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Jason

Two weeks after putting my bike in the mechanics called to say it was ready.

It’s never a good time to pay for repairs, and this was a particularly bad time. My car broke down on a freeway just a week after the bike died, leaving me with a massive repair bill, and although I’d budgeted for it the $220 worth of bike repairs weren’t making me the happiest man alive.

The call came from titty porn man as Mark was out to lunch, no doubt eating lobster somewhere.

‘That’s great, I’ll pick it up Monday. What’s the damage?’

I knew it would be $220, it’s what I’d been quoted, but just wanted to make sure. These verbal quotes often get forgotten, and forgotten it was.

‘It comes to $440 all up.’

‘$440? I was quoted $220 and that’s exactly double.’

Titty porn man fumbled around a bit, and not only did he clearly have no idea where the extra $220 worth of costs had emerged, he was annoyed that I’d dared to ask the question. I persisted regardless.

‘Well who DID work on the bike? Could I talk to them about it?’

Shaken, he handballed the grenade.

‘John gets back from lunch around 3pm, you can call him then if you like.’

‘I will. Thanks titty porn man.’

As soon as I got off the phone I spoke with my boss, who’s one of the most motorcycle-y guys I know. He’d already gotten annoyed with me for being a sucker and taking my bike in to a shop, insisting that he could easily fix it himself, and he knew the score.

It was crap, he said, I was getting ripped off. The going rate for mechanic labour is $60 an hour, and there was no way that it took them over seven hours to service the bike and put in a new clutch. It took HIM two hours to put a new clutch in his CBX, and he’s not even a mechanic.

His pep talk got me riled up, and I dialed for John fuelled with consumer rage.

I got titty porn man again. When I told him it was the guy with the CT110 looking John there was a long pause, which I assume was spent briefing John on the party line. Finally, John picked up the phone.

‘Hello?’ he said, as if he had no idea who it was.

‘Hi. It’s Jason, you fixed up my CT110 recently. I’m just calling to query the bill, as it’s double what you quoted me over the phone.’

‘Oh, right. Well I was just quoting for the clutch over the phone, that didn’t include the service.’

‘Oh ok. That’s a bit weird, seeing as the service was the whole reason I put the bike in, to get it going again. The clutch came in later.’

‘Right.’

‘And I provided the parts, remember? How long did you spend working on the bike?’

He was on the backfoot, and decided to adopt the bamboozle approach.

The bamboozle approach is something I’m quite familiar with. As a broke uni student I took my car into a Kmart mechanic a few times for some major repairs, and every time I asked the guy how much it was going to cost he would deliberately delay the answer.

Instead of giving me a number, he’d would pull out this colourful plastic model engine and start winding it slowly. He’d then gesture to it, explaining in convoluted and meticulous terms exactly which bits were faulty and why. He’d wait until the moment my eyes glazed over, and then slap the bill on the table. When I went in the next time and saw him reaching for the plastic engine again I knew I was fucked.

And so John started off reeling off things they did to the bike in classic bamboozle fashion, but little did he know I was equipped with my notepad and ‘A game’.

‘Aaah some oil, $16. We had to replace some screws on the something – something, and had to get them off another bike.’

‘Was there a charge for the screws?’

‘No, the screws were free.’

‘Did it take a long time to replace the screws?’

‘Not really.’

This went on for a bit, and I was sure it was going nowhere. I knew in the end that John had me by my lady lumps and I was going to lose out, so I tried one last tactic – silence. He kept talking about the man hours for a little while but then tapered off, put off by my lack of agreeing/argument. I smelt a falter, and he was starting to feel a bit unnerved. The game was shifting.

‘Look, how about we do it for $350?’ he conceded.

Sold.

I think I had a bit of a win, but I’m not sure. Was this haggling out of the ordinary or was it just part of some kind of motorcycling ritual? Did I walk away with more man points?

Have you ever been screwed by a mechanic? Do you haggle?

