And his night driver. And the cab’s owner, who would likely marry him if he wasn’t already taken.

Two delightful people and we had a lovely evening – very rare for us to actually have some free time together. Usually we are ships passing in the night.

They brought over a board game to play, and when they unpacked it and set it up, my heart sank. This looked very complex and detailed, and most likely they would wipe the floor with Kerri and I.

As it happened, that turned out to be the case, but we had a lot of fun on the way. The game itself has a lot of diverse components, but play itself is pretty simple. On a map of North America, various rail routes link cities, and each player has to claim rail lines by placing little coloured railway carriages along the routes. You get a series of “tickets” which describe cities that must be linked. Portland to Seattle is not much of a chore, but Vancouver to Miami is stretching things!

This is definitely a game for taxidrivers, where constructing the longest possible path between two points is handsomely rewarded. I did my best, but faced with two quick minds experienced in the game, Kerri and I were outshone in every game.

In the most charming way.

The map of the USA I’d been using to describe the route for our upcoming rip to my son was on the table, and I went over it again with our visitors.

Peskie and I had planned this trip a year or so back, as a charity drive along Route 66 in a New York cab, but the venture gradually turned into something quite different. Maybe one day we’ll have that adventure.

I’m going to miss Peskie. If he picks someone up from the airport in the morning, he’ll likely arrange for me to collect them for the ride back in the afternoon, and the passenger and I will spend the trip telling each other what a wonderful bloke he is.

Personally, I think he’s wasted as a taxidriver – he should be out running the country instead of the current crop of overpaid imbeciles – but as he’s chosen to share my line of employment, I’m glad of his company.

At least until some hound of a passenger interrupts me, wants me to drive him somewhere and accept money. Better than ad breaks, I suppose, but it sure cuts up the flow.

Anyway, I’ve been watching a movie about a heroic taxidriver. He saves hundreds from certain death, gets his passengers home safely – apart from one, who enters the cab in the first few minutes of the film and is still there at the end – battles with self confidence, makes love in the surf, and goes out to win one for the Zipper. It’s great stuff – a day in the life of a cabbie.

There’s singer Maureen McGovern, basketballer Kareem Al-Jabbar, people holding the sets together, an amazing juggling scene, and Girl Scouts fighting for their lives.

Our cabbie hero takes it all in his stride. Sweating buckets along the way, he does the job and gets the girl. It’s one of the ten greatest films in a crowded genre. Made on a shoestring but spawning a string of sequels. Thirty years later, there are people who can recite every line of the script. It’s a classic, and I love it.

I refer, of course, to Flying High. A jetliner with propeller sounds, no aircraft ever endured so much, or crammed in so many gags – in every sense of the word.

Robert Hays plays Ted Striker, Los Angeles cabdriver with girl troubles and a bad wartime experience as a fighter pilot. He boards a flight to Chicago to win back his stewardess girlfriend, the flight crew are dragged off with food poisoning somewhere over the Hoover Dam, and the only person on board who can bring the four engine jetliner in safely is Striker.

He’s a troubled man, and the audience feels every moment of his personal struggle. Taxidriving is like that.

And the best films show a hero overcoming adversity and internal conflict to win against the odds and find romance. This is one of the greats. This is a film to base a doctoral thesis on. This is what a cabbie does when he’s not driving.

Next week, playing on Cabbie Cinema for your viewing pleasure: Gone With The Wind – the story of lost property.

Much as I appreciate a three day weekend – and the probability of further extensions until the cab is repaired – I am in sore need of money to fund my upcoming trip, and the pleasure of leisure is balanced by the the sad thought of my bank balance.

I’ve been reasonably discreet with the news, but I was involved in yet another cab crash on Friday morning. Just after midnight, on the way in to the Alinga Street rank with the city centre full of young folk and the prospect of three hours of work, a young lady made a right turn across traffic, imagining that the green light freed her from the duty of giving way to oncoming traffic – me.

To be fair to her, it’s a confusing intersection, and the traffic lights control the pedestrian crossing, not the intersection, but still, she suddenly appeared in front of me and I was unable to stop in time. No injuries, but both cars had to be towed away.

The insurance will pay for the repairs, but the loss of income over the busy weekend, and likely the busy week with Parliament’s imminent return, will severely disadvantage the cab owner, the weekend driver, the day driver and me.

