There’s a rumble coming from the shed as Dad starts up the car
The way he takes off up the hill we're heard from afar
We’re flat out as we hit Bull Creek and up the other side
Before we hit old Sandy Grant’s the car begins to slide
We sit and wait with baited breath for the bump that lies below
Then along, up, round to the right and down the straight we go
Spring creek road then flashes by as we hit the overpass
Spring creek itself, a memory, WOW we’re goin’ fast
We’re nearly at the boundary the meeting of the shires
To actually see the sign one day is one of my desires
Craven too has come up quick, forgetting Craven straight
In honour of Dad’s driving feats it’s known as Conrod straight
By the time we’re at the other end we’re nearly breaking sound
It’d only take a pair of wings and the car would leave the ground
Bramley’s pig’s sheds then flash by you barely catch the scent
By the bend that goes past Dodger’s place your nerves are nearly spent
The miners coming from their shift have wondered for a while
Just what that blue streak really is, the Ronny Langdon missile
Approaching Alan Isaac’s farm we’ve almost it top pace
One thing I simply can’t forget is the look upon his face
He’s often tried to give a wave, he rarely gets it right
By the time his hand has hit the air we’re almost out of sight
We crest the hill and Stratford’s there, back down to sixty clicks
Some time to suck a quick few breaths and stretch our tired necks
Now beltin’ down a shortish straight, just to pass a ford
One thing about Dad’s driving was you never could get bored
The underpass is coming, “That sorts the men out from the boys!”
Dad’s humble words have echoed through the testing of his toys
See midway through the left hand bend the G’s become extreme
The pressure on the door intense as you begin to scream
You wonder if the door’ll hold or wether you’ll fall out
Either way your life is in Dad’s hands, "Dad – LET ME OUT!”
The right hand bend is no relief a rough and rocky ride
The change of weight, the bumpy road a high-speed power slide
The left-hand sweep should be a break but there’s no need to look
To see that Dad’s right foot’s gone down, now I know I’m not a sook
But to trust your life to someone else takes faith and a bit of prayer
But the praying doesn’t seem to work cause now I’m in despair
We crest the hill and see a bridge Broad gully bridge its name
A concrete narrow mongrel, but that is not its fame
Its fame comes from the many games of chicken played each day
To see who’s first across the bridge, that’s where we learnt to pray
Although two cars will safely fit it’s scary from the south
Avoiding cars in four wheel drift that fly out of the north
No change in speed for the right hand sweep and up cut hill we go
"Wasn’t that the turn off too the tops?" "Geez…. I dunno!”
It’s blurry past Doc McIndoe’s and up towards Bruce Reeves
I think the road is windy there, but speed always deceives
It’s got me beat how an easy bend can cause such cornering load
Particulary left past Fennings mill and right past Faulkland road
We crest the hill at Sopher’s place for the morning stoush with Trent
The slightest little miscue and we’d all end up quite bent
We hammer up old Forbesdale hill now known as fairburns lane
And there’s the eighty-Kay zone, now it’s time to land the plane
Descending down from thirty thou with speed still on the climb
I really shouldn’t whinge though, we got to town on time
We come down from insanity, the car then touches down
We coast down past Log Monroe’s, two minutes we’re in town
It seems to take forever to get up to Jack’s lane
It sinks in by the golf course, that’s the end of all our pain
From here Dad simply takes us, to our port of call
Now you may not believe me but this story ain’t that tall
Although parts are a writers tail most of it is true
Our prayer life was phenomenal, our underwear the loo
Now some might and have a laugh, some might sit and frown
But for the Langdon family, that’s an average trip to town
Written by
Matthew Langdon
© Matthew Langdon 2002
I started writing this when I was in my late teens. It is a light hearted look at one of my late fathers quirks. Aside from being prominent local business owners in a small town in country New South Wales, our family were not known for obeying speed limits. I started writing this as something of a tribute to dad when his health started to decline. Unfortuunately he died before I finished it in 2002, three years after he went home to the LORD.