I just got off the phone to the motorcycle mechanic, whose had my bike since it broke down the other week from lack of oil, and I’ve got to tell you those guys are crafty.

My car mechanic is great, AP Motors on Keele street Collingwood. Phil comes from a long line of ancestors who’ve run the shop, he’s always straight up about what’s possible and what’s a waste of money, and he often ignores me when I walk past his shop which keeps me keen in a ‘treat them mean’ kind of a way.

But Phil doesn’t know bikes. Not many mechanics do. The ones that do specialize in bikes are very aware of their rockstar automotive niche, and they’re not afraid to exploit it.

My latest mechanical misadventure has been interesting as the motorcycle guys I’ve been dealing with aren’t sure how much I know about bikes – and how much they can get away with.

Truth is, I know next to nothing, but I have hung around other motorcyclists enough to regurgitate some vaguely informed sounding statements every now and then, which has really thrown them off.

When I initially walked in the store I made sure to hide any trace of iPod or sunglasses, but it’s always been hard to do anything about my lack of manly physique and my bogan accent is ‘mildly put on’ at best.

There was two guys sitting at a desk down the back and the first thing they did was ignore me for about five minutes, like some kind of test. I’m not sure what a manly man would do in this situation, probably yell out something blokey and obscene in a gruff voice, but whatever it is I clearly didn’t do it because their disdain was glaring from word go.

It was pretty clear they had me pegged as a skinny white guy with no idea, and on a scale of motorcycle manliness I’m sure they would have rated me a 2 out of 10 (1 out of 10 being a girl).

One of them reluctantly rose from their titty porn strewn desk and flopped himself into the receptionist chair. Let’s call him John, not for any privacy reasons, just because I can’t remember.

‘What bike is it?’ he asked.

‘A CT110. The tow truck guy’s bringing it round the back.’

I deliberately avoided the words ‘Honda’ or ‘Postie bike’ as they’ve become mainstream as of late, and I believe that if I could have read John’s mind at this point his rating of me would have shimmied up from a 2 to a 3.

For me to ride such a utility type bike I was either some sort of extreme bush guy or an idiot with no savings, and considering I used the manly name I was probably the former.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘I forgot to put oil in it and it died.’

Back down to 2.

Both John and the guy still sitting at the titty porn clucked in unison, they knew they’d caught themselves a fat one. Titty porn guy was so confident that he jumped in with some honesty/cold hard facts talk.

‘If I were you I’d start calling round the wreckers now for a new engine. That thing will be seized up and no good to anyone.’

‘How much do you think an engine would cost from the wreckers?’ I asked.

‘Dunno. Bout $600 – $800? They’re hard to get as CT110’s rarely break. Unless you forget to put oil in them.’

‘But the whole bike only cost me $1250!’

‘Yep. We’ll do our best.’

I walked out of there feeling pretty down. I wasn’t sure how bad the engine damage would be, and I knew that they were setting me up with the initial $800 quote so that anything they charged later on that was less than that would feel like a bargain. I was powerless and everyone knew it.

Less than an hour later John called my mobile. I happened to be shopping in a perfume store at the time (searching for the perfect gift for my stepmum) and was in the process of sniffing some delightful scents, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I summoned my deepest occer voice from within the Gucci aisle.

‘Good news Jason, you’re a very luck man. The bike didn’t seize up, it just needs a service.’

Wow, things were looking up.

‘But…the clutch is pretty worn out. We’ll need to replace that. All up it should come to about $220, plus parts.’

Bang. The happy train had left the station and was heading express to Money Town. While $220 was manageable he made a point of not giving me a price on parts, and I knew for a fact that motorcycle dealerships make most of their money from parts.

But then I hit him with a game shifting blindsider, and he could barely hide his surprise.

‘Do you use genuine Honda parts? Because I don’t want any Chinese copy parts in there.’

SHAZAM. 4 out of 10, that’s right, I know about copy parts. That was a TWO point markup in the manly stakes.