I’m getting rather cheesed off with this side of cabdriving. In the four years of cabbing, I’ve had more accidents than I ever did in the thirty-some years since I first got a learner’s permit. Nothing major, and one or two were my fault, especially that whole backing into a tree thing, but still it’s not good for the soul. Or the bank balance.

The job itself is a lot of fun. Long hours and short pay, but I get to read books and watch movies and surf the net between fares, and the people I carry are generally interesting. I collected a young lady from the airport the other night, a former Australian of the Year, and she was a total delight. In the middle of summer, she was carrying a heavy coat, and explained that she was off to Canada in a day or two. We talked about travel and Route 66 and the underground culture of generosity and service. There are so many people around who donate time and money to making the world a better place, and it delights me to hear of them. This lady was one, and knew many more.

Famous authors, leading public figures, artists – the list goes on and on. You never know who will jump into the cab. Or the ordinary people who will never make the papers, but delight me with their jokes or their good humour or their companionship in the night. A few days ago, I picked up four young people from a house in the suburbs, heading off for an evening at a nearby tavern. I looked at them, selected CD 1 which is Michael Jackson, and as “Billie Jean” thumped through the speakers, the three in the back seat began doing Mexican waves. I could see the hands rising and falling in the rear mirror, and I giggled happily at the sight. For some reason, we cabbies are supposed to be hard, crusty, unsmiling men, bitter at life and closed up in emotion. Not me. Something amuses me, I laugh.

I like the job. It suits me.

But the long hours and low pay aren’t sustainable.

In the meantime, I’ve got leisure to write, and to declutter. I went through my cupboards and put some stuff up on eBay. I’ll try to clear out a bit each day – the result should be a house less full of junk, and a bank that smiles at me.

An address in Ainslie, and when she came out in a light, gauzey green dress, telling me “Paviliion”, I wondered. The Pavillion is a nearby hotel, not a place for locals to go for a drink, but somewhere for visitors to stay. Bill Bryson, for instance.

But I didn’t say nothing.

It’s not at all easy to get to, and I had to head towards Dickson and back down Northbourne Avenue. When I indicated left to go in to the hotel entrance, she woke up, saying “No, the Carillon!”

Maybe she blushed, but I wasn’t looking.

We sorted it out and I promised to knock a few dollars off the fare. Down Limestone, Anzac, Constitution, and we see a sign saying that Wendouree Drive to the Carillon was closed. Something to do with the secret new ASIO headquarters building being constructed nearby.

So we had to go around the Kings Avenue roundabout – or rather the pot-holed temporary roads that mark the transition from roundabout to overpass – and across the bridge, under Kings Avenue, back over the bridge, and into the other entrance to the Carillon. I knocked off a few more dollars for that – I’d dimly remembered about the road closure from months ago – and all up it was a prime example of incompetence on my part.

The Carillon on Aspen Island is one of my favorite places. A beautiful elegant bell tower soaring white and pure above a small island, landscaped in a man-made lake, shores studded with monuments, showpiece buildings and grand vistas.

An open-air ninja concert featuring Amanda Palmer – Neil Gaiman’s brand new punk cabaret queen wife – and it looked like a merry scene as my passenger walked to join her friends, green gauze skirt brushing her thighs.

The clouds were darkening over Black Mountain as I turned the cab. Home was a few minutes away, and while I made a fresh cup of moka pot coffee, the skies opened. Heavy rain, lightning, wind – the whole deal, and I was glad that I was tucked drily inside Betsy.

Apparently it was an awesome concert. Umbrellas were not enough to shelter the crowd, and the lofty chamber of the Carillon can’t have provided much of a roof in the wind.

But the atmosphere! Reading Amanda’s twitter feed, it sounded like an incredible, albeit damp, time was had, leading to some monumental hangovers.

Me, I went off to hide in the underground carpark of Parliament House, to ponder whether I could have found any more roadworks and diversions on the way. I’ll be so very glad when they finish the current wave of construction!

A song about a cabbie giving grieving parents a free ride. A song that will resonate with every cabbie:
Into the stream, we pulled away
I know it well, this old ballet
Finding the flow, minding the sway
Catching green lights all the way

The comments on the YouTube video make it clear that this song is about 9/11, taking people home from the mortuary on 7th Avenue, where they gathered for news of the missing.

