slightly aloof but highly aware of everything around him, and a good dose of brilliance, and you’ve got a new-wave nutcase.
We rose early the next morning to a glorious warm day. The drive from the uni to Tailem Bend was comfortable in the trailing final ebb of summer. We had a few beers in the sun, a great curry at the pub, sitting on the balcony overlooking the Murray River. Tomorrow clutch-in 7 a.m. sharp, this time without achieving flight. So it was off to my room above the pub which had a large window that looked onto the silver bend of the river through the small town. The sun had just set, leaving the last of the sparrows to dogfight aerobatics, chasing invisible bugs through the air in front of me. I fell into a deep restful summer Sunday night sleep.
Lightning woke me at 6 a.m. and I sat up to hear thunder and what sounded like the wind hurling dead sparrows against my window. I launched out of the bed, flinging the curtains aside and stood there naked and shocked. Before me was the exact opposite of yesterday’s idyllic scene. Trees bent over against the wind, threatening to snap, the river void of happy water-skiers now raged angrily through the rain. I heard Colin next door fling his curtains open through the thin walls, followed by a clearly audible ‘Fuck’. He was closely followed by Ed on the other side.
We met up in the car park in disbelief. ‘Can you believe this?’ Colin walked towards me his hands upturned. ‘Every time we come here the weather turns to shit.’
I made agreeing noises but was inwardly focused on regretting that curry; it was repeating on me in a bad way.
We drove over to the roadhouse and had a slow breakfast. I ate dry toast and drank coffee in an effort to stop the curry from liquefying my tongue. Then I called David Hinds, and we agreed to go out to the track and hope for the weather to clear. David met us there with a few other DLRA members, and we all sat down and waited.
Meanwhile, David checked out my crotch and armpits, which isn’t as nasty as it sounds. Not only does your bike get thoroughly checked at these shakedowns, the rider’s gear has to pass safety standards, too. That year the DLRA adopted the US rules for the first time and one of the new rules stipulated that a rider’s clothing had to be made entirely of leather.This caused a problem for many riders as modern motorcycle leathers have a stretchy elastic material in the gussets under the arms and often in the crotch area as well. These popular leathers don’t comply with the new rules, which were probably established through the pain and suffering of some poor bastard who barbecued his ball sack when his bike burst into flames while doing 300 kph across the salt. So a compromise was offered in the form of a full-length fireproof underwear option. I pictured a large group of slightly overweight middle-aged men squeezed into knitted woollen body stockings and sucking in their guts for all they’re worth while attempting to get the zip up on their already tight racing leathers, then passing out with heat exhaustion.
My racing leathers were given to me by my friend Erwin who had purchased them 30 years earlier, the first time he decided to see how fast he could go down a racetrack on a Ducati 900. They fit me well and are entirely made of leather so I have a fireproof crotch and armpits.
Finally the wind and rain died down and the track dried out a bit. I sat anxiously at the side of the track, watching David as he had a conversation with other DLRA members. Colin and the guys had the bike parked on the track and ready to pounce. Then David broke from his conversation, said something into his radio handset and lifted his head looking for me. I sprang from the side into his line of sight to get the nod.
Once again she burst to life under me and bolted down the track and through the gearbox, capping out at 170 kph, no eagles, no wobbles, no lifting. We were told at the start of the day that this
We rose early the next morning to a glorious warm day. The drive from the uni to Tailem Bend was comfortable in the trailing final ebb of summer. We had a few beers in the sun, a great curry at the pub, sitting on the balcony overlooking the Murray River. Tomorrow clutch-in 7 a.m. sharp, this time without achieving flight. So it was off to my room above the pub which had a large window that looked onto the silver bend of the river through the small town. The sun had just set, leaving the last of the sparrows to dogfight aerobatics, chasing invisible bugs through the air in front of me. I fell into a deep restful summer Sunday night sleep.
Lightning woke me at 6 a.m. and I sat up to hear thunder and what sounded like the wind hurling dead sparrows against my window. I launched out of the bed, flinging the curtains aside and stood there naked and shocked. Before me was the exact opposite of yesterday’s idyllic scene. Trees bent over against the wind, threatening to snap, the river void of happy water-skiers now raged angrily through the rain. I heard Colin next door fling his curtains open through the thin walls, followed by a clearly audible ‘Fuck’. He was closely followed by Ed on the other side.
We met up in the car park in disbelief. ‘Can you believe this?’ Colin walked towards me his hands upturned. ‘Every time we come here the weather turns to shit.’
I made agreeing noises but was inwardly focused on regretting that curry; it was repeating on me in a bad way.
We drove over to the roadhouse and had a slow breakfast. I ate dry toast and drank coffee in an effort to stop the curry from liquefying my tongue. Then I called David Hinds, and we agreed to go out to the track and hope for the weather to clear. David met us there with a few other DLRA members, and we all sat down and waited.
Meanwhile, David checked out my crotch and armpits, which isn’t as nasty as it sounds. Not only does your bike get thoroughly checked at these shakedowns, the rider’s gear has to pass safety standards, too. That year the DLRA adopted the US rules for the first time and one of the new rules stipulated that a rider’s clothing had to be made entirely of leather.This caused a problem for many riders as modern motorcycle leathers have a stretchy elastic material in the gussets under the arms and often in the crotch area as well. These popular leathers don’t comply with the new rules, which were probably established through the pain and suffering of some poor bastard who barbecued his ball sack when his bike burst into flames while doing 300 kph across the salt. So a compromise was offered in the form of a full-length fireproof underwear option. I pictured a large group of slightly overweight middle-aged men squeezed into knitted woollen body stockings and sucking in their guts for all they’re worth while attempting to get the zip up on their already tight racing leathers, then passing out with heat exhaustion.
My racing leathers were given to me by my friend Erwin who had purchased them 30 years earlier, the first time he decided to see how fast he could go down a racetrack on a Ducati 900. They fit me well and are entirely made of leather so I have a fireproof crotch and armpits.
Finally the wind and rain died down and the track dried out a bit. I sat anxiously at the side of the track, watching David as he had a conversation with other DLRA members. Colin and the guys had the bike parked on the track and ready to pounce. Then David broke from his conversation, said something into his radio handset and lifted his head looking for me. I sprang from the side into his line of sight to get the nod.
Once again she burst to life under me and bolted down the track and through the gearbox, capping out at 170 kph, no eagles, no wobbles, no lifting. We were told at the start of the day that this
Similar Books