‘We do use Chinese parts, but I can get a quote on some genuine parts.’

I’m lucky as I can get hold of such parts myself, and when I told him so he knew the terrain was getting rocky.

A page had been ripped out of John’s conning playbook, and I was sitting on 5 out of 10 man points with only $220 worth of labour to worry about. Things were looking up.

Stay tuned for the next installment of the saga, and for the love of god leave a comment.

Servo’s are a source of much magic for someone riding a postie bike. Someone will always hurry over with a knowing wink, and say ‘postie bike eh?’

This will be followed by either:

a)     ‘You’re not gona break the bank filling that thing up.’ (Wink wink, followed by hysterical laughter as the guy revels in his own ‘zinger’.

b)    ‘Where did you get it? How much was it? Could you possibly describe the process in graphic detail and thus babysit me through the whole journey of getting one myself?’

Or;

c)     ‘God damn you’re handsome, gee whizz. So handsome. Hey other hot girl, come over here and take a look at this handsome guy. So handsome. Gee whizz.’

The other day, unfortunately, I was greeted by the most frustrating combination of these responses I’ve ever experienced.

I had just taken all the gear off: gloves first so I can squeeze my sweat box helmet off and quickly put it down so I can rearrange my hair, awkwardly fling my backpack around for a while so I can squeeze an arm out to peel off the jacket, etc etc.

I’m just grabbing for the bowser when a shiny and expensive looking four wheel drive pulls up LESS THAN A METRE away from me, so close that the woman in the passenger seat would have clocked my bike if she tried to open her door.

Her husband scurries his hefty frame over from the driver’s side and makes a bee line for the pump. Like he hasn’t noticed that I’m there, holding it. He gets really close, too close, and just stands there waiting for me to finish. As if his presence will intimidate me to modify my fuelling experience into a sprint race.

‘Postie bike eh?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

I hadn’t even started pumping yet, and already felt like rubbing his face into the pavement. Clearly the protocol is: he parks his vehicle behind my vehicle, and patiently waits for me to vacate the bay. Not only was he doubting the validity of my bike as a vehicle, he was doubting the essence of my manliness.

‘Won’t take you long to fill that thing up.’

This was the straw before the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Either this guy had no idea how far he was irritating me, or he knew it and loved it. What I should have said is:

“Dear sir, if you stand any closer and I may well flip out and rip your face off, and you won’t have saved any time at all because you’ll be spending ten minutes freaking out all like ‘oh god where’s my face, I have no face, where did he throw my face?’”

But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything at all. I just stood there, angry pumping. Waiting for his next smart arsed ‘hurry up’ comment. Waiting for him to move my bike and help me zip my gear up for me, anything to get me out of there sooner. But he didn’t.

‘God damn you’re handsome.’

Do you have a problem with people hassling you about your handsomeness at petrol stations? Comment below.

Racing is a funny thing and I don’t really get it. People get really passionate about their teams, although they’re not really teams – they’re manufacturers. The whole thing is a marketing exercise for large corporations to sell more bikes, but yet people still scramble on board the wagon, choosing Honda over Yamaha, Ducati over BMW.

I’m not even convinced it encourages people to buy bikes. The whole ‘win on Sunday sell on Monday’ mantra seems like a mantra made up by guys in wheelchairs surrounded by hot groupies. Half the time the bikes people are drooling over will never be available for purchase or even test rides, and the heroes they’re emulating will barely be able to walk by the time they hit 50 years old.

Anyway, in this blog I’m going to try to pass on my limited understanding of motorcycle racing. Truth be told I actually saw some superbikes in action the other day at Phillip Island and I’m starting to get into it. Those guys are traveling faster than the human body was ever supposed to, and they are freaking hardcore.

MotoGP.

This is the stuff motorcyclist wet dreams are made of. MotoGP is the AFL, NRL and Big Day Out of motorcycling and if you’re in the business of selling bikes you’ll be paying a lot of zeroes to get marquees and posters slapped around the island.

