Salt encrusted old surf dogs never leave their favourite local break and will probably die in their vans encased in their wetsuits with the scent of melted board wax decaying on the dash. But what of the ol’ surf dog turned nordic ski man in his heritage class French saloon in the clutches of the Victorian High Country, with his quiver of nordic snow skis occy-strapped to the roof racks?
STORY AND PHOTOS BY MARLON QUINN
Trying to make the most of the limited shade in the carpark, I plonked the car under the largest of trees, stringy bark languishing off the branches.
Stationed behind me, in the golden sunshine of the late afternoon lit up like the shiny jewel of your deepest pangs, set this 1970’s Peugeot saloon, dressed in faded yet jolly baby blue hue.
It looked out of place. But perfect. Oozing the French character of old, all original chrome bumpers with hints of the aging times of orange rust blushing back at you.
The plunging bonnet line tapering to the fierce bold headlamps and subtle nine-slivered grill, sans the proud lion emblem badge that signified its speedy, flexible and biting attitude.
If you weren’t sure yet what this Pininfarina designed mid-engine 2-litre powered, rear wheel drive 1969 awarded European car of the year stood for, a quick lap around the outer would shunt you back into a time of simple, robust and practical developments, wrapped up in complete understated flair and style!
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The 504 model was not just a French fancy, it was a widespread international success because of its robust body structure, long travel suspension, high ground clearance, large wheels and specially designed driveshaft that relieved torque reactions, ideal for rough-terrain roads of Australia. It even became known as Africa’s workhorse (Source: Wikipedia).
And, such was its marque as a penetrable working class status symbol, in March 2011 Iranian President reportedly auctioned his off for $2.5million to raise money for charity.
Catching the glimmers of the afternoon light, the 504 proved a symbol more fitting than I could have ever imagined, as I gazed up and around at the hills, trees and ribbons of the MTB trails of Omeo Mountain Bike Park.
Man, I was already swept up in heaven, even before I’d set down the hardtail onto the dirt and clipped into the pedals. Oh my. Omeo.
Sauntering across the gravel car park, a squat-type nuggety figure approached, silver hair matching silver beard.
Dressed in all black thermal top and longs, with a pair of knee-length pair of loose-fitting shorts over the top for decorum, this suspicious Gent made his way slowly but steadily towards the Peugeot.
Curiously he said hello. And then with the look of someone who spotted imminent danger, he peered over towards my Land Rover Discovery 4 parked under the tree, and before the words even emanated, he conveyed the idea that I’d made one of those blunders that a man of more wise years would have known better to do.
“I wouldn’t park there”, he says, gazing from the tree trunk base, up and skywards. “Branches”.
Before I could mutter some words about shade and keeping the car cool, the lesson had closed.
This worldly figure, calm, yet purposeful. Friendly yet observant and with a touch of suspicion, moved to the boot of his French beast.
My eyes now cast over the lines of the 504, from the chrome hubcap up to the bonnet, and resting upon the huge mesh windscreen protector that proudly curved in prominence across the A-pillars. It was magnificent.
I watched in my mind as the Peugeot flung up the mountain pass, twisting left and right, dirt plumes awash from the rear tyres, windscreen mesh fending off rogue stones and gravel from pitting the windscreen. The rear wheels itching for traction as the front wheel suspension bounced up and down, levering for mid-corner bite as the tail swept from side to side, engine drooling with roars and grunts of terror.
Then I saw the skis. Occy-strapped to the metal roof bars. A pair of Fischer Nordic skis with old school Telemark style bindings.
This guy was cool! Old school cool, because he wasn’t even trying to be cool.
He noticed me admiring his skis strapped to the roof. Workhorses they were, they were well worn and showed the nicks, scrapes and wounds of seasons of adventures out in the alpine.
He quickly quipped that naah, he doesn’t even ski. Just has them strapped to the roof racks to be one of those tossers that drives around with the gear showcased on the roof to make it looks like he skis. A wanker type he says, you know, got all the stuff, but never use it.
I catch him glancing over to my crisp Fuji-white coloured Land Rover with my polished steel hard tail XC MTB mounted on the roof. I give him a grin and chuckle, yeah, I’m one of them too, as I sarcastically mutter, “wouldn’t even know how to ride that thing”.
Brian kept messing about in the boot of the 504, using a sponge to mop up some uncontained fresh water that had spilled. From the way the boot was organised with different size storage boxes in an almost perfected matrix, Brian was no amateur campaigner.
As the sponging and wringing continued in a methodical easy earnest, we chatted on, skirting between truth and half-truths that were playfully exchanged in a kind of life story reveal, without the reveal.
It was like a fun game of innocent espionage, reading between the lines of the story being told, as if it were a bluff to test the authenticity and guile of the listener, at the same time telling the story without telling the story. But that was the story.
Brian mentioned that he’d slept in the car the night before, maximising his time skiing on the mountain. But then, wanting to recall the words now hanging in the air, he’d quip, but no, it’s far too cold for that.
