At last Geoff Ellis finds a use for his father’s collection of mysteriousbike tools. Photos: Kate Harmon
By Geoff Ellis
A YOUNG boy once spent a hot afternoon hiding on the rusty tin roof of a two-torey terrace. He had outrun a police officer through the back lanes of Redfern and was too afraid to come down.
The officer had spotted him riding a bike that looked too good for the boy. The cop accused him of theft and demanded he hand over the bike and cop a beating as punishment. The boy sped down the nearest lane, through a gate and shoved the bike under a verandah before ascending to the roof via a drainpipe. He heard the copper cursing for what seemed like a lifetime. When the sun went down the boy climbed down, retrieved the bike and pedaled for home.
A YOUNG boy once spent a hot afternoon hiding on the rusty tin roof of a two-torey terrace. He had outrun a police officer through the back lanes of Redfern and was too afraid to come down.
The officer had spotted him riding a bike that looked too good for the boy. The cop accused him of theft and demanded he hand over the bike and cop a beating as punishment. The boy sped down the nearest lane, through a gate and shoved the bike under a verandah before ascending to the roof via a drainpipe. He heard the copper cursing for what seemed like a lifetime. When the sun went down the boy climbed down, retrieved the bike and pedaled for home.
The boy was Bobby Ellis and he was my father. His family was doing it tough during the depression, as they kept one move ahead of the rent they couldn't pay. Bobbie had a sparse childhood and that bike was his prize possession as it enabled him to travel to more salubrious parts of Sydney. Later on he raced bicycles a bit and eventually graduated to motorbikes and family cars.
By the time Bobbie Ellis became my father, he was living in a housing commission house in the western suburbs. He worked as a spray painter and was a self-taught backyard mechanic.
I grew up in our own private wrecking yard and on the weekends had a place at my dad's elbow, asking annoying questions as “we” took things apart and tried to keep old bombs going.
Of course I got a bike early. Dad probably scavenged it from the local tip. It was way too big for me with turned down handlebars. It took me years to master and then I used to escape suburbia by riding west into the Blue Mountains or east to the beach or Centennial Park.
Cars and motorbikes eventually usurped pedal power in my life. When Dad died, I inherited his accumulation of mechanical oddities that were “sure to come in handy one day”, including his collection of mysterious bike tools.
A couple of decades later I was asked if I'd be interested in starting a program at Bass Coast Adult Learning to teach bike maintenance to people who are supported by the NDIS (National Disability Insurance Scheme).
Seriously? I grabbed the keys to the bike shed and started dusting off Dad's old tools. I figured the best way to teach is to create the space to learn. Once a few bikes had been donated we started pulling them apart and building good ones.
Kate, one of the founding participants, learnt quickly and we've had a lot of fun getting bikes ready for donation to the local Salvation Army who pass them on to people in need. At the moment we are rushing to get a batch of new kids’ bikes ready for the Salvos’ Santa to deliver. These ready-to-be-assembled bikes were donated by the Lyndhurst Bike Shop as they were surplus to their requirements.
Every time I see a bike on a nature strip I think about that kid on a roof in Redfern in 1931. His DNA is in the tools in our shed.
By the time Bobbie Ellis became my father, he was living in a housing commission house in the western suburbs. He worked as a spray painter and was a self-taught backyard mechanic.
I grew up in our own private wrecking yard and on the weekends had a place at my dad's elbow, asking annoying questions as “we” took things apart and tried to keep old bombs going.
Of course I got a bike early. Dad probably scavenged it from the local tip. It was way too big for me with turned down handlebars. It took me years to master and then I used to escape suburbia by riding west into the Blue Mountains or east to the beach or Centennial Park.
Cars and motorbikes eventually usurped pedal power in my life. When Dad died, I inherited his accumulation of mechanical oddities that were “sure to come in handy one day”, including his collection of mysterious bike tools.
A couple of decades later I was asked if I'd be interested in starting a program at Bass Coast Adult Learning to teach bike maintenance to people who are supported by the NDIS (National Disability Insurance Scheme).
Seriously? I grabbed the keys to the bike shed and started dusting off Dad's old tools. I figured the best way to teach is to create the space to learn. Once a few bikes had been donated we started pulling them apart and building good ones.
Kate, one of the founding participants, learnt quickly and we've had a lot of fun getting bikes ready for donation to the local Salvation Army who pass them on to people in need. At the moment we are rushing to get a batch of new kids’ bikes ready for the Salvos’ Santa to deliver. These ready-to-be-assembled bikes were donated by the Lyndhurst Bike Shop as they were surplus to their requirements.
Every time I see a bike on a nature strip I think about that kid on a roof in Redfern in 1931. His DNA is in the tools in our shed.