The riders are paid crazy amounts of money, the successful ones are the size of jockeys and the whole thing is about clinical precision. To be honest every motoGP rider I’ve seen interviewed seems to be lacking a bit of testosterone, but maybe the fact that they’re risking death every time they go to work chills them out a bit.

For some reason the guys that finish on the podium get given a bottle of expensive champagne and, like clockwork, they ‘punk’ each other by shaking it up and spraying it all over each other. You crazy guys, what will you do next? Actually I do know, chances are you’re going to spray champagne over each other again.

Superbikes.

These bikes seem bigger, and maybe they’re heavier? Apparently the riders have to muscle their bikes around the track more and they’re a bit tougher. I detect a touch of bogan from the superbike class.

The bikes are still hotted up to the point where you couldn’t buy them in the shop, but they’re a bit more similar to a road bike than a motoGP bike is.

While the Superbike class isn’t as prestigious as motoGP, it seems to still get some respect. I once asked if the Superbikes could be described as the ‘VFL of motorcycle racing’ and was shut down. It’s much better than that apparently.

Supersport.

I have no freaking idea. If you can watch MotoGP and Superbikes, why the hell would you watch supersport?

This is definitely the VFL of motorcycle racing. The only thing I know about supersport is that the bikes they race are ones you could buy from the shop. Actually I’m not even sure about that.

Is any of this right? Why the hell would anyone watch Supersport racing?

The second step to being a motorcyclist is buying gear. This is pretty tough, as it’s a pretty serious purchase and motorcycle stores are very aware that they have you by the bathing suit region.

Safety gear was a particularly important purchase for me, as I relied on it as a hefty weapon during my various ‘I don’t think you should get a motorcycle because I don’t want you to die’ debates.

As I spent a year working for a major motorcycle manufacturer I’m pretty savvy with the stats and arguments for the pursuit of motorcycling, and one of my favourites is the ‘look at these Kevlar jeans, I’ve seen footage of people being dragged on the ground behind bikes and they didn’t even get a bruise thanks to these amazing jeans’ maneuver.

That move is only second to the ‘according to the stats, about 50% of motorcycle deaths are a result of people not bothering to wear a helmet.’ I’m not really too sure about this one or who exactly is riding without helmets, I think I read it on the TAC website, it must be farm accidents and dickheads flogging ATV’s over boulders.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to start my gear purchasing spree with a second hand motorcycle jacket, which was given to me by my boss. Apart from that I had nothing but half maxed out credit card to sort me out, and oh was it a thrill.

I went to the Peter Stevens outlet, behind their Harley shop. I could write an essay about walking into that place with skinny jeans, a freshly shaven face and ridiculous sunglasses, but I won’t.

Contrary to what I’d hoped this outlet did not stock a bunch of sweet half priced Harley gear, which would have made a hilarious match to my CT110, but it did have a lot of discounted stuff.

Apparently motorcycle gear is also a victim to the ‘that is so last season’ fashion mindset, although if you ask me any motorcyclist that subscribes to that talk is a sucker or a wanker, of which I am neither.

I wandered around the store awkwardly for a while until I was greeted by James, the mildly socially awkward young guy who got visibly excited by my ‘I have nothing, I need to buy everything but a jacket’ spiel.

James knew a lot about helmets and was a pretty patient guy, which came in handy after I tried out every single helmet the place stocked. I learnt that helmets are not supposed to touch your chin, open faced helmets are a bad idea and that if you don’t pull the chin straps out really hard when you’re putting the helmet on it feels like your ears are getting ripped off.

He was adamant that the helmet shouldn’t rub this, press against that, but as we ran out of options he became more lax with these minor details.

I have this stupid habit of thinking I’ve bonded with sales people and feel really guilty if I don’t buy what they’re flogging me, like I’m personally responsible for paying their rent.

