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By Catherine Watson
I ALWAYS knew him as Dave Clarke, or Dave the Bike Man, but I see from his death notice that he was actually David Russell-Clarke. Then someone told me he was an old boy of Essendon Grammar. Typical of Dave to have a double-barrelled name and a posh school in his background and keep it quiet.
Born November 27 1957, died November 20 2020 … a week short of 63. Not great but not too bad for someone who lived pretty hard. It happened very quickly. He was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer, checked himself out of hospital and came home to make the most of whatever time was left.
I ALWAYS knew him as Dave Clarke, or Dave the Bike Man, but I see from his death notice that he was actually David Russell-Clarke. Then someone told me he was an old boy of Essendon Grammar. Typical of Dave to have a double-barrelled name and a posh school in his background and keep it quiet.
Born November 27 1957, died November 20 2020 … a week short of 63. Not great but not too bad for someone who lived pretty hard. It happened very quickly. He was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer, checked himself out of hospital and came home to make the most of whatever time was left.
When I heard on Sunday that Dave had died, I felt the blow, as many others did. He would probably have been surprised, but the world seems a little less colourful without him.
Dave was a boozer and a user of various other substances. Periodically he swore off everything but he was always seduced back, more or less. He remained cheerful, kind and clever. He was sometimes on a corrections order – he spent some time working at the Vietnam Vets Museum – but less so in the last few years. He was certainly familiar to local police but seemed to be on friendly terms with most of them.
I’d been warned not to trust Dave but I found the opposite to be true. He’d spend several hours fixing my bike then charge me $20. When I insisted on $50, he'd throw in two lawn mowings and a free bell and spray my weeds.
He set up poor people with free internet access by stealing mobile data from Telstra or Optus. All you had to do, he said, was connect this gizmo to that widget, use a fake password and a special code and somehow your data kept growing instead of diminishing. I wish I’d written down the instructions and now it’s too late.
But bikes were his main thing. He rescued bikes from the tip, constructed new ones using parts from many bikes. All his bikes were tailor-made for the rider. Dave would look at the size and weight of you then walk you round the yard and shed, show you the frame he had in mind, the bike he was going to get the wheels from, some good tyres on another, gears here, brakes there.
Dave was a boozer and a user of various other substances. Periodically he swore off everything but he was always seduced back, more or less. He remained cheerful, kind and clever. He was sometimes on a corrections order – he spent some time working at the Vietnam Vets Museum – but less so in the last few years. He was certainly familiar to local police but seemed to be on friendly terms with most of them.
I’d been warned not to trust Dave but I found the opposite to be true. He’d spend several hours fixing my bike then charge me $20. When I insisted on $50, he'd throw in two lawn mowings and a free bell and spray my weeds.
He set up poor people with free internet access by stealing mobile data from Telstra or Optus. All you had to do, he said, was connect this gizmo to that widget, use a fake password and a special code and somehow your data kept growing instead of diminishing. I wish I’d written down the instructions and now it’s too late.
But bikes were his main thing. He rescued bikes from the tip, constructed new ones using parts from many bikes. All his bikes were tailor-made for the rider. Dave would look at the size and weight of you then walk you round the yard and shed, show you the frame he had in mind, the bike he was going to get the wheels from, some good tyres on another, gears here, brakes there.
There were always kids’ bikes at his letter box and you could just take one. He had a sliding scale of charges for adults depending on how much money he thought you had, though never more than $50. But it didn’t matter how much money you had, he wouldn’t sell you a bike if he didn’t trust you. In that case the bike remained a figment of the imagination. He never said no; he just never actually put it together.
When I first became aware of Dave, he lived across the road from me in a house filled with hard cases. Some of his housemates were off their heads and the police visited regularly. In the midst of the chaos, Dave was the peace-maker. He was also the mower. Once he started the mower, he couldn’t stop; he would just keep going around the neighbourhood until he ran out of petrol.
When the household broke up, Dave rented the old house next to me. The house was too big and cold, so he lived in his caravan, using the house as an ablution block. On cold winter days, my dog spent most of the day in the caravan with him, curled up in bed watching TV.
His next move was to a one-bedroom house round the corner in Merrin Crescent. By that time people were bringing him old bikes to fix or for parts. Once he’d filled the shed, the bikes filled the back yard, then they started coming inside. They filled the bedroom, then the living room and eventually spilled over into the kitchen.
He was contemptuous of Big W bikes with their shiny frames and cheap Chinese parts that
wouldn’t last a year. He liked bikes with a few years and miles on them. He became fond of mine, a 1970s Peugeot Suntour that a friend of mine had retrieved from a hard rubbish collection. Dave kept the Suntour running against the odds. Over the years, he replaced the gears and the wheels several times and the brakes, the chain, the bell, the basket. Every few years he’d repaint the handlebars in black enamel paint. It still looks rather handsome.
When I collected my bike after a service, he told me about gear ratios, brake pads and paint qualities. You had to have an exit strategy when he got on to part numbers. I suspect that, like many other brilliant people, Dave was “on the spectrum”.
He didn’t talk much about himself but over the years he let slip that he had managed a hardware shop in Carlton. A couple of years ago he told me a big bicycle repair firm in Brisbane had offered him a job as a supervisor. Dave never big-noted himself so I reckon it was true. He played with the idea of a fresh start before deciding he was already where he belonged.
In the last 10 years he was captivated by electric bike technology. He could talk for hours on the subject. He built his own and on moonlit summer nights would ride the rail trail to Kilcunda, communing with kangaroos and wombats and enjoying a few tinnies and smokes along the way.
