Reckless
16th December 2020, 12:44
https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=2802774603343894&id=100008341441937
Text copied
Yeah...I know. I'm yelling at clouds again...
GET INTO THE SEA, HE-KARENS
I have reached the point of no return with those disgraceful old dodderers who tutt-tutt their way around my beloved motorcycling like slew-arsed jackals too scared to hunt their own food.
Piles of wrinkled, ageing rubbish they are. They have been riding, badly, since Christ wandered the desert, and now, in their dotage, they still are – sadly.
My point of no return with these onerous twats was reached one sunny Sunday morning at the Colo Heights end of the Putty Road. I’d ridden up there on a Beemer to shoot some photos, and felt a cup of coffee at the servo would assist proceedings.
At an adjoining table were four old he-molls – sipping coffee out of their own cups and thermoses. Man-Karens to a man. One of them was another level of dickhead altogether, but he fit in well with his crusty compadres. He was on an ex-cop FJR – you could still see where the stickers had been. He had, of course, added chequered reflective tape to assist his wank-bank illusions, and he was sporting a white helmet and fluoro vest. All that was missing was the word “POLITE” in big cop-font on the back of his cheesy idiot-vest.
They nodded at me as I sat down. I ignored them. The safer option for us all. I try not to engage with weapons-grade arseholes because it never ends well.
My coffee arrived and so did that glorious sound of a fully-piped Jap in-line four being caned with intent. It was coming from the south, and it was a symphony to stir the soul.
The He-Karens stopped talking and listened intently. I swear the grey hairs growing out of their ears were quivering in outrage.
The sound got closer very quickly, and as the rider rounded the sweeper that leads to the 600-metre-long straight in front of the servo, he went back a gear, stood the bike up on its back wheel (it was a blue-and-white Gixxer), and bashed past us at about 170-odd. It was magnificent. A perfectly controlled, high-speed minger, hooking another gear as the front wheel clawed majestically at the sky. It was a wheelie a man dreams of performing in front of girls. It was a wheelie your mates would talk about for decades, and buy you beers and ask you to do it again. It was a wheelie the cops would shoot you in the face for and then put your family in a gulag.
I felt like applauding.
But the old mice at the adjoining table were literally trembling with revulsion. They had been scandalised and affronted beyond belief by this act of motorcycle mastery.
And the clucking began.
“That’s disgraceful!” “He should be charged!” “Leave it for the track!” “Did you get the plate? Someone should report him!”
It was that last one that really got to me. What kind of greased rat-pudding do you have to be to want to dob in a fellow rider?
They all looked at me, presumably for some kind of agreeable accord.
“You report him and I’ll end the job-lot of you grunting pricks,” I smiled.
I have lots of tattoos and sometimes a quite unpleasant demeanor – probably a hold-over from my decade in an outlaw club – so people tend to be appalled by that when it emerges.
“What?” I asked, as they gaped open-mouthed at my statement. “You had lots to say a second ago. You wanted to dob in a bloke who rides better than you sad old vaginas could even dream of. What kind of trash are you? You won’t even buy a coffee here and support a place that lets you sit in the shade and piss in its toilets. And one of you wishes he was a cop so bad I bet he jerks off in his outfit every night.”
They started pack up their stuff, but I wasn’t done yet.
“Oh do stay,” I smiled, getting up. “We can have a conversation about how you’ve forgotten what motorcycling is, if you ever even knew what it was. Instead of applauding the daring and skill you just saw, you want to rush off to the cops and dob him in? Why? So the pigs can give your scaly bellies a rub? Maybe give you a gold star for being ‘good citizens’? You’re nothing but dogs.”
They left in a rush. One of them even forgot to do his helmet up. So I guess our encounter went well – certainly from my perspective. From theirs? Well, I don’t much care what they thought of me. Their views and opinions are as dust.
And all things being equal, them, and riders like them, will soon be dust as well.
Of course, more will always come along to replace them.
But until I am dust myself, I will oppose them with every fibre of my being.
Because they don’t get it. And they will, like evil, triumph if good men do nothing.
