Copping
a backhander
Guido discovers that being a young and dangerous criminal is harder than it
looks…
Why do we ride bikes? It just thrills me to bits to hit the starter and hear
the daily angry waking hum of a motorcycle engine bringing itself up to boil.
Suddenly all my troubles seem to slough off to another world.
Unless it has a kick-starter. Then I’m usually relieved to hear the uncertain
“pock, ock – pause – pock, ock, pock…” of a single
that has finally understood that it’s better to run than be kicked to death.
But let’s not examine the idiocy of kick-starters right now.
Mechanical adventures are only a part of the story. A big factor is image. Riding
a motorcycle and getting away with it has an appealing criminal aspect –
you just know there’s a large part of society who disapprove of what you’re
doing, and resent the fact you so obviously enjoy it. Lock up your daughters
and sons, here comes a motorcyclist.
Like it or not, people make a lot of assumptions about you according to the
steed you rode in on. In my case, turn up on Gerald the GS Suzi and I’m
a lifer who listens to Golden Oldies on the radio and takes a bit of pride in
his honest but tidy mount. Twenty-something years on the road have given Gerald
a bit of street cred.
Ride Ted the mildy-modded Triumph Dayt 12, and I’m a potential Euro-bike
snob who still reckons Triple J is cutting edge and doesn’t mind a fang
on a hot day. Arrive (one does not arrive so much as Make An Entrance) on Mac
the Valk Interstate and I could be an old bloke who knows that Handel cannot
be found in a hardware store, with more money than sense.
As for the sidecar…well…grandmothers and elderly uncles seem to get
a bit misty-eyed. It’s an image thing.
One of the great marketing and PR disasters of our time was when a PR wally
some years ago carefully explained to a financial newspaper that the Harley-Davidson
success story was in part driven by otherwise responsible middle-aged men and
women who liked to dress up on weekends. Can’t fault that one on truth,
but the same people were and are buying an image that says they’re young
and virile. The last thing they wanted was to have the virtual mirror held up
while they were getting into their chaps.
It was a spectacularly dumb move and insulting to people who helped to keep
the cash flowing through an industry that experienced unbelievable doldrums
in the late 1980s and early 1990s.
Experience has shown all too clearly how easily self-image can go conrod-shaped,
often through an innocent comment. Like the one from daughter Ms A a few years
ago, who cheerfully told me how much younger I looked with my helmet on.
It got worse recently when I got the throttle-grabbers on Honda’s new CBR1000RR.
A very sexy-looking black number that clearly screams the rider has a copy of
Spiderbait’s re-release of Black Betty and has no idea who the original
artist was. Or so I thought until we pulled into the local bottle shop.
The lad on duty was all over the bike when I rolled up, assuring me that “chicks
go for these, mate”. (Oh really? Name one you actually know.) Then, when
I pulled off the Shoei, he looked me in the eyes and calmly opined, “Gee,
I expected to see a young bloke - most people your age ride cruisers.”
“Thanks,” I thought, “I’ll take that as a compliment –
but if anyone ever deserved a backhander, it’s you, pal…”
Guy "Guido" Allen
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