“IT’S THE HEAT, STUPID…”

This will probably sound strange – which will come as no surprise to regular readers – but I really enjoy riding in hot weather.

I love the oven-blast of the wind. I love how the sun bakes my external casing, drying the sweat even as it oozes out of me. I love how the heat attempts to leech the very life out of you and send you insane with hyperthermia. I love how it makes me squint, dries my spit, and turns the engine into a ticking supernova.

Once upon a time, when I was all overtly outlaw and shit, I’d ride around with just my vest on. After the first time I did this in December, I decided that sunblock was my friend, swore to beat to death anyone who called me “gay” for applying it, then figured out windburn can be every bit as uncomfortable as sunburn. So long sleeves and a bandanna sorted that out.

I’m one of those strange creatures who rides regardless of the weather. I have never called off a planned ride if it was raining. I’m hardly going to reconsider if it’s sunny and hot. I ride bikes. The weather will do what it’s gonna do, and I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do. We have an understanding like that.

But I think some part of me is wired a bit more wrong than the other parts of me that are also wired wrong. That’s the part of me that enjoys riding in hot weather.

Lots of things on a motorcycle are bad in hot weather. The bugs seem bigger and more virulent. The heat seems to make them grow and incites them to terrifying levels of hyperactivity. Ever stopped on the side of the road and been deafened by the screaming cicadas? The fuckers are going off in the heat, and I’m just glad they stay mainly in the trees and aren’t peppering me as I ride – though that has happened to me with grasshoppers in the past.

Yes, it was summer, and I was making my rapid way from Collie to Warren. The bastards rose up from the surrounding yellow grass like a miasma of painful vengeance, like it says in the Bible. And they hammered me like a hailstorm. In seconds I was riding blind – and here’s a hint, don’t try wiping their deadness off your sunnies or visor. Like all insects, they’re packed with gelatinous glargh, which dries instantly upon impact, and only smears if you try and wipe your vision clear.

Hot summer nights are moth-mania. Every now and again, the fluttery fucks come out in plague-proportions, cover you like an insectile horror-cloak, and have been known to encase an entire bike-radiator to the point of overheating the engine.

Birds also move slower in the heat. I have hit more birds on hot summer days than I have on cold winter days. So that’s my science. Maybe the bastards are looking for water. All they found with me was death.

Tyres also act funny on really hot days. This was never much of a problem with the Avons I used to run on my Harley. They always acted like bathroom tiles, cold or hot. But modern tyres, especially the super-grippy ones can have conniptions in mega-heat. The road surface is also softer – and on some roads, like the Jameison-Eildon racetrack, the road-surface actually moves under your hoops when it’ s very hot. This will excite you greatly when you first discover it. It did me.

So, bear that in mind if you’re carving hard on a 40-degree day. What were wonderfully predictable tyres, can very suddenly become…well, exciting – and yes, there’s that word again. Seems to apply very well when you’re balls deep in a 55km/h bend and seeking to lay down the Newton metres in a righteous fashion, and the back steps out. Not all the way. Just far enough to coax a greasy wee nugget out of your blurter.

See also

Esoterica

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SHIT MY WIFE SAYS – THE STAIRS INCIDENT

21 October 20226

“What’s to love about this kind of riding then?” you ask.

Lots, but it’s such a highly subjective thing. Some blokes like fat chicks, right? I don’t, but I’m not judging the brothers who are into the extra poundage. Riding in the heat is the same thing. You either dig it, put up with it, or cower like a white-bellied soulless she-male, figuring out your pronouns in air-conditioned comfort.

For my part, I love the pure intensity of the experience. And it is very intense. In cold weather, you can always add more gear, and apply electrical assistance to warm you. You can’t do shit about the heat. I tend to stop more frequently, pour a bucket of water down my jacket, zip up the jacket and enjoy biker-air-conditioning for maybe the next 20 minutes.

And you’ll never have a better beer than you’ll have after you pull up to some remote pub, with the sun getting lower in the cloudless sky, the thermometer telling you its 43-degrees, and feeling like you can fry an egg on your face.

Don’t get me wrong. Heat-stroke is not a fun thing. But I have never had it. I have pointed and laughed when it’s happened to others around me, and then called the paramedics. It appears I have a high tolerance for heat. And yes, we are all different. Guess you should always listen to your body. It never lies to you.

Roll on, summer, you magnificent hot bastard.