Faggots in the Mounitans

PREFACE: Faggot in this case does not mean homosexual – far from it. In this case Faggot means the opposite of gay. These are the Alpha Males who use fake tan and hair products and moisturizes. These Faggots go out looking to start a fight and rape unsuspecting women on weekends then go out drinking with their Faggot buddies. Believe me, you know the type.

One of my favorite runs is up to Lithgow and the Blue Mountains. Way back in the day, when the first settlers raped their way from Botany Bay to the west, they came across a mountain range filled with Blue Gum trees. The story goes when these old cocksuckers made their way to the top of the range and looked out over the valley, the vapors from the eucalypts gave off a blue hue to the valley and surrounds. I have never seen it personally but regardless it is a beautiful area.

One particular trip to the mountains will stand out. It was an after work road trip, so it already had a different vibe. Dave had bought himself a new Bandit 1250 and the bike needed a good long shake down.  We set off though the long stretch of the M4, at a slow but comfortable cruising speed of 80KPH.

After about half an hour on the motorway, my head echoing the music of Queens of the Stone Age and Thin Lizzy and the nip of the cold night air making its presence on my noise and eyes, a dark colored Mazda sped past me. The kind of Mazda driven by faggots, Cock Suckers and Wankers.

Interestingly the rhythm of that sentence - Faggots, Cock Suckers and Wankers – follows in the scale of disgust these pricks illicit in passersby. These Alpha Male Faggots are by far the worst, followed by cock suckers. These are the people you hate; you hate them so much you say to your mates “here comes Joe, that cocksucker! Oh shit he is walking over...” Wankers on the other hand you can handle (no pun intended) in small doses. You still call them wankers to your mates, but an hour of conversation, you can stomach.

Anyway this Faggot speeds up to me and gestures.... Put that picture in your head; here I am, left lane of 3 lanes, doing MY speed limit, not weaving, not putting anyone out by my driving and this cock sucking faggot speeds up to me in the second lane and starts flipping me off. This prick is holding up the second lane and committing an offence to flip me off.

“What an asshole!” Said the disembodied voice of one of my heroes. The late and the incredible, George Carlin. I heard his voice and instantly agreed and did the only thing a rational, angry, careful, angry, responsible and angry driver would do; I gave him the finger and took aim at his car door with my right boot.

 
I missed of course and my foot swung wildly to the right. The Faggot saw my movement and sped on leaving me to cruse in peace and shake my head at the pure ridiculousness of the situation.

Old Enough?

Being 25 when I bought my first serious bike was probably a good time, old enough to be smart and young enough to still be silly from time to time. Days like today when I have got the shits with the world means the bike gets a good hard thrashing, not speeding or anything, but long rev outs and very fast take offs. 

The engine sounds as angry as I feel and the world becomes a 50KPH blur. Motorbikes are fantastic, everyone should get one or at least do a Pre Learner to find out if they like it or not. Not only do they put you in touch with the sights, sounds and indeed smells of the road but nothing else gives you a feeling a complete and total control. Well maybe being a professional Dom... But fuck them, the bunch of weirdo cocksuckers.

Speed Limits

One aspect of riding that most have to deal with is the speed limits put on Learner riders. The limit is 80KPH. Regardless of what the speed limit on the freeway or highway, those with the bight, obnoxious L plates are stuck at 80KPH. That’s. It.

The cops in NSW are absolute pricks. Overbearing, overzealous, opinionated pricks. These pricks will pull you over and fine you for travelling 61KPH in a 60KPH zone then illegally search your car and if you don’t have any hash, will plant a baggie in your glove box. Either that or Defect the car or bike for “Possibly exceeding local noise restrictions” then force you to pay exorbitant amount to have your vehicle tested.

If they find nothing wrong with it, you’re still out of pocket, god forbid it is 1 Db too loud because then you are automatically defected and cannot drive the fucking thing til you get it modified for an even bigger expense.

Like I said; PRICKS. These pricks cruse the Highways looking for an excuse to pull people over to exercise their prick-ish-ness. As such I keep the bike at 80KPH. That’s the main reason anyway, the antisocial reason and the one that give me the most pleasure is – it pisses off EVERYONE behind me. Imagine it, a fat fuck L platter on a motorbike, going 30KPH under the speed limit. This makes a lot of people angry and one very happy motorcyclist.

From a young age, I have always loved motorcycles.

The look, sound, smells and vibrations all spoke to me on a primitive level. From cutting out MotoGP pictures from magazines to riding pillion with my dad thru Lantana owned back roads, something has attracted me.

It still stuns me that I didn’t buy my first bike until I was 25... well stuns isn’t the right word, being a kid who thought he could be the next Valentino Rossi right until the age of fear and self doubt kicked in, I pussed out about 12. The fear of getting seriously injured or killed on the road held back my motorcycling life til Dave, my best friend, confidant and mentor decided it was time to get our bike licenses.

I was about 20 – 22 at the time and his suggestion hit me in 2 ways, first and foremost in my mind was the fear, that nagging voice of self doubt that holds us back from doing things that are fun and exciting. In my short lifespan on this insignificant little blue-green planetoid I have realized that the line between fear and bravery is about as thin as a skin cell and 9 times out of ten you have to tell that nagging cunt to “GO FUCK YOURSELF!”

The second thought came on slowly at first, from a whisper to a scream as the plan was fleshed out. “Do it you pussy, don’t be a little bitch.” My initial hesitations planned a seed of doubt in Dave’s head until one day, a year or 2 later, he turned to me and said “I booked us in for our Stay Up Rite’s”

That was it, pussy boy or not, I was going to the Pre Learners course. For those playing the home game, A Pre Learner course is a 2 day session that teaches you how to ride a motor bike and weed out those who just can’t hack it. The problem with the last part of the plan is that you have to not only crash the bike but shove the fucking thing up the instructor’s ass before you fail it.

Not only did some clown crash the bike and break the roll bar, but the fucker passed. What the fuck? If this asshole can crash going less than 20KPH and break the frame AND STILL PASS what faith can you put in the system?? In saying that, the courses are a god send for those who take riding seriously and want to “get out there and get amongst it” this ass-clown didn’t take it seriously and had a case of gravel rash to prove it.