Let me tell a story of a tranquil little place
A place that every year holds a legendary race
A race that's built up legends of men and their machines
A race that only 19 men have more than 1 win gleaned
It started out 500 mile way back in 63
When cars were all stock standard, reliability the key
A time when drivers had a flat they'd stop beside the track
Pull out the jack and spare and get themselves back on track
These were the days before V8's ever thundered round
Unlike the race we see today where V8's shake the ground
T'was late into the sixties before they took their place
Since then only 6 times has a V8 been displaced
Cars from here down under and many from abroad
Came every year to try and notch a win up on the board
Many tried and failed though deserving they may have been
Many cars and drivers laboured years without a win
This race has proven torture, and shattered many dreams
Who could forget in 95 Glenn Seton's shattered dream
But here's a driver worthy to be in this group's elite
The fact he ne'er saw victory testament of the feat
So what's that say bout Brocky with nine wins on the board
This mountain's king a legend who will always be adored
Then Perkins, Richards, Skaife, have six wins in the bag
The king of the mountain's protégé Craig Lowndes has five to brag
Moffat, Murphy four, Johnson, Tander, Whincup three
This next group they have two apiece, Bowe, Firth and Rick Kelly
Ingall, Grice and Goss, Steve Richards, Jane and Longhurst
Make up this mountains honour roll who've quenched that victory thirst
Yet thirty other men have come and clawed a victory
Forthy nine in as many years, I love the irony
Will fifty years bring fifty names, status quo or fifty one
By day’s end we will know once the fun and games are done
Will this year bring us dominance like Brock Richards 79
Or the drama of Bob Morris when Fitzpatrick crossed the line
Or the statement Moffat Ickx made when they led Fords one-two
Or the dogfight Tander Percat won in last year’s massive blue
Will we see a last to first like Perkins Ingall 95
Or Percy Grice against the odds when turbo's round here thrived
Or will we see more heartache like Dick Johnson and the rock
Or a car not up to scratch like the year we fare welled Brock
And while we’re talking heart break, to say nothing would be amiss
To mention those who lost their lives, forever sorely missed
Mike Burghman back in 86, Denny Hulme in 92
Don Watson back in 94, let’s pray the last who do
So whatever this year brings us I'll look back with fondest thought
As an era ends when only Ford and Holden fought
Next year we welcome new makes to battle against our best
Here's hoping that our legends will weather this new test
But with rumours that the Falcon is soon to be no more
And rumours that the same is coming for the Commodore
I call on Ford and Holden, to these rumours don't succumb
So they can keep on fighting here for fifty years to come
So there it is my story of this tranquil little place
This place that every year holds a legendary race
This race that's brought us legends of men and their machines
The great race of a nation, the race of motoring dreams
Written by
Matthew Langdon
© Matt Langdon 2012
I wrote this for the 50th running of the Bathurst 1000. Unfortunately I left it too late to have it considered to be part of the official coverage. The Western Advocate did run it with an article on me which I was honoured by.
I need to give a thank you to someone I know not
Someone who's long passed away, someone that time forgot
Someone who's just a memory, and left their family bruised
Someone whose final resting place their family did not choose
The calling they did heed to go and fight on foreign shores
And stand up for a way of life defending rich and poor
To stand against oppression, tyranny, and genocide
And would have gone down swinging, on the day they died
The saddest part of war is we know not where they rest
My heart it grieves to give a send-off worthy of the best
Their sacrifice was ultimate, the price they paid supreme
They gave their life for you and me, a hero not since seen
Then there are the others who returned full of regret
Lamenting that it wasn't them whose final fate was met
They watched as mate and stranger, dropped on either side
Whose memories and friendship now in those old eyes reside
Relieved that they came home, from a hell that they can't shake
The wonder why their mate not them, still their heart it breaks
Their service and their sacrifice a nation did expect
Our ANZAC's gave us freedom, liberty and respect
Those that serve us still, they do with ANZAC pride
In our hearts and memories all of you reside
You fought to give me freedom, laid down your life for me
A debt I'll never be able, to pay back to thee
So every year on ANZAC I'll read this poem again
The only way I'm able, say thank you with my pen
Know you're not forgotten, and let us share your regret
Thank you to our diggers, God bless, lest we forget
Written by
Matthew Langdon
25/04/2013
© Matthew langdon 2013
Sacrifice has many forms and reasons are the same
Those that do these selfless acts rarely point and blame
They act when there is need of love, compassion and times of pain
And never broadcast what they do or act for personal gain
But the greatest sacrifice of all to give away one's life
Like those who fought for freedom when the world was full of strife
But only one Man's sacrifice no other can compare
Paid a debt unpayable, a debt that we all shared
This Man was born to be a king a leader to the Jews
The promises He made if we follow, we won't lose
In His short time on earth, He brought love and faith and hope
And soldiered on through trials that no other could have coped
He healed oh-so many, His words were pure truth
His compassion never wavered whether elderly or youth
His heart was for a people who spiritually were lost
And finished what He came to do despite what it would cost
The price He paid was steep, His treatment inhumane
We hold higher expectations of the criminally insane
His body it was broken, His spirit they tried to crush
Generations on, still their actions make us blush
I simply cannot fathom, the cruelty of His death
Those nails driven through His flesh longing for that last breath
But even in unspeakable pain His heart was still for me
And through the Blood of Jesus Christ I am truly free
But Yahweh wasn't finished when Jesus said it was
Three days on He raised Him To finish off His cause
See the miracle of one Man's death it opened up the way
So we could speak directly to Abba Father Yahweh
A sacrafice was needed to set all of us free
And Jesus Christ the perfect Lamb did just that for me
See now I have salvation, because He paid the price
Jesus Christ my saviour, the perfect sacrifice
Written by
Matthew Langdon 05/05/2013
© Matt Langdon 2013
The real reason for Easter!