It was late, dark and a storm was brewing. I’d been helping a friend do some work at a property in the Colo valley, north-west of Sydney, and was heading home at about 11pm. As I was driving across the Colo River Bridge, there was a sudden, loud bang. I’d hit a pothole and my front driver’s side tyre had blown, just about swallowing my hatchback with it.
It was 1988 and, in those days, the area around Colo was pretty rough. It was full of bikies – proper bikies, not the drug-running kind that don’t even have bikes nowadays. The back roads around there are mainly deserted and can be eerie at the best of times.
Pulled over on the side of the bridge, I saw a pack of bikies approaching through the rain, which was now pouring down. Just like in a movie, they pulled up around me, engines bubbling along ominously, all leather and gang colours. I thought: “This is it – they’re gonna kill me. They’ll take everything I have, beat me up and chuck me over the bridge.”
In those days, you didn’t look at those guys twice.
But just as I was contemplating how I could persuade them to spare my life, the head guy yelled out: “Need a hand?”
I said, “Err, yes,” telling him it would be great if they could leave their lights on – I already had the jack out with the new tyre beside me, but it was too dark to see what I was doing. With the speed of a Formula One crew, three of the bikies took over, swapped the tyre, let down the jack and then tore off over the hill.
I’ve never thought badly about bikies since – those guys were so friendly and nice. I now try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Their appearance was perfect timing. If they hadn’t shown up, I would have been stuck there until morning.
I’m not sure if they were Hells Angels, but to this day, I believe they were heaven sent.
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