When I was taking the least uncomfortable helmet available to the counter to be ‘put aside’ for me I think both James and I knew that the helmet deal was looking very much unsealed, despite the 30 minutes he’d endured with me in the helmet aisle.

As an apology gesture I bought a pair of boots after only one try, and soon James and I found ourselves in the gloves aisle.

As with everything, there were some expensive options and some cheap options for gloves. James confided in me that sometimes he liked to go riding without gloves, apparently it’s really nice to feel the breeze between your fingers on a summer day.

Then the whole dynamic shifted.

As I revealed that I was a musician and quite protective of my hands, James’ happy go lucky demeanor evaporated and he smelt a hot sale. I’ve never seen a man change his tune so quickly.

‘Well you should probably be looking at these ones. They’re pretty expensive, but there’s actually tiny vents in them as well as bits of leather that bind your pinky to the next finger.’

‘Why would I want two of my fingers stuck together?’

‘It’s pretty common for people’s pinky fingers to get ripped off.’

‘Oh.’

‘That wouldn’t be too good for playing guitar wouldn’t it?’

‘No.’

He had me hook, line and sinker, until it became clear that there were no gloves in my size. Finally, free of the madness, I made moves to pay for the boots and get back to my car, which was probably getting near its parking ticket expiry.

‘What about a jacket?’ James asked.

I explained that I already had one that my boss had given me, something that I’d said from the start but he’d conveniently forgotten.

James was getting frantic now, the golden goose was slipping from his fingers.

‘Have you been fitted for it? The jacket is extremely important, if the pads are just one centimeter off it could be a problem…Was he the same size as you?’

‘Actually my boss was a women, but it fits pretty well.’

‘You’re wearing a WOMEN’S jacket??’

At this point I backed away, mumbling some line about coming back for the helmet, doing all I could to avoid James’ heartbroken gaze.

I felt bad for leaving him hanging like that, for about five minutes until I realized that as a result of being too polite to bail earlier on his gloves/jacket sales pitch I’d earned myself a parking fine. Fuck him and his stupid helmet.

(Copy from here)

Dear _________ ,

How are you going? God it’s been TOO long since we hung out. The last time I saw you was great, you were pumping out zingers that I’m still laughing about today.

I really liked your outfit too. You look great in shoes. Have you lost weight?

Hey, how cool are engines? I like them. Cars, motorcycles, jet fighter planes, motorcycles, tanks, I also enjoy all that stuff. Just another thing that you and I have in common.

You know what else is super cool? This video podcast I just heard of called ‘the c word’. It’s really good, and I have every reason to believe that the kids find it pretty hip.

Once I saw a guy watching it just after he’d finished listening to rap music through his cassette headphones. He had his hat on back to front as well. I’m pretty sure he did a kickflip right after he watched it too. That’s how edgy this show’s fanbase is.

Most people just visit http://www.cword.tv to watch the episodes, but apparently it’s WAY cooler to subscribe through iTunes. It just gets delivered to your iTunes every week, which is pretty handy. I know how it’s always been ‘go go go’ with you!

Sorry to email out of the blue, it’s just that I’ve been reading this sweet blog by a really handsome guy, and apparently every day that he comes to work and HASN’T convinced 20,000 people to subscribe to the show, he gets punched in the face. TWICE.

The guy that last held his position didn’t bring in 20,000 subscribers either, and his boss chinese burned him to DEATH.

Thanks again for this, I look forward to catching up again.

Always follow your dreams.

All my love,

_____________
xoxo

(Copy to just before here, and don’t forget to fill out the name sections, otherwise it might look a bit suss.)

I’d tried to check the oil levels a few times, and either the lid was shut too tight or I couldn’t work out how oil was supposed to go in there, I don’t know. It was one of those ‘getting closer to the top of the list’ type jobs.

On that fateful day I was riding to a meeting in the middle of the Melbourne CBD, as I love opportunities to not pay for parking. See THAT ‘the man’? Yeah I’ll park right here. Change? No sorry, I don’t have any. I don’t NEED any. FUCK YOU.

