Panic
haze
We were picking up a Harley test bike. Sam and Liz were making polite conversation,
involving some strange religious rituals and HOG, then moved on – as you
do – to the weather. I think this was their gentle way of making enquiries
about the appearance of yours etcetera, which had more than the usual dragged-backwards-through-the-antarctic
look about it.
It was Spring in sunny Melb, and if anyone ever talks to you about four seasons
in a day it means they’ve never really experienced the southern climes
at their finest. In fact there’s only two seasons at that time of year.
One comes from Launceston and the other from Coober Pedy, at about 10-minute
intervals.
Let me describe the 30-minute ride from the thinking factory to Harleyland.
It was sunny and warm when we started – lots of tight jeans and belly buttons
in evidence. Fire up Gerald the family mule, and head off down the track to
Preston which is, oh, about 90 seconds away. Where it dumps cold sleet –
big time. That’s okay. Having lived down here a few years, we’ve learned
that this is not necessarily God’s way of saying you should get a real
job and a nice little car. Simply his/her way of reminding you that you didn’t
give that option quite enough thought.
Ten minutes down the road it’s hot again and, having survived slithering
across the tram tracks, we’ve dried out to the point of mildly soaked and
are therefore presentable enough to drop the stuff we promised to Wendy. So
we leave some damp footprints on her verandah, some assignments in her letterbox,
wait for the miniscule gap in traffic while holding long-suffering Gerald on
redline, spot it, dump the clutch, regain control, and join the other thrill-seekers
out there.
About now, as we pass through the interesting gaggle of coffee and aromatherapy
dealerships heading into Collingwood, we’re hit by a gale that would rate…oh…about
cyclonic by those fun-loving Far North Queenslanders. All they have up there
is the odd prawn trawler that gets picked up by the wind and then mysteriously
dumped in the middle of town. Sooks.
What we get here is real gales, and the trick is running the gauntlet of terrace
houses (in front of which it’s calm) and then, suddenly, the full force
of Launceston’s finest honed and concentrated through the narrow gap that’s
been left by hopeful housing developers who trashed number 49A and think a stylish
two-metre-wide townhouse will sell for a mint. They’re right. But that
isn’t of much assistance as you get blown across three lanes and wonder
how the mothers who’ve just pegged down the next generation of developers
in the local park will react to a rampaging Gerald and passenger (formerly rider)
joining them in the sandpit. Having narrowly missed running over a full set
of Leggo (you can always have more kids), we soldier on, traumatised but dry.
Now we meet that other Springtime challenge, which involves an intersection
that contains three trams, 31 cars, 1.2 lanes of divided road, 13 sets of traffic
lights, and you want to turn right. Everyone looks goggle-eyed at each other
through two changes of lights.
That’s it, sod ’em, we’re going. Accompanied by the pleasant
clack-clack of Gerald’s handlebars getting intimate with wing mirrors,
we finally make it through the queue and find a gap so we can swing through
the mess, just past the snout of the Renault 12. (Why is there always a Renault
12 in there?) Of course three Hyundais and a LandCruiser follow us through the
gap.
The only way to drown out the trail of shouting is to redline Gerald through
the next couple of intersections and subtly slam on the anchors when we spot
a cop car, mid roundabout, so we end up slewing sideways in a tasteful speedway
turn that has a lot more to do with luck than skill – hmmm…do you
think they noticed? Let’s see: Only motorcycle at the intersection, doing
Warp 9 and obviously out of control. Nup.
We’re getting close and, appropriately, going past the zoo. The jeans are
nearly dry and guess what? It just started raining – though the nice man
in a 4WD (obviously a bike rider) has moved over so I can slingshot through
the last set of lights. We haul up, hide Gerald in the warehouse, briefly apologise
to him, and casually trip up the stairs to see Sam and Liz - with all four adrenal
glands going.
“Raining out there?” one asks. “Oh, a bit, just enough so’s
you know you’ve been for a ride,” you reply, casually gibbering through
a haze of panic fuelled by life-threatening experiences.
What started me on this was listening to The Cure’s cover version of Purple
Haze – which is very good. But how come they or Jimmy H never tried singing
about panic haze? Obviously the lucky bastards never rode down here in Spring.
Guy "Guido" Allen
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