There’s hope and grace near the end – you’ll just have to listen, maybe check the lyrics on the singer’s site.

I downloaded a copy of the song from iTunes and immediately put it into my main playlist. If I get a chance, I’ll see if I can catch a performance on my next trip to the States.

I’m getting quite a collection of taxicab material. Books, memoirs, songs. Perhaps the best is Hack, by the New York Jewish lesbian nightcabbie Melissa Plaut. I heard her once, late at night, on NPR talking about her book and her first shift, which in one of those episodes of synchronicity, involved survivors of 9/11.

A great read of the stress and the joy of driving a cab. I read her blog for months before my own first shift – she inspired me.

“Airport, please!” he said, helping his wife into the back. Red remembrance poppies in their buttonholes, a row of ribbons over her right breast.

We paused at their hotel where he went inside to retrieve luggage. I turned to the wife. “Did you have a good look around the War Memorial?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

Oh? Visitors say what a wonderful, emotional place it is, how they could have spent days exploring the halls, how the bugler’s call tugs on heartstrings at sunset, the eternal flame lighting the long lines of names in the cloisters.

“We lost our son,” she explained.

Oh. The Governor-General had held a private ceremony that morning. Ten new names had been added to the thousands.

Her husband and I loaded the bags. I pulled out onto Limestone Avenue, past the War Memorial where the temporary seating was being packed away.

I had jazz playing: Tenderly and These Foolish Things mellow in the late afternoon. My eyes were brimming as I thought on the couple in the back. So very young to have had a son in uniform, who must have been of an age with the cadets from the service colleges who often piled into my cab for a night out with their comrades. A son now “lost” but cherished in their thoughts and their hearts.

We pulled up at the terminal. I cleared the meter, said “No charge,” held the door open, and lifted luggage from the boot.

He didn’t understand, pulling out his wallet.

“The fare’s already been paid,” I explained.

“What? Who by?”

There was a catch in my voice. “Your son.”

They got in on the main city rank, now re-opened at a third the original size. “Can we stop at a bottle-o first?” one asked.

“Right-oh!” I replied. “But where are we going?”

“Formule 1″

“You beauty!” I thought to myself. The Formule 1 motel is one of those cheapo deals out on the highway. $59 a night for a basic room and the dining room is a vending machine.

But it’s a nice long fare.

We went through Braddon, stopping at the Bottle-O there. That’s the trade name, and it’s a good one. Well-stocked grog shop, free parking outside, off-licence to print money, it is.

One of the two young men went inside and I hit the “Pause” button on the meter. It was going to be a good fare and people who stay at cheap motels are reaching into their own pockets to count the pennies. I look after them.

The guy in the back seat, a fairly chunky sort of fella, caught sight of the “Route 66″ keyring I have bluetacked to the dashboard. It’s one I bought at the Route 66 museum in Chandler, OK last year, and I keep it there for daydreaming purposes. That half day spent exploring the old road between Tulsa and Oklahoma City was a very happy one!

“I’m going to ride Route 66 next year with my father,” he said. “We’ll pick up the Harleys in Detroit, ride them to LA, and ship them home.”

Wow! What a trip! This chap immediately had my attention.

His mate got back in, with a six pack of Jim Beams to help the night ahead go down, and we set off on Canberra’s own Mother Road. Northbourne Avenue.

We talked Route 66 and the USA all the way. The food, the cars, the motels, the people. I mentioned that I’m planning my own father-son trip along Route 66 next year. From the other side of the generation gap. Myself, my son and my daughter.

I had lusted after a rental Mustang, but looking at the reviews it sounds like it wouldn’t be as much fun for the third person, sitting in the cramped back seat, peering out through a couple of tiny side windows. I’d be doing a lot of the driving, but some of the time it would be me in the back seat, and I wanted to enjoy the experience.

So we’ll likely hire something with a bit of size and a bit of style. A Chrysler 300C would be ideal. Lots of room for people and baggage, space for extras, a bunch of buttons to press and an image that is unmistakably All-American.

Not as much fun as a Harley, to be sure, but I’m not a Harley kind of guy. I wished my passengers the best for the trip, put my foot down and whipped off in a cloud of dust for the airport, where I watched the planes climb into the night sky and sent my thoughts with them.