My last memory of him … perhaps March this year, before we went into isolation. My dog Matilda had wandered over to see Dave – all animals loved him – and I went to fetch her. He showed me the more interesting bikes he was working on, and his latest invention: salada crackers with vegemite and slices of cheese and tomato. He couldn’t have been prouder if he’d invented the pavlova.
Six or seven bikes were upended in the kitchen so there was no space for a table or chairs. The benches were covered in newspapers which were covered in bike sprockets and sprigs. There was a small space on top of a cupboard, just room for a plate and a tinny. Dave stood and ate his crackers and drank his tinny with a look of pure contentment on his face.
Dave’s neighbours, friends and family will gather at Dave’s place at 11.30am on Saturday.
When I first became aware of Dave, he lived across the road from me in a house filled with hard cases. Some of his housemates were off their heads and the police visited regularly. In the midst of the chaos, Dave was the peace-maker. He was also the mower. Once he started the mower, he couldn’t stop; he would just keep going around the neighbourhood until he ran out of petrol.
When the household broke up, Dave rented the old house next to me. The house was too big and cold, so he lived in his caravan, using the house as an ablution block. On cold winter days, my dog spent most of the day in the caravan with him, curled up in bed watching TV.
His next move was to a one-bedroom house round the corner in Merrin Crescent. By that time people were bringing him old bikes to fix or for parts. Once he’d filled the shed, the bikes filled the back yard, then they started coming inside. They filled the bedroom, then the living room and eventually spilled over into the kitchen.
He was contemptuous of Big W bikes with their shiny frames and cheap Chinese parts that
wouldn’t last a year. He liked bikes with a few years and miles on them. He became fond of mine, a 1970s Peugeot Suntour that a friend of mine had retrieved from a hard rubbish collection. Dave kept the Suntour running against the odds. Over the years, he replaced the gears and the wheels several times and the brakes, the chain, the bell, the basket. Every few years he’d repaint the handlebars in black enamel paint. It still looks rather handsome.
When I collected my bike after a service, he told me about gear ratios, brake pads and paint qualities. You had to have an exit strategy when he got on to part numbers. I suspect that, like many other brilliant people, Dave was “on the spectrum”.
He didn’t talk much about himself but over the years he let slip that he had managed a hardware shop in Carlton. A couple of years ago he told me a big bicycle repair firm in Brisbane had offered him a job as a supervisor. Dave never big-noted himself so I reckon it was true. He played with the idea of a fresh start before deciding he was already where he belonged.
In the last 10 years he was captivated by electric bike technology. He could talk for hours on the subject. He built his own and on moonlit summer nights would ride the rail trail to Kilcunda, communing with kangaroos and wombats and enjoying a few tinnies and smokes along the way.
My last memory of him … perhaps March this year, before we went into isolation. My dog Matilda had wandered over to see Dave – all animals loved him – and I went to fetch her. He showed me the more interesting bikes he was working on, and his latest invention: salada crackers with vegemite and slices of cheese and tomato. He couldn’t have been prouder if he’d invented the pavlova.
Six or seven bikes were upended in the kitchen so there was no space for a table or chairs. The benches were covered in newspapers which were covered in bike sprockets and sprigs. There was a small space on top of a cupboard, just room for a plate and a tinny. Dave stood and ate his crackers and drank his tinny with a look of pure contentment on his face.
Dave’s neighbours, friends and family will gather at Dave’s place at 11.30am on Saturday.
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"Hello mate, just remembered you rang sorry busy afternoon. had 3 Ebikes1 beginner and grandson on 6 sp 20 atx giant I just put together. I took them down the rifle range track butheaps of it was underwater. great stuff lotrs of mud 1 stall in enormous puddle which swallowed the 20 inch, that kid learned fast then followed me on thr rises on the hellish track and we made it back dry waist down. not bad I'll ring on a minute. [bike emoji}
A Giant ‘Rockhopper’ ten years old with a broken gear lever or was that the 29inch Meridian? Doesn’t matter. That is when Dave revealed his online capabilities. His evident satisfaction in finding the product number of the arcane part, chasing it down, bidding at auction, winning it from locations exotic - Bentleigh to Shanghai. And of course, bagging it for the bargain basement price of a mere $12, a part, that if you could get it would retail for more like $40. No matter that he’d spent until three in the morning twice.
I can’t really say I knew Dave, but as my mum would say you treat people as you find them and I found beguiling mischief. Whether it was the range of his ebike or the ride to Kilcunda on the rail trail Dave to me had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his dial. I have just reviewed my text messages from January till now, much humor, racing mobility scooters to rival ride-on lawn-mower racing mentioned.
We are about the same vintage and compared to Dave and his sharpness as witnessed by his bike and particularly his ebike work I’d led a relatively sheltered existence with my own tortuous take on the hand eye coordination and memory that Dave obviously had in abundance and shared with the others of his blood.
We’d been in contact in the last couple of weeks and, though crook, he insisted I drop off our ebike that needed his magic. Unfortunately, Dave in his sickness had fallen for my not uncommon failing in confusing ambition with ability, although it didn’t dent his optimism as the new tool case, bike work stand, batteries and the magnificent Giant off-road bike (to be electrified) all brought at great prices attest.
I called to see Dave on my way to Melbourne, he was wretched, I just said I wasn’t leaving, perhaps that’s what made the prospect of the ambulance and hospital the least worst option. He was bad, no matter how bad, respect was his due and dignity his right. He dressed, cleaned himself up as best he could, gathered up his belongings, said he wasn’t coming back and walked from his house.
What a wonderful article and honour to Dave.