Speak up. Shut them down. Do not let them ever think they are righteous.
Text copied
Yeah...I know. I'm yelling at clouds again...
GET INTO THE SEA, HE-KARENS
I have reached the point of no return with those disgraceful old dodderers who tutt-tutt their way around my beloved motorcycling like slew-arsed jackals too scared to hunt their own food.
Piles of wrinkled, ageing rubbish they are. They have been riding, badly, since Christ wandered the desert, and now, in their dotage, they still are – sadly.
My point of no return with these onerous twats was reached one sunny Sunday morning at the Colo Heights end of the Putty Road. I’d ridden up there on a Beemer to shoot some photos, and felt a cup of coffee at the servo would assist proceedings.
At an adjoining table were four old he-molls – sipping coffee out of their own cups and thermoses. Man-Karens to a man. One of them was another level of dickhead altogether, but he fit in well with his crusty compadres. He was on an ex-cop FJR – you could still see where the stickers had been. He had, of course, added chequered reflective tape to assist his wank-bank illusions, and he was sporting a white helmet and fluoro vest. All that was missing was the word “POLITE” in big cop-font on the back of his cheesy idiot-vest.
They nodded at me as I sat down. I ignored them. The safer option for us all. I try not to engage with weapons-grade arseholes because it never ends well.
My coffee arrived and so did that glorious sound of a fully-piped Jap in-line four being caned with intent. It was coming from the south, and it was a symphony to stir the soul.
The He-Karens stopped talking and listened intently. I swear the grey hairs growing out of their ears were quivering in outrage.
The sound got closer very quickly, and as the rider rounded the sweeper that leads to the 600-metre-long straight in front of the servo, he went back a gear, stood the bike up on its back wheel (it was a blue-and-white Gixxer), and bashed past us at about 170-odd. It was magnificent. A perfectly controlled, high-speed minger, hooking another gear as the front wheel clawed majestically at the sky. It was a wheelie a man dreams of performing in front of girls. It was a wheelie your mates would talk about for decades, and buy you beers and ask you to do it again. It was a wheelie the cops would shoot you in the face for and then put your family in a gulag.
I felt like applauding.
But the old mice at the adjoining table were literally trembling with revulsion. They had been scandalised and affronted beyond belief by this act of motorcycle mastery.
And the clucking began.
“That’s disgraceful!” “He should be charged!” “Leave it for the track!” “Did you get the plate? Someone should report him!”
It was that last one that really got to me. What kind of greased rat-pudding do you have to be to want to dob in a fellow rider?
They all looked at me, presumably for some kind of agreeable accord.
“You report him and I’ll end the job-lot of you grunting pricks,” I smiled.
I have lots of tattoos and sometimes a quite unpleasant demeanor – probably a hold-over from my decade in an outlaw club – so people tend to be appalled by that when it emerges.
“What?” I asked, as they gaped open-mouthed at my statement. “You had lots to say a second ago. You wanted to dob in a bloke who rides better than you sad old vaginas could even dream of. What kind of trash are you? You won’t even buy a coffee here and support a place that lets you sit in the shade and piss in its toilets. And one of you wishes he was a cop so bad I bet he jerks off in his outfit every night.”
They started pack up their stuff, but I wasn’t done yet.
“Oh do stay,” I smiled, getting up. “We can have a conversation about how you’ve forgotten what motorcycling is, if you ever even knew what it was. Instead of applauding the daring and skill you just saw, you want to rush off to the cops and dob him in? Why? So the pigs can give your scaly bellies a rub? Maybe give you a gold star for being ‘good citizens’? You’re nothing but dogs.”
They left in a rush. One of them even forgot to do his helmet up. So I guess our encounter went well – certainly from my perspective. From theirs? Well, I don’t much care what they thought of me. Their views and opinions are as dust.
And all things being equal, them, and riders like them, will soon be dust as well.
Of course, more will always come along to replace them.
But until I am dust myself, I will oppose them with every fibre of my being.
Because they don’t get it. And they will, like evil, triumph if good men do nothing.
Speak up. Shut them down. Do not let them ever think they are righteous.