I was hammering down Flinders Street (50kph feels like hammering on a postie bike) when all of a sudden it started shuddering its way to a slow death. After kung fu-ing the crap out of my kickstart for ten minutes, the unique ‘things are going really wrong in here‘ smell started wafting out of the oil tank and everything became clear.

‘That’s a bit disappointing’ or words to that effect entered my head and even left my mouth once or twice, as I found myself on the sidewalk beside a dead bike – wearing a jacket/boots/gloves in 30 degree heat.

This is the exact time that my phone completely shit itself, and flat out refused to make calls.

Up until now I’d been working hard not to get excited or perform any acts of physical exertion as I was wearing a business shirt under my jacket, but that all went out the window as I frantically searched every shitty supermarket in the CBD for motor oil.

Public service announcement: No supermarket in the CBD carries motor oil. FUCK YOU supermarkets in the CBD. Every store has all sorts of genital lube, beef jerky and overpriced/overripe fruit dangling from the counter, but ask if they stock motor oil and get ready for the ‘this guy is a weirdo‘ looks.

Public service announcement number two: If you run your motorcycle dry out of oil, putting more oil in it won’t make it start. It doesn’t matter how far you trekked across Melbourne to get that overpriced ‘this is meant for lawnmowers but you can give it a try’ oil, it’s too late.

Public service announcement number three: Every pay phone smells like wee, and they have no problem taking all your money and then hanging up as soon as someone answers.

For 70 ‘I do cash for cheap, but you no get receipt’ dollars you can get a bloke to bring his truck out and drive you up the road to a mechanic, who will then attempt to ride you for ever cent you’re worth. The two guys behind the counter were so rehearsed that they were actually clucking their tongues in time in ‘genuine concern’ for my bike and the hideously expensive damage they were predicting it had suffered.

If the crazy cash and stress didn’t help me learn my lesson about the importance of putting oil in your bike, two hours stuck in the CBD wearing cheese grater style motorcycle boots certainly did.

Have you ever broken down? What did you do?

In the world of motorcycling I am a rookie. I never got the chance to ride dirtbikes as a kid, I’ve never watched a motorcycle race and the first time I ever rode a bike was when I was getting my learners permit.

But is it really too late for me to become one of those awesome biker guys I see on TV, like Fonzie? You can only start riding on the road legally at eighteen, I’m twenty-three now – how hardcore can one get in five years?

I was lucky enough to speak with Josh ‘Bad Boy’ Brookes recently, controversial British Superbikes star (you can watch a video about his first big break here), and I convinced him to give me a crash course in bluffing my way through conversation with other motorcyclists.

“The first thing I’d do would be ask you about your bike. You’ve got to know a bit about it. The coolest thing to ride is a sportsbike like a Honda CBR1000RR, a Yamaha R1, Suzuki GSXR1000 or a Kawasaki ZX10.”

Are there any bikes that aren’t cool? Would you think less of me if I was riding a cruiser?

“I hate people that ride BMW’s, that’s really fruity. It’s always the weird old guys wearing black pedophile leather. You need racing leather with patches to look cool.”

“Cruisers are for older guys, that just want to have fun and don’t care about things like acceleration and stopping. You could probably get away with a cruiser if it was a Harley and you were playing the rebel card, or maybe with the new Honda Fury – that’s pretty outlawish. But don’t go near a Triumph, they’re for older guys and you’ll look like a wanker.”

“Whatever floats your boat really, but at the end of the day if you want to be cool you’ll be riding a sportsbike and wearing racing leathers.”

Assuming I lie through my teeth and say I’m riding a 1000cc sportsbike, where do we go from here?

“Next I’d ask you where you ride, just to suss you out. If you’re in Sydney you’d be riding on Putty road, or the Bells line of road. They’re the best spots. If you’re in Wollongong, like me, you’d be riding around Mount Kemblar. It’s great, a really twisty road through rainforest. I don’t really know Melbourne that well.”