It was so easy to become enamoured with this moment, I couldn’t help but be drawn into this world of Brian and his Peugeot 504 snow crawler / chariot. He just oozed spirit. Passion. And an absolute deep authentic joy for skiing.
For 40 years he’d been travelling to the High Country for the ski season, he just loved it. The joy of athleticism, movement, and the happiness it gave his mind, untethered out there, sliding across the mountain ranges, valleys and wherever the hell he felt like roaming.
But a few years earlier, he’d suffered a stroke and it had affected the right hand side of his body. The wires had become a bit crossed, the nerve impulses and messages a bit muted and misinterpreted. It hurt the love of skiing he’d held dearly all his life. The reckless abandon that once drove his Nordic ski adventures into bliss, hampered by the ills of a body aging in life. However, it was clear as he spoke, despite the weariness, the sparkle and vigour still flamed away deep behind his eyes.
He’d had a bad couple of recent years when he thought he’d give it all away, the skiing would be no more. It was a hard time he said, further darkened by the poor winter snow seasons prior.
With a wry grin though, this season, he was back.
As we moved around the side of the 504, the fading sunlight caught the silver eyelets holding the sturdy laces of his leather ski boots, laying just as they were flung in the back no doubt just over an hour ago after Brian returned to the car from his untold escapade.
Brian rubbed a bit with his palm over the top of his shoulder, and softly shared with me that since the stroke, skiing has been more challenging.
His mind knows what the right hand side of his body should be doing. The body moves in the general direction at the command of the mind’s impulses. But the body isn’t moving in the way the mind thinks it is. It’s out of sync. It’s not being directed or giving the feedback properly.
Brian goes on to say that you think you’re putting weight on your ski, skating forward, but it’s weak and feeble, it’s delayed, or not engaged the way you think it is. You have to work harder to keep the body functioning in unison. The additional focus and concentration, plus regular correction, makes it a bit more tiring, physically and mentally because of the need to keep compensating.
He dives deeper and finds the courage to admit to me, that he lost the love of the Nordic ski for a while, those darker few years. It all got a bit much. Not being the way it used to be.
But the inner rascal couldn’t help himself, he wanted to play. Wanted to ski on the beautiful winter snow in the High Country. To feel the freedom, to be in the peace and quiet of the wilderness, worrying about nothing but where that next rise to the peak is and the vigour that relishing free turn after turn downhill in the backcountry handed to his spirit.
Like the shimmering chrome of the 1970’s 504 bumper bar and domed wheel hub caps, Brian shone. He is one of those unicorn folks. A treasured barn find. A guy who doesn’t care for the resort style skiing. He’s not lining up for the chalet. The only lining up he wants to do is the S’s of turns he’s going to carve out on the way down the slope. And he’s earned every metre of them on the way up, relishing the splendour of a wanderer in the untracked fresh snow.
Breaking the short silence, he mutters something about having to get a new phone SIM card the days prior, and on a completely off tangent says, “it’s like that f*#cking two-factor authentication crap, I mean, how complicated does it have to be to get your phone to work with a new SIM in it?”.
I admire the bespeckled signs of rust about the engine bonnet lip, and the crusty flakes of paint that refuse to crumble or let go of their calming baby blue colour, and look back at Brian.
There was so much more to discover about him and his 40 years of snow bunny ways, my curiosity was peaking higher than Feathertop.
At 72 years of age, sauntering around the carpark, Brian and his 1970’s 504 really jettisoned me into a new dimension. All that style and panache, gleaming and rusting. Growing and decaying. Living and living.
Maybe Brian’s body was giving way a bit, but like the 504, he still exhibited that same fierceness of a man ready to work for his rewards, of savouring the plushness and robustness of quality things. Of the luxury of the special things that support your true freedom, and the subtlety of doing it in your own way because you love it, not because it’s popular, or to be seen doing it. In the modern world, it’s rare to meet people that are like this. The under-the-radar types that are too busy getting on with living their passion to be ‘influencing’ anyone.
It’s what I think as time and all that social media bizzo gets on we’re all going to be craving more of. And fighting for. And as we do, we’re going to of course have some kind of hashtag or reference for it, that you know, becomes front and centre in the lexicon of our days. Otherwise you know, we might miss it, and it won’t be real unless someone knows about it. And so, if any of that matters, I’ve termed it, the Essence of Brian. #essenceofbrian
Because damn, I hope that when I find myself in my 70’s, that I’m still kicking around in a stately old European car that still runs like the workhorse it was designed to be. And I’m pushing my heels into my telemark ski boots, ready to clip in and take off with unbridled passion somewhere over the snowy hills and into the white pristine untouched back country.
Thanks to my chance meeting in Omeo with Brian and his beautiful 504.
Thank you, Essence of Brian.
— Living breath by breath in fluid movement outdoors.
To visit the Victorian High Country region, find out more insights and plan easily online at: https://www.victoriashighcountry.com.au/
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