Sunday, 14 October 2012
HAIR OF THE DOG . . . . I DRINK ALONE . . . . I MOSTLY RIDE ALONE TOO . . . . NEARLY ALWAYS HAVE, WITH SOME NOTABLE EXCEPTIONS . . . . THIS WAY YOU'RE NEVER BEHOLDIN TO OTHERS, FREE AS A VERY FREE THING AS 'LOVEY THE LONGHORN' WOULD SAY . . . . MID ARVO REST STOP, ESSENTIAL FOOD GROUP, ESSENTIAL OXYGEN ENHANCER AND ESSENTIAL CRANKING MECHANISM . . . . 400 KAYS, NICE.
Had a huge one at a good buddy's fiftieth last night, played up like a second hand chainsaw I did, feeling a bit fucking ordinaire this morning, nonetheless, out of bed early, oj, caffeine injection, a couple of ciggies and on the road by eight bells, up through the mountains, over the border, early lunch at the Woodenbong pub, chat with a couple of the locals, they're lovin the skirty, stoked . . . . head's starting to lose the fuzzy edge, feelin good, just me and the Purple Penis . . . . get a tank full of 98 octane, then back on the scootster and into it . . . . an hour and a half back to the highway and head north up to Beenleigh, sitting on 120, spurts of 140 and 150 when extended vision indicates no cops in line of sight, chuck a left and then point the front end westwards and gas it up in the direction of Beaudesert, decent country roads, lots of HOG members on Bling Glides and covered in all the correct factory merch . . . . these dudes are fucking mobile chicanes, blow em all off and hammer down to Beaudesert town, the phallus substitute is handling as good as it's ever going to, pass a pack of mean and scaries going full noise in the opposite direction, I get 'the nod' from the pointy end of the mob, it's reciprocated, I never seem to get the bums rush from the 1%er fraternity . . . . into town, a quick lemonade, turn it around and winding it up back towards Canungra, manage to sight the boys in blue in their hi-viz vests, swap cogs, grab some brake and avoid the gesture to pull the fuck over, excellent work mate . . . . blow past a handful of idiots on more brand new 'factory customs' just making a nuisance of themselves in the sunshine, where do these clowns learn to ride so badly, sketchy to the max, ghastly to watch, at one with the bike, not these wankers . . . . pull back and cruise through Army Town at designated speed, on the pin once more for the penultimate leg of the day, tons of roadkill stinking up the place, fall in behind a line of utes with well muddied dirt bikes in the back, patiently await the broken lines, out and down into third, nail it, fourth and back into top, nudging 160, the Penis pulling like a twelve year old schoolboy . . . . turn off for the Upper Coomera pub, up through the twisty bits and into the carpark, lid off, jacket off, into the bar, schooner of Cascade Light, a couple of Marlboros, argh, that's the shit, adios motherfuckers, the skirtster knows the way home from here, hi ho and away . . . . thrash back down the highway, between 130 and 140 all the way, avoid the fat whale woman pulling in on top of me, clearly blind and stupid, there's cops on the other side of the road who see me before I spot them but just watch helplessly as I fly past with the number plate below their line of sight, five minutes later, I'm pulling into the driveway, park it up, engine off, end of the journey, just shy of 400 kilometres for the day, job's a goodun . . . . the sunburn doesn't matter a damn.