A PLUGGER IS BILL, THOUGH HE DOES LOSE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18045, 4 January 1927, Page 10

A PLUGGER IS BILL, THOUGH HE DOES LOSE.

HIS COUNTRY FRIENDS WOULD LIKE TO SEE HIM TAKE ON O’SHEA. ALL THE CHAMPIONS ARE NOT IN TOWN. (Written for the “Star.”) IN the city you have become accustomed to seeing champions defeating champions, and when it seems that you have an unbeatable man you find the sport flagging. Out in the country at a country sports meeting you see the man who you know could beat your champion in the city, and it grieves you to find that he is hopelessly caught in the relentless mesh of the tussocks. You know nothing about him; he is probably Bill or Sam or Mac, but that is all. If you could get him into town he would become the famous Bill —. the unbeatable Sam —, the great Mac —. On a summer's day you find yourself in an outback town on the occasion of the annual sports, and perchance you meet Bill. 44 Straight Off the Hills.” You hear Bill’s worshippers talking Bill and you gather that Bill is somewhat of a hero in Turnipville. It is said that he is coming in straight off the hills for the cycling championship. He hasn’t done an hour’s training. " Gripes, a man can’t muster and lend a hand with the shearing and train tool” —but there is not a rider in the country that can get in front of Bill once Bill has nosed his way into the lead at the entrance to the straight. Bill’s admirers “ would like to see Bill and Phil O’Shea have a fair pop at each other.’’ Bill would have to have a good grid, of course. The upshot of all this is that you gather that there have been champions *• but there never was and never will be another Bill. Bill is a corker. It is not much use inquiring who - Bill is, for a request for enlightenment brings scorn and derision upon your innocent head. Ask one of Bill’s fol- - lowers and he immediately turns to another of Bill’s followers and says, ‘‘Joe, ' ’ere’s a coot wantin’ to know who Bill is! ” And with that Bill’s followers look a little sympathetically upon you. Then they burst into scornful jeering and •walk away, surmising that you have 'strayed from safe keeping and will ’probabl} r commit horflicide before the day is over. They never think of telling you who Bill is. Oh dear, no. “ He’s a corker, is Bill.” The City Crack. The time for the start of the threemile cycle championship approaches. There are the cracks from the city, four of them, all looking in the pink of -condition—trained to the minute. Your 'admiration is aroused at once and you "wish them luck. Speedily your eye .takes in how perfect is their mould, how neat is their appearance, how clean and sparkling is the machine each is quietly wheeling up to the start. In the meantme, where is Bill? Everyone about you is murmuring ~ Bill,” and you hear it said that if Bill’s old grid is in order he has got the three-mile cycle championship on toast. “There’s Bill,” shouts someone at your elbow. Coming from a tent about fifty yards away is a squat figure looking more like a baboon than a man. That’s Bill. Bill comes nearer. His head lolls first on one side of his neck then on the other, awkwardly bowing in conscious acknowledgment of the salutes of his admirers. Got ’er well oiled up, Bill?” shouts an admirer. To which interrogation Bill grins blandly and shows a wide gap in his mouth where two teeth are Snissing. j “ See yer got yer track rims on. Bill,” “■observes another of Bill’s admirers. Bill grins again, then he stops and presses an inquiring finger on his back tyre. “ Oh, and yer got a new tyre on the adds the observant one. And Jagain Bill grins. • Taking stock of Bill, you find him ‘tvith a contraption that boasts the .rime of cycle; a ramshackle machine you would not risk your life on. Bill himself is a rugged, hairy man, squat like a missing link. He wears a pair of sand shoes, grey woollen socks merging just below the knee in a pair of black shorts tied round his waist with a piece

of binder twine. The upper portion of Bill is robed in a ploughman’s woollen singlet, buttoned half wav down the front from his throat and appropriately shaded. Having taken in this detail you think to yourself “ Bill is a corker.” Bill takes up his position at the start. He has drawn the outside running. He is tenth from the inside. The field get astride their machines and strap their feet to the pedals. The whistle—the gun. Each play their part, then nine riders shoot forward and. with heads bending low over handlebars, sprint away with the speed of lightning. In a flash they are round the first bend. Again in the meantime where is Bill? The gun is fired again— Bill was not ready. His left pedal strap was not buckled properly. Back come the other nine to the start. Bill adjusts his pedal strap and to make sure of its better adjustment, utilises a portion of the twine round his waist to form an extra binding. In five minutes Bill is ready and the start is made. After two laps Bill is last but one. Entering the straight for the third .time Bill stands up on his pedals and sprints and three riders are overtaken at the end of the lap. Bill is last but four. With the first mile covered Bill ,is going strongly. At the entrance to the straight Bill goes up to take his lap. “Now we will see some ridin’!” Repine Bill’s followers standing round. Like a shot from a gun Bill goes away from the field and reaches the bend beyond the straight five lengths .ahead of the rest. “Good old Bill!” shouts Turnipville. He is killing those city riders.” Alas, a Crash. Bill flies on. He covers a mile and a half in two minutes ten seconds, and •coming down the straight for the seventh time Bill is still five lengths 'in front of the rest of the field. To see how far he was in front Bill looks round. Crash! Bill goes over the embankment and lands on his back with his contraption on top of him. A gasp escapes Bill’s followers, but then Bill is seen picking himself up from the dust and pushing his contraption on to the track and getting on his c ontraption and riding after the fastly fleeing field, without waiting to adjust his pedal straps. The echoes ring ‘‘Good old Bill.” L The field was half a lap in front of

Bill, when two miles had been covered, but Bill has no idea of quitting* the fight yet. He is the pride of Turnipville and Turnipville is some town. In the ninth lap Bill sprints down the straight and. amid shouts of “ Good old Bill,” Bill closes the gap between himself and the field by half. At the band. Crash! Bill’s front wheel goes down in a rut and Bill is thrown on his back again. Bill rises and Bill kicks his front wheel and Bill mounts his contraption, and. for the third time, joins in the race. The field is nearly a lap in front by this time. The Final Sprint. In the eleventh lap the city cracks go up to the front. Two of them make the pace. They slow it down for a breather, then the twelfth and final lap is started. Bill saw them sprint. Bill saw them fight out the finish, Bill saw a city man win. And for the twelfth time Bill sprints down the straight, and Bill’s followers shouted “ Good old Bill.” “So that’s Bill.” you say to yourself after the race is over and Bill’s followers are agreeing that Bill had hard luck and “ if it wasn’t, for his two spills he’d have walked in.” Then you think of Bill’s spirit and Bill’s sprints and you wish you could get Bill into town and give Bill some training and put some polish on Bill. Teach Bill not. to look round and to corner properly. You would give Bill h good cycle and. with some confidence, a try at Phil O'Shea.