Thunder Road by Ted Dawe Page B

He looked at me. He had mean, hungry little eyes. ‘What are you after, Trace?’
    ‘Well I’ve got fuck-all money, so I guess that would limit it a bit.’
    ‘A bit. It’s not about money, Trace.’ He fired a glance at Devon. ‘You’re just trying to save what you earn at the paint shop?’
    ‘Trying.’
    He and Devon exchanged smiles and head-shakes like I was some kid who had gone off the rails.
    ‘So what would you like? Jig reckons a muscle car, an old Charger, four-barrel Holley carb, mags.’
    ‘No. I reckon a motorbike. British. Triumph Bonneville maybe.’
    He seemed to consider it for a moment and then said, ‘Good call. Come with me.’
    We walked over to the house and in the gloom underneath I could see a couple of bikes. One was the gaudy Kawasaki 250 Motocross that we’d seen on the back of the ute that first day, and the other was an old grey Norton Atlas.
    ‘Take the Norton. It needs someone to run it about, no one’s ridden it for a while. You’ll have to get reg and warrant for it, but Jig can help you with that, eh Jig? You still got that tame mechanic?’
    ‘Martin? Yeah he’s got a book of stickers.’
    ‘I just take it? What do you want for it?’
    ‘I’m not selling it man, I’m
loaning
it to you. I don’t have any plans for it at the moment. Fire it up.’
    I turned on the ignition and tried to kick it over. The stiffness and the compression made it really difficult. It just chuffed, lifelessly.
    ‘Try turning on the petrol,’ Rebel said, pointing to the little tap under the tank. I felt a dork.
    ‘Let me have a go, there’s a knack.’
    He pushed me aside and sprang down on the kick-starter. There was the slight chuff that signalled the willingness to fire. Second time around it roared. A big plume of blue smoke hung around us as the motor blew out the residue of old oil and dust. It was a beautiful, honest noise, a big, low-revving British twin:750cc of the sweetest boof boof boof boof I had ever heard. Deep and straight, no turbo tricks, just metal muscle. It sang in my heart. I couldn’t believe it. What a buzz!
    Rebel looked around for a helmet and found one of those bad-ass matt black jobs that gang members wear.
    ‘Here! Wear this. This is the deal man.’
    I looked inside it, at the soiled foam liner. I wondered what heads had been in it before me.
    ‘Where did it come from?’ asked Devon.
    ‘Let’s just say the guy who owned it won’t need a helmet where he is. He lost it on the Te Rapa straights. Passing a car in the rain. Hit a milk tanker. This helmet was the only thing that wasn’t scrunched. It came off.’
    ‘Oh, great!’ I said.
    ‘Don’t worry about it. Helmets are just another fucken government con job.’
    Devon nodded in agreement. ‘You shoot through, Trace. I’ll see ya in about an hour.’
    I could see that I was being got rid of, that there was some other deal going down, but I didn’t care. I ambled out of the yard and back in towards town.
    They both watched as I rolled the idling bike out the gates. The big Rotty gave my leg an interested sniff but backed off when I gave the Norton a rev.
    ‘It’s a beast!’ I thought.
    The clutch was incredibly stiff, as though frozen. I found first gear and let it out with a jerk. The bike reared, but didn’t stall. We were off.
    As I flicked up and down the gears I could feel things begin to loosen up. It was like the arthritic old joints of a sleeping giant. The dead weight of the bike disappeared as I found therhythm of throwing it over low on the corners. It was like learning to ride all over again.
    The traffic thickened up and I spotted the motorway more by chance than anything. Time to open it up. I wrung my right hand back on the grip and felt the bite of the power train bonding with the smooth black road….
    At about six and a half the torque flattens out and I click it on to third. The acceleration is still intense, fingers straining at the grips and helmet desperate to part company