Earlier that day, a package from Amazon had arrived, containing a DVD: Route 66: Producer’s Picks.

Not a lot to do with Route 66 as such, but for the feeling of driving through Sixties America in a classy car, there’s nothing to beat it. The black and white scenes, the corny live-to-camera adverts, the unforgettable theme music, the guest appearances of later stars, the thought-provoking plots, and above all the lifestyle, it’s a pleasure to watch.

I’ve got a bunch of maps and guidebooks, any number of websites, and all my dreams to keep me going until next year.

Last October we said goodbye to Betsy, our lovely silver Holden Statesman taxi. Almost new, she was loaded down with great features, and was a pleasure to drive.

But while I was off in America, the owner managed to write her off. One design flaw is that the A-pillars are very thick, hiding oncoming traffic at intersections. He didn’t mean to hit the other car, but he did, and hard enough to do some serious damage.

But he bought her back off the insurance company and over the past half year or so, while we’ve been driving loaner a Ford Fairlane, he’s gradually put her back together in the back of the workshop.

Yes, Charles the Fairlane that I crashed a week ago.

Friday it all came together and we swapped the patched-up Charles* for renewed Betsy. I got to drive her first shift as a reborn cab, just like I drove her first shift as a new cab last year.

What a pleasure! She’s got some wonderful functions, such as automatic windscreen wipers, front and rear parking sensors, MP3 disc player. The gas tank in the boot doesn’t rattle, so I don’t have to use the “ex-girlfriend” joke any more.

On the slight downside, there’s no seat memory – a boon for a car with three regular drivers – and the transmission makes a racket. Put your foot down, and the world can count the revs.

There’s also a new taximeter, so I’ll have to upgrade my muscle memory after three years of hitting the old set of buttons. At least this one comes with a user manual, which is a lot more than ever we got with the old one.

* Charles was repaired with bits from another Fairlane that just happened to be stuffed in the back of the workshop, and – trust me on this – there’s a fair bit of duct tape hiding some of the scars.

“You free?” they asked.

Avoiding the obvious riposte, I indicated that I was available.

“EPIC,” they said.

I agreed. Exhibition Park in Canberra. Not on the way to the airport, but a nice fare, straight up Northbourne. The National Folk Festival is being held there in a few days, and these folk looked like early attendees.

Dropped them off at the main entrance, headed back down the road. Northbourne Avenue is as close as Canberra comes to having a main street. The Federal Highway from Sydney becomes Northbourne about where EPIC is located, and suddenly drivers are out of highway mode, sliding through suburbs and motels, the flagpole of Parliament House visible in the far distance on Capital Hill across the lake.

An odd car ahead of me. Covered in advertising, foreign numberplate, roof rack full of stuff. I pulled out my camera, but the battery pack was exhausted, so my fallback was the iPhone’s minicam.

I pulled alongside when the lights turned red at Antill Street. Quite a long change. The smiling driver noticed me beside him, wound down his window and told me he’d driven here from Switzerland.

I was astonished. I’ve heard of people doing such things, and indeed my first book was partly inspired by two such journeys (same vehicle, same people, thirty-five years apart), but here was one of these rare marvels actually driving down Northbourne Avenue!

“It took me seven months!” he said proudly. I nodded – such an epic journey over some of the most difficult territory in the world.

I could see the lights about to change. I won’t say I’m familiar with the patterns of every intersection in Canberra, but most of the major ones, you get to know them well.

“Do you have a blog?” I asked. Strange to be chatting with a driver of another vehicle. His steering wheel was on the left hand side of his Volvo, so of course he was only about a metre away.

“On the roof,” he said, indicating behind him. Sure enough, on one of the components of his roof equipment – he seemed to have an entire ecosystem up there, covered in advertising – was a web address: www.lcbdirect.ch.

The lights changed and we went our different ways. I got most of the way to the airport, before a radio job took me off to West Belconnen, and it wasn’t for some time that I had leisure to whip out the laptop to check out his adventure.

He drove from Switzerland to see the Melbourne Cup!

His blog, in a PDF format, is here.

What a story! He wisely drove with a succession of co-drivers, who wrote a lot of the blog entries, and there are some truly hair-raising adventures along the way, not least with machine-gun toting soldiers and policemen helping or hindering the journey.

More later.

– Peter Mac