Anything else that would give credibility as a motorcyclist?

“Yeah, you need to hate cops. Just seeing a police car should cripple you with paranoia. If you’re riding a 1000cc motorcycle you’ll find yourself speeding, it’s something you just can’t help.”

“It just feels really natural to get enjoyment from your bike, you want to feel the acceleration and enjoyment. If you sneeze on on a powerful bike you’ll find yourself doing 200kph, you’ve got to be careful.”

“I’m not saying to go out and be a dickhead, and there’s too many idiots splitting traffic at high speeds, but every motorbike guy will have a stretch of country road where he’ll open it up a bit.”

“The funny thing is, a lot of other motorcycle racers don’t ride on the street. A lot of them start out on the track at a young age, and never really develop that drive for an outlet on the road. They don’t miss going fast on the road, they’ve already got it out of their system. I ride on the road though, I love it.”

What about girls? Is it ok to use motorcycling as a tool to impress girls?

“Definately. You do a lot of things in life to impress people, girls being the most important group. Being a motorcyclist is pretty cool way to meet girls.”

“It’s too awkward to take girls to movies or restaurants. It’s always late and they feel pressured to hang out afterward or go home with you. There’s always that ‘what happens afterwards?’ thing going on.”

What’s easier is asking them to come out for a ride with you on a Saturday. It’s the middle of the day, you don’t have to talk, they’re holding on to you, it sounds a bit dangerous.”

That’s all been really helpful, but I don’t have the money to buy a sportsbike. Do you have any tips for me to look cool when I’m riding my postie bike?”

“No.”

Thanks Josh.

I try stay out of the way of other riders, due to my slow speed, and also because every time I indicate the bike beeps like a reversing truck which makes it a bit embarrassing at intersections.

Apart from a brief struggle between CT110 and Ducati for a few suburbs, trying to outdo each other at the traffic lights, I didn’t really see many bikes until my ride home when I found myself locked in with another Learner on a Honda.

I can’t keep up at top speed with anyone apart from scooters, so I tried to compensate for this by having lightning quick reflexes at the traffic lights and getting the jump on the other guy. My only hope was for him to get bogged down in traffic while I enjoyed my clean break, relying on lucky light changes that let me through but held him back.

We passed each other a few times, missed and made a few yellow lights, but finally ended up beside each other up the front of a red light.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d heard that some motorcyclists like to talk at the lights, but I wasn’t sure if he would would view our riding thus as a competition or if my crap bike and I were even included in the motorcyclist bracket at all.

Thank god he brought it up.

He’d clearly been in the scene a lot more than me, and he casually lifted up his visor with a wry grin that acknowledged our cheeky faux racing.

“Howzit gow-in?”

“Good, yeah really good. Um…”

I wasn’t sure how to keep it going, or what I was expected to say. Should I enquire about his day, family, emotional well being? I decided to play it safe with some bike talk.

“Is that a CB400?”

“Nah, a 250.”

Good, a question and answer, this felt like a pretty genuine motorcycle conversation.

I felt I’d established a bit of credibility, not only recognising that he was riding a Honda but almost guessing the model. The CB400 happens to be one of the few motorcycles I know, and not well enough it would seem.

I also felt good that as he said 250 he raised two fingers, which meant that he was confident enough that I’d understand the fact that two fingers represented the fact he was riding a 250cc motorcycle and wouldn’t be bemused by his lack of attempt to communicate the final 50cc’s with his fingers.

I decided to bring it home with some occer talk, to identify with with him and also to clarify that despite my tight jeans I was in fact heterosexual, as some guys get a big caught on things like that.

“..zit go alright?”

“Yeah she’s good, pretty safe too.”

Then the lights turned green and he shot off, leaving me wondering, was that my first real bike talk? Or was it all a ruse to distract me from my lightning quick starts, my one killer move? I never caught him again and I’ll never know.

Do you talk to other motorcyclists at traffic lights? What do you talk about??