun. Anyway, they’re only fit for riding huge distances. As normal human beings they’re fucked. Their shape is all out of whack. No energy for regular stuff. But on the bike, bloody marvels. Once warmed up they thrive on the endurance stuff. Get off on the pain. It’s more than those brain hormones. They love the pain. Masochists. I mean you’ve got to be doolally to put yourself through all that.”

  Cartwright found himself nodding in agreement. On television the riders in the peloton looked fine. Only when seen against the background of regular folk did they look like emaciated old men. Gaunt, bent over, wheezy.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like that sort of determination. Beat the odds. But the cost. Ever heard of Tyler Hamilton?”

  “Ah, no.” Cartwright never liked to admit ignorance of any sort but Roger looked like he was a good bullshit detector.

  “Cyclist. Good one. Rode on Armstrong’s US Postal team. Big league. Great money. Living the dream.” Another swig. “Except it wasn’t. Apart from when he was competing at his peak, courtesy of the blood transfusions etc., he felt like a crock. Pissed off his wife coz he didn’t have the energy to walk to the shops.”

  “That’s not good”.

  “Nah. Can’t afford to upset your missus.” No smile. “Just kidding.” He tapped Cartwright’s shoulder who managed not to flinch. “Determined bugger. In one of the tours he fractured his collarbone in a crash. Kept going. Won a mountain stage and came fourth overall. Mighty effort.” He tapped his front teeth. “The pain of all that was so bad that while he was at it he ended up grinding his teeth down to stumps.”

  Cartwright felt his insides turn. “It hurts just hearing about it.”

  “Too right. It’s admirable but it’s mad. Crazy bugger. You want a coffee?”

  “Yes, OK. Thanks.” His new companion trudged inside to order. Having a good old blokey chat was almost as satisfying as the sense of physical wellbeing he was enjoying. Feeling good in the morning sun.

  Roger returned. “They’ll be out in a sec. Ordered you a skinny latte. OK?”

  “Perfect.”

  “What do you do for a crust?” The inevitable question, a means of placing someone in Australia’s ‘classless’ society. In Britain those of a certain ilk would ask where does your family hail from: in the ‘lucky country’ your job and suburb were the crucial indicators. Indicators of your personal wealth and therefore your social standing. Cartwright was in an interesting position. In real terms his salary had been overtaken by countless others but a university lecturer retained considerable social cache.

  “I lecture in politics at the university.” He didn’t proffer any information about his media sideline. He hoped whenever he met someone new he might be known already. Just then a middle-aged woman with huge glasses and her hair in a bun delivered their coffees. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you gentlemen with some goodies. Raisin toast?” She bore an uncanny resemblance to one of the eccentric TV cooks that used to gallivant around on a motorbike and sidecar.

  “No thanks, luv. Me and Cadel are in training. Thanks anyway.”

  “Well, if you do change your mind just let me know.” And with that she was back into her counter.

  “Nice old stick. Funnily enough she’s probably our age but she’s not doing herself any favors with all that garb.”

  Cartwright silently agreed. The flower print dress and the embossed apron were just a bit chintzy. “And yourself, Roger?”

  “Run my own business. Hardware stores. Bit of development here and there. Not that the charlies you’re interested in are much help.”

  The typical cynicism of the public towards government at every level. Australians, in the main, were a law-abiding bunch. They just bitched about it every chance they got. Faced with an abundance of regulations in their everyday life, they adopted a low-key strategy. Whinge about those that governed them at every opportunity and then quietly sidestep those strictures that didn’t suit them. Even real estate agents, car salesmen and journalists were held in higher regard than politicians. There existed a strange dichotomy: everyone expressed dissatisfaction with their elected representatives but continued to vote them in. The proportion that got themselves directly involved in grass roots political activity was surprisingly small. And those outside the traditional parties who protested or did something to stir things up a bit were promptly labelled as troublemakers. So the populace got the politicians they deserved.

  “Well, I’m more interested in the theory and processes of government. More how things should be than how they are, so to speak. That’s what I endeavor to teach my students.”

  “Students.” It was practically spat out. “About as productive as the clowns in parliament. What do they do? Learn to read and write better? Haven’t they got enough of that by the end of high school?”

  Cartwright breathed slowly. Should he let go? Or joust with this brute? “A university helps guide a student to be a deeper thinker about the world. There are many professions where the analytical skills required can only be gained through a tertiary education. The school of life needs a certain structure. Do you expect an eighteen year old to argue a case in court?”

  “Jesus, don’t get me started on lawyers. Or those damned scientists. Is the world getting warmer or not?”

  Cartwright ignored that old chestnut and brought the conversation back to his specialty. “Yes, there are too many layers of government in this country. Yes, the constitution adopted at Federation does hamstring certain reforms. And yes, some of our elected representatives leave much to be desired in their behavior. But that hardly means we shouldn’t learn the theories of good governance in order to ensure the p
ractice of politics improves.” This bundle of sweat and bluster deserved to be needled. “What would you propose in its place?”

  Rather than bridle, Roger decided to engage. He was not a wit but enjoyed a battle. “Sack the lot of ’em.” He held up a hand. “Before you start up, hear me out. Seriously, sack ’em. Replace them with a select group of proven achievers to make the vital decisions. Where to put the hospitals and services etc. Delegate loads of the admin stuff to a pared down public service. Free up the bureaucracy. The money saved, the tons of money saved, would go to development projects that would get the go-ahead with all the red tape slashed. We’re engulfed with rules. Each of the twenty-three local councils in this little state of 500,000 people has its own planning and approval process. Everything takes so long. I’d amalgamate those twenty-three councils into three administrative areas for a start. Streamline the whole system.”

  Cartwright nodded. The last point was sound but it was the first idea that demanded a response. “So we dismantle the Westminster system and replace it with an oligarchy?”

  “A what?”

  “Oligarchy. A committee of powerbrokers who run the show. Bit like China, say.”

  “Works for them. This is going to be their century. US is gone. Well, not quite gone but it’s so bound up with dealing with sectional interests that the President can’t even get a halfway decent healthcare program going.”

  Cartwright felt the ground shifting again. This man was proving very hard to pigeonhole. “So you’re not totally laissez-faire?”