Spring has me green with envy

The Spring dawn of gentle sunrise and birdsong was torn apart by duelling internal combustion engines. The neighbours and I, ride-on mowers revving, trying to tame lawns and paddocks before a week of predicted rain.

If it was a ride-on mower duel, our neighbours would have won the morning, with their top-of-the-range, low centre-of-gravity, turn-on-a-tussock, purring machine. A far-flung second was me, astride our ancient, fume-belching, muffler-missing dinosaur. One of my legs held akimbo for balance on tippy slopes, one hand on the wheel and the other holding myself in position. A cramp in my toe from stretching to reach the distant pedal, because the seat’s rusted in position as far back as possible due to years of long-legged men driving in circles.

I may have a mild case of Lawn Mower Envy. An emotion I’d never felt, or even knew existed, before our tree-change to the country.

Hubby may suffer Lawn Mower Envy more seriously than me – he’s the one who spends hours on maintenance. Keeping our mowers moving – forwards. I’ve been instructed to limit engaging reverse as it creates wear on one of the belts, and the clutch.

I’m grateful our mower has a drink holder. Cheers to the person who first thought of including that. Ours usually holds a beer, but this morning, it’s coffee. It is only 7am. Our neighbours’ mower probably has a drinks holder too, even an insulated lunch chiller. Apparently, the expensive ones do.

Our main mower is Coxie, the Lawn Boss. He came with the property. He’s a long-time hard-worker, overdue for retirement. Yet he still battles through most of our heavy mowing.

We recently bought another second-hand, though much newer, ride-on called Fergie. Fergie as in the tractor manufacturer, Massey Fergusson. We thought that would mean she’s tough and reliable. Perfect for taming our tufts. Alas, she spends a fair amount of time up on the repair ramps in the shed, receiving Hubby’s ministrations.

Fergie may be much younger, shiny red, with a bigger motor, twin blades and a wider cut, but something to do with her gearing means she shirks the heavy work. The heavy work is along the back boundary where the tussocks are toughest, thickly interspersed with stiff-stemmed weeds that relentlessly march in from the poorly maintained adjoining property.

Today, with Hubby in the seat, heading towards the back boundary, Fergie blew a belt. (I promise I haven’t been overly engaging her reverse.) Fergie was left immobilised between the mango trees at the bottom of the slope.

The only solution was to hope Coxie could tow Fergie home. Poor, ancient Coxie – wheels spinning, Hubby and I pushing. All three of us groaning. But we managed. We dragged Fergie up the hill and back to the shed for her next round of coddling.

I don’t know if the neighbours saw any of that, or if they even knew they and I were having a lawn-mower duel.

Perhaps they can’t hear me over the classical music playing through their headphones, as they sip champagne from their drinks holder, and nibble chilled canapes from their on-board insulated lunch box.