So Riff raff goes to Motomail yesterday, she’s been concerned about the lack of protective gear we wear on the little bikes. Comes home with these mint new Shift riding jeans. Same idea as Draggin’s but far stylier, more comfortable and cheaper. They’re fucken cool. You should get a pair, but I digress.
So we’re sitting at Mr Mes house, The Hippie and Mrs Hippie turned up for a beer or two, the usual, you know. Then it was decided we should progress to our private test track so The Hippie could have a skid on the Pitbike. Loaded all the bikes into the van and off we hooned.
Warmed the pitty up with a few monos, the Hippie dons his Rossi shirt, jeans and Moto-X helmet and goes for it, motard stylz. I had a few knee down sessions on the street magic and before ya know it, the Hippie has lost all the skin on his elbow. Riff raff was (again!) put to good use paramedicing with a bit of wound cleaning but not before Hippie sterilized the wound with Steinlager. Nice job.
So while he’s getting sorted out, I take up the Pitbike mono duties. Nothing stupid, just getting the hang of steering the bike and bedding the front brakes in. So I go for a good wheelie down the straight behind the pits, front wheel well aloft, just as cool as you please. My super doper new safety pants decide to slip a leg over the kick start lever, hampering my best efforts to get to the rear brake. All I can do is anticipate my approaching pain as the little bike comes past twelve and gracefully land, foot peg first, on my foot. Not being able to walk too well, I took this opportunity to have a little lie down for a while to collect my thoughts. Wouldn’t have happened if I’d been wearing the usual shorts. You live and learn.
So Hippie’s all cleaned up, elbow pads fitted this time and he’s off again, going sicker than before. The desiscion was made upon his second crash that perhaps he should be wearing the knee pads too. Right-O, knee pads on, he’s off for an offroad excursion through the trees.
About this time I’m not feeling too bad so I sort of get up and hobble off to find a beer and a smoke. Then I realise I can’t hear the bike. A quick look around and I note Mrs Hippie pushing my wee bike while the Hippie is returning on foot, looking a bit sore.
“What’s your problem?” enquires I.
“Broke my fucken collar bone!” is his response.
So Riff raff directs them to the nearest hospital, Grunta and mr me load the van up with the bikes and my broken arse and home we go for me to have a wee nigh-nights on the trampoline. Riff raff had the Hippie family rushed through A&E real quick so they could return quickly for some much deserved BBQ and beer drinking.
Moral: The more safety gear, the more it hurts.
Anyone got some crutches I can borrow……
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Originally Posted by White trash
That's farkin halarious 
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