This page first published July 27th 1997

The RIDING of TEARAWAY

I woke up with a feeling of distracting apprehension; my brow was throbbing with an ache that clouded comprehension. My throat was dry, my eyes bloodshot, my heart wracked in contrition- but something stirred my foggy mind with warning premonition A memory dawned foreboding of the senseless thing I did, by backing foolish boasting with a bet of fifty quid               I sipped my steaming coffee and I lit a cigarette;               and cursed the drunken stupidness that lured me to that bet               I'd met up with the "Crampton" Lads - who'd come in from the scrub-               and bore their senseless goading well, at Jimmy Murphy's pub;               till someone said "You've never tried to ride old Tearaway-               you've gained a reputation, but you won't take on the grey". A bucking outlaw long renowned was Crampton's Tearaway he'd thrown a hundred riders, was unconquered yet today None bent the Crampton tiger's will - the grey was absolute. Some claimed he was the roughest horse to ever leave a chute. A stupid wager set last night, I'd wear the winners crown And best the mighty Crampton grey before the sun went down.               I wasn't scared of any horse -or the ringers jeers-               I'd rode the worse to come my way since early childhood years.               While droving with my father - since the day my mother died-               I'd often bested older men and shown them how to ride               But years diminish glory and I'm weary of the fray;               I had no inclination for the scalp of Tearaway. But grog's deception swayed me and it made my boasting rash; today I ride the outlaw grey to save my pride and cash. My aching head and shaking hand belie my words last night; how can I battle half a ton of heaving dynamite? I'll rest awhile upon my bunk, and let those ringers wait; my bet is safe till sundown - that's the time they stipulate.               A hazy sun in burnished sky - a glaring furnace face-               was casting lengthy shadows when I passed the Watson's place               and entered Crampton boundary gate to take the dusty track               that leads towards the stockyards and the hill called Razorback.               The ringers leant upon the rail, surprise on very face;               They thought I'd forfeit fifty quid and cringe off in disgrace Old Tearaway was saddled with the station gear of course. I told them,"Strip the lot off- I'm not riding any horse that I don't saddle up myself - and use my gear to boot. I'll ride your bloody outlaw and collect your lousy loot." He trembled when I touched him and his eye was showing white; I watched for striking forelimbs or an angry stallions bite.               He crouched low when I girthed him with his hind legs hunched beneath-               prepared to buck, with ears laid back and baring fearsome teeth.               I grasped his ear and swung to clasp the saddle flaps secure               between my muscled legs and found that stirrup iron obscure.               He launched up high and spun mid air,with kink like coiling snake;               then landed with a stiff-legged jar that made my body quake. A raging, twisting monster - well aware of every trick- he plunged and weaved and reared as well, and showed me just how quick he was to change direction and the reason he had thrown so many champion riders since Crampton had made it known they owned a famous outlaw - part bred Arab, coloured grey. His reputation spread like flame and kept the best at bay.               His mighty haunches launched him like a rocket into space-               he stumbled when he landed near the cattle drafting race.               He jack-knifed with a tearing wrench - the buck I hated most-               his foreleg struck the middle rail and splintered half the post.               The straining heaves were torture to my dislocated spine;               I prayed he'd soon be winded but there wasn't any sign. He squealed his wrath and lunged towards the stockyard corner gate; His foaming mouth a flecking froth and nostrils flared with hate. His writhing grunts were echoed by the ringers round the fence, who watched in breathless agony their famous horse incensed; a bundled, heaving fury. Then he faltered that old grey; bewildered by this demon who refused to go away.               I felt him losing power, and his viciousness subside -               at last the mighty Tearaway was broken in to ride.               I rode him to a standstill and his dappled hide was brown;               beyond the hill long shadows crept - the sun was going down.               I slipped down by his sweat-stained side - bespattered now with mud.               I leant against his heaving flank and spewed a pint of blood. I staggered to the stockyard rail and faced the ringers there- all stunned to see their outlaw tamed, and too confused to swear. I said "I'll take your fifty quid and give you some advice: You'd better risk your hard earned cash on toss of gambler's dice. Your mighty Tearaway's been tamed, to your eternal sorrow; has anyone here got the guts to ride him out tomorrow?               The outlaw was unsaddled and I packed my gear away;               then drove my ute across the flat to end a wasted day.               I vowed I'd never drink again or boast that I could ride -               I'd shut my mouth and walk away if someone stung my pride.               I've often bragged that I could tame the greatest outlaw foaled;               but now I'm sick and smashed up bad and fifty-one years old.