I had just passed everything at a shade under 200km/h and the Rocket was burbling and grumbling its way back down to about the speed limit.
I love how it does that. When you’re on the gas it makes this deep, earthy “GGRRRRAAAAARRRGG” noise, like the shifting of tectonic plates. When you back off it kinda burbles and grumbles its way back down the rev-range. As if it’s disappointed.
We…well, she had decided she wished to eat seafood, and it’s been a few months since we’d been to Nelson Bay, and one thing led to another and we were on the road by nine.
“Is that a new jacket you have on?” I asked as we idled through Singleton.
“Yes. It’s a Belstaff. I got it for half-price. It’s cut for girls, so I don’t feel like I’m wearing a mail-bag.”
“I’m concerned you’re out buying your own motorcycle gear.”
“Don’t be a sexist thunderclump. I’m perfectly capable of buying my own stuff without input from you. Jesus!”
The blasphemy came when I opened the throttle so the talking would stop.
I thought I had lost Lynette a few times. The Rocket is indifferent to pillions. And she sits back from me, so I can’t actually feel her there. It’s why I keep reaching back and touching her.
“Why do you keep touching me?” she yelled at one point.
“I like how you feel, but also to make sure you’ve not fallen off.”
“I can’t fall off. That thing is there.”
“The sissy bar.”
“Yes, you had one on that horrible Harley back when we met. It used to dig holes in my spine. I hated that fucken bike.”
“This one is better, yes?”
“This is great. Seriously. It’s comfy, the suspension is good. I feel safe – like I’m not going to fall off even when you’re being an idiot.”
“Can you see the speedo?”
“Jesus!” she blasphemed again as I aimed for the horizon.
About two hours later we pulled into Tea Gardens.
“This is not Nelson Bay,” she observed.
“No, it’s Tea Gardens.”
“Why are we here? I see no expensive seafood restaurants.”
“John Howard used to come here for his summer holidays.”
“Was it the only place he could go where people wouldn’t spit on him?”
“I also came here with the club about 35 years ago. It was a great and terrible weekend.”
“What did you idiots do? Chase grannies around their holiday homes? Seems a bit short on oily surf bitches for your tastes.”
“It’s a long story. I wrote about it my first book.”
“Ride on, fool.”
An hour or so later we were in Nelson Bay at the seafood joint we can both tolerate. The view’s nice unless they’re loading semi-trailers in front of it. Today they were loading semi-trailers.
Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.