"ANOTHER NIGHT, ANOTHER SERVO" . . . . SIX HOURS ON THE ROAD AND I'M GONNA MAKE IT HOME TONIGHT . . . . TWO WHEELS GOES BEYOND THE WHOLE POST GREASY SLIDERS FREEDOM TRIP . . . . IT'S A MEDICALLY CERTIFIED PANACEA, AT LEAST IT BLOODY WELL SHOULD BE . . . . REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE A KID AND ON YOUR BIKE YOU COULD SIMPLY RIDE AWAY FROM ALL THE TROUBLES AT HOME ??

Everyone who rides knows the feeling intrinsically and probably has since they first got the hang of riding a pedally, once you've got it down pat the first thought that comes into your little mind is not 'when can I pull a wheelie', 'how long can I do a skid' or 'when am I gonna be able to jump like Evel Knievel' . . . . no, I reckon it is the simple realisation of 'poop, I can ride me away from home, as far as my little legs can take me !!', and from that moment on it's that feeling that resonates the deepest and the strongest . . . . the only thing that changes is that by the time you get your first motorbike, especially a road registered one, the distance you can put between yourself and what you want to escape from goes from not quite far enough to 'how far do I want to go ?'

Between bent cars, burnt legs, bummer work deals, ten days with an infected and swollen eye, by the time I pulled the pin on my day gig at four p.m all I could think of doing was throwing a leg over the Penis Mobile and setting sail for just about any fucking where . . . . left home at five, gassed the model up and headed up into the Hinterland, no specific destination, just ride and let the journey take care of itself, and it did. Nearly six hours and one and a half tanks worth of guzaline later I was back in the world without too much memory of exactly where I'd been . . . . I mean I knew where, but the recall of the trip was just a sketchy, hazy bunch of nano-second flashes that didn't gel cohesively or seem to make any real sort of sense, all that I was feeling was totally fucking drained to the point of shivering and yawning simultaneously and home was where I needed to be . . . . mountains, open country roads, cars with high beam on 'lock', idiots not moving over after they'd passed a car, a wrong turn, a near miss with a possum and whitelining at near 160kph were the dominant visions that I had imprinted in my now shagged mind as I sit here trying to summon some clarity. 

Perhaps the nature of the week's goings on had just fucked with my sanity momentarily, maybe I'm simply getting old . . . . or possibly I'd had some fucking bizarro encounter with the Twilight Zone somewhere this side of Beaudesert . . . . I don't rightly know, all I know is that I got as far away from my problems of the week that was possible to achieve in a short space of time, physically and psychologically . . . . just ride she said.