I’ve been riding since Jesus played centre half back for Nazareth. In that time, I’ve experienced a few things that annoy the living crapper outta me. Here’s the highlight reel…
OK. Motorcycles, trips, shed times, beers with mates, track time, fettling… All good shit huh? Yeah. Well, I’m about to knock the ice cream right outta your cone superstar. It ain’t all beer and skittles.
The Undertaker
Picture this. You undertake me. At speed, single lane road, you pass me on the inside. Oh dear. That will make me hate you forever. Like you-kicked-my-dog level hate. Now, I don’t mind you passing me. Oh no, that’s not the issue. The world does that every day, so knock yourself out Ace.
It’s happened a bit. In fact, a bloke did it to me on a fancy bike launch in Tassie once. Just once though.
Here’s me, sitting on a respectable 120-odd kmh, when this oxygen bandit on a twin-cylinder Triumph comes up the inside of me, the thing absolutely pinned. Arrives from nowhere. As he flashes by my left leg, my intestines make a brief, but intrusive appearance at my personal exhaust region, such is the shock. Angry? You betcha. And young Carl Fuckerty heard about it, in front of the gathered crew, loud and veiny, at the very next stop. Lad was younger, fitter, better looking and faster than me. With the balance of probability taken into account, quite possibly still is. But, I coulda chucked a punch that day.
Go around the outside next time Valentino Instafamous, fer fux ache.
I Ride Alone
I’m not a fan of groups. Even when it comes to group sex. Had a brief but eventful dabble with that in my early 20s. Overrated. Lots of noise, unpleasant anatomic angles on display and strange, strange attendees. Nup. Max two persons for Old Snaggy.
Same with motorcycle riding.
I hate riding with people. Difficult to ride with many other species anyway, but there you have it. There are a few minor exceptions with whom I’ll go anywhere anytime. A few.
I have reasons here. First, when I’m ready to leave on a long ride, well, I’m ready to leave. A clue there. It’s inherent in those words.
Now, a particularly close friend of mine, I’ll call him Grant Roff to obscure his identity, is a, ahh, slow starter. In life really, but for the purposes of this piece, let’s concentrate on motorcycling. He started with nothing and has most of it left.
On a trip, he’s usually still in his baby-blue flannel pyjamas and his modestly proportioned morning wood is still on its way back to flaccidity as I’m thumbing the starter, fully booted and helmeted. This happens in a context of a long day in the saddle ahead.
He means well (the road to hell is paved with Grant intentions), but he ferks around more than James Bond and as a consequence, I don’t even try to meet up with him before a ride. I love him, but he’s elderly, a bit touched and best met at the destination. He’s one worth the effort though, because he’s the best company on the planet and a ferkin’ good rider.
But, as a general rule that has served me well, I ride alone.
Pirates
There’s always been fashions and trends in motorcycling, always will be. I’ve been guilty of purchasing gear I don’t really need because for some reason I think it’s going to enhance my standing in the motorcycle community. Hasn’t, but I still think there’s faint hope.
So, I’m not against people following a trend or fashion associated with motorcycling. Dirt-heads look grouse, all nyloned and Alpine Starred, youngsters with loud pipes on 300s hoping the skinny sheila or bloke on their Learners might give them a second glance… You are all alright with me.
Even blokes with eight-grand’s worth of adventure gear, full on knobbies and a hydrator all ready to negotiate their Balmain driveway are just fine. We in the motorcycle business, call these people ‘good for the trade’. They buy shit and use their hardware in the process. Good on you.
But. And you knew there was going to be a but huh. You like big buts and you cannot lie, after all.
The wannabe bikie. I struggle here. Large style.
Bandannas, as much insignia as they can get away with without getting the tripe kicked out of them by a one-percenter, and lots of standing around, jeans as wide as they are long, facial hair that does us the favour of covering up the unmistakable sadness on that ‘pick-me’ face. Do you fukkas ever ride?
Don’t pass the Road Captain whatever you do, lest he severely admonish you by criticising your curtains, the tragically unfunny loud knob who has found friends in the ragtag band of brothers, all dressed as some sort of Temu Jack Sparrow.
There’s hi-vis for the newbies, Bluetooth communicators so Bert can intermittently drone on about his accountancy firm and impotence and those Cuban-heeled boots with the steel rings in them, more likely to start a fire in a crash than protect smelly feet.
These wallabies don’t at all begrudge the public service earned 40 grand they splashed to get a huffy-puffy cruiser, yeah the one proudly fitted the offensively priced and officially licenced Squealing Seagull exhaust system producing 76 horsepower and a noise that would annoy Helen Keller.
But, it gives them meaning. After all, many endure a bad marriage to a lass that is glad they chair the club meeting at the scout hall every third Tuesday of the month. Means that Tarquin the muscly pool guy has the all-clear, you see. Nice work Sharelle.
And, really, I’m sorry if you are a bike pirate. I mean you no harm.
Yep, good on ya Blackbeard, you’re doing your best. At least that category of pelican will never pass me on the inside, so small mercies I guess.
There ya go. These are just a smattering of things that grate my gristle. I bet you have a few too. Feel free to let me know your pet motorcycling peeves.
See you on the road, well, if you see me first that is.
Snaggy
Snag’s career in motoring journalism spans 30 years with stints at major bike mags Australian Road Rider, Motorcycle Trader and AMCN along with contributions to just about every other outlet worth a hill of beans. He was editor of Unique Cars magazine and hosts his legendary podcast ‘Snag Says’ when he gets off his date.
