motorbike

I am brought up to believe that motorbikes and the men who ride them are dangerous, perhaps evil. It’s an age between. From the 20s to the 40s cars are not affordable for many people: the motorbike is Everyman’s means of getting around quickly.

A new accountant in Warrnambool in 1949, my father buys a Velocette from Dicky Spetch, to replace his bicycles. The frame disintegrates under him and his pillion, the overweight Brockie Rogers, as they come down the Liebig Street hill. He goes back to Dicky Spetch, buys a car.

In the 50s and 60s Everyman is expected to drive a motorcar. The motorbike is now reserved for outlaws and desperadoes. Hell’s Angels strike fear into respectable communities. Brando’s The wild one unveils the anarchist inside every bikie. As a growing boy I encounter no bikies; the thought frightens me; the thought of a bike moll frightens and excites me.

Although I befriend a biker, fellow student Robré, at teachers’ college in the early 70s, I never ride pillion. He visits me when I’m a new teacher in Gippsland, offers me a ride in the Strzeleckis—just for fun. I am terified: the blind corners, the loose gravel, the impossible angles leaning into curves. Never again.

In 1980 with a partner (who has been a motorbike rider herself), child, job and no second car, I buy a Honda CB250T in Wangaratta. I practise in the paddock next to our house, getting the hang of flicking through the gears with my left foot, finding neutral. It starts to come naturally.

With my mandatory 12 months on a 250cc bike behind me, I step up to a CX500, the Shadow, a quiet, reliable tourer, a beautiful machine. Robré has one, Bishy too. We ride to Mildura together, my first ride with others. Bish leaves us at Mildura; Robré and I head up through Broken Hill, Tibooburra and Innamincka to Birdsville. It’s a grand adventure.

I am 29 when I start riding, and 49 when I sell the Honda NTV650 Revere to my daughter’s boyfriend. I love all five Hondas—that first 250T, two Shadows, a CX 650 and finally the Revere—when I own and ride them. I’d have another tomorrow but can’t justify one man owning two motors.

Straddling a motorbike is inherently sexual. For years former partner Carol and I ride back roads to anywhere to straddle each other when we get off the bike. Even on the bike we grope each other. Oh, yeah.   

Rock on.