"GOLD COAST CAFE SOCIETY" OR "40 KLMS FOR SOME FOLK IS A LONG RIDE" . . . . THE MAIN DRAG OF THE TOWNSHIP OF CANUNGRA, 2.30 P.M ON A SUNDAY, FOUR HOURS EARLIER AND IT WOULDA BEEN GUTTER TO GUTTER SOLID BLING AND GLITTER . . . . STUFFED TO THE EYEBALLS WITH ALL THE INTREPID SOULS OUT FOR THE BIG THRASH, AN INCREDIBLE AND ARDUOUS 38 KILOMETRES OF HARD RIDING HELL . . . . I MEAN, WTF, A HALF HOUR DAWDLE FOR A COFFEE ??

Please, don't get me arse about on this, I'm not some thousand mile every weekend, hardcore, hard ridin dude, but when I'm going for a thrash on the weekend, I'm not going to be spiritually fulfilled by a half hour piddle for a fucking coffee when the sun is shining and the scoot's barely warmed up, what's the bloody point of having a bike if that's going to be your definition of living the dream . . . . I often ride during the week as part of my day gig, sometimes on a day's round trip I might stack 300+ klms on the Purple Penis, other days it might be only 50 or so, but come the weekend, all I can think about is gassing up and planting my fat arse in the saddle and getting gone for the day at least, if not an overnighter . . . . the idea of meeting up with the lads and toodling up the mountain for barely forty minutes just to nip it in the bud for the sake of a coffee and a pie, then turn around and head home, has always seemed utterly fucking ridiculous to me.

This is where many of the longhaul, weekend warriors gather in my neck of the woods, resplendent in all their finest factory clobber, their bejewelled steeds sadly doing the cooling metal 'tinkle-tinkle' tethered to the invisible hitching rail, whether they're on Harleys, Hondas, Hyabusas or Hyosungs, Beemers, screamers or in-be-fucking-tweeners, they all do the same bloody thing and then head home. I reckon all of us enjoy not only the riding aspect of being on two wheels but obviously the attention it draws from Joe Public, anyone who says they don't is flat out lying, but wouldn't it all feel incredibly shallow if the only people you're playing up to are the same vacuous souls week in week out, always the same boring destination, just so you can be home in time for lunch and the afternoon sport on telly . . . . fuck off to that shit !!!!

On this particular mid arvo two weeks ago, I had pulled in for my 'coffee' on the way back from a pleasant couple of hundred klicks since seven a.m and the majority of 'them' had long since departed, the dude who was on the billet bacon slicer parked beside me asked if the Penis Mosheen was 'a genuine shovelhead' and then tried to turn it around when I pointed out that it was in fact a 2010 Skirtster . . . . the only bloke in the place who was actually a serious, long term rider was the old greybeard you can see sitting down, his one owner '85 Evo had just been loaded into the back of a ute with its guts hanging out of the crankcases and he was trying to avoid Billet Boy as he waited for his missus to come and rescue him. Turned out that Jock was a local who recognised me from the Doghouse back in the mid nineties and we ended up exchanging phone numbers and made a commitment to catch up for serious ride as soon as he has refurbished the exploded Evo . . . . we also confirmed by mutual agreement that a morning jaunt for a coffee was not going to be on the agenda.