This information is used to compile reports and help us to improve the site. Analytical / Navigation Cookies : These cookies enable the site to function correctly and are used to gather information about how visitors use the site.Functionality Cookies: These are used to allow the website to remember choices you make (such as your language) and provide enhanced features to improve your web experience. Strictly Necessary Cookies : These are essential in order to enable you to use certain features of the website, such as submitting forms on the website.The types of cookies used on this Site can be classified into one of three categories: It is recommended that you leave on all cookies if you are not sure whether you need them or not, in case they are used to provide a service that you use. Unfortunately, in most cases, there are no industry standard options for disabling cookies without completely disabling the functionality and features they add to the site. We use cookies for a variety of reasons detailed below. We will also share how you can prevent these cookies from being stored however this may downgrade or ‘break’ certain elements of the Site’s functionality. This document describes what information they gather, how we use it, and why we sometimes need to store these cookies. So here’s to all those serious bikers of all ages or, as we call them in the medical profession, donors. I tell you there’s no breed like bikers, and there’s no feeling like wheels on the road and wind in the hair. They don’t even recoil in horror at the revelation of age and the grey hair when you take off your helmet. As you come to a rasping side-slide halt its quite routine to see all the young hoydens run their appreciative eyes over your twin carbs, heavy bearing shaft and big end. There’s always something of a ‘Leader of the Pack’ about a biker. The comradeship is remarkable, and I’ve tried it from Germany to Greece and from Hong Kong to New Zealand. The only membership fee is to ride a bike. Not many cars can match the getaway of a decent bike in the vital first second or two.īikers, on the other hand, belong to a sort of world-wide club. His engine will be choking and gasping and grunting as if it needs a good laxative. Long before the lights change that driver will be revving up and hovering his foot over the clutch for a zoological display of masculinity. If you pull up next to one of them at the lights you can instantly spot the mounting flame of aggression and hatred that burns behind their Foster-Grants. They’re too absorbed in the anonymity of their own perpetual mediocrity. Other bikers flash lights or raise a salutary hand as you approach. A light snatch of melody forces its way between your lips and the clenched teeth. Never mind, sooner or later you are free. I once had a bike that I called Paxo because I’d knocked the stuffing out of that very way. Then of course, the battery is flat from repeatedly failing to fire because you forgot to turn the ignition on. There’s no reverse gear so this can have the average hernia popping out past your truss. First you have to jostle the heavy monster backwards and forwards to get it out of the garage and facing the right direction. Then it’s a quick look up and down the road, not to check for traffic but to make sure someone is watching, a nonchalant wave back over the shoulder from the heavy black leather gauntleted hand then it’s all down to giving it a quick twist on the throttle and lifting the front forks for a hundred-yard wheelie as you turn on all the taps and slam into full power.ĭon’t you believe it. Nothing, I promise you, equals the thrill of stepping out on a clear sunny morning, strapping as many cc’s as you can afford firmly between your thighs and savagely prodding the electro-start button to release that polluting burst of semi-burned hydrocarbons and set all the birds in the nearby hedgerows coughing and wheezing. Motor bikes, those gleaming symbols of protuberant, dynamic, vibrant, throbbing, power-rippling, vividly unashamed phallicism. They are also suitable for those wiry calf muscles with bodies loosely attached that compete in the Tour de France crouched low over a strategically positioned plastic drinking tube through which they repeatedly sip some Appelation Controllée or other to keep them from remembering the agony of their chosen hobby as they trundle past crowds of curious folk who enjoy watching sinewy chaps hurtle by with their bums in the air.Īnyway, all that is about bikes that I don’t actually mean.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |