Getaway
Guido reckons just making it out the front gate can be a major achievement...
You'll have seen the ads extolling the virtues of getting away from it all,
relaxing by a pool, going for a camel ride - that sort of thing. (They should
dump the camels, which are a notoriously bad-tempered and smelly beast with
a ride that makes sailing a dinghy in a cyclone look like a calming experience.)
Now, where were we? Oh yes - getting away from it all. I reckon it's a challenge
that's well nigh impossible, given the number of hurdles you have to overcome
before you even make it out of the front gate. For example last time I was planning
a trip, assorted children started packing their bags on the not unreasonable
assumption that they were coming. They often do, but had failed to notice that
the Triumph - the one with the solo seat - had been shuffled to the front of
the pack in the shed, with its snout sniffing at the yet-to-be-opened gate.
Eventually they work out what's happening and sulk. Then, realising they're
missing an opportunity, they spend the next 12 hours trying to convince me to
take one of them. This of course starts with calm and rational discussion, rapidly
deteriorating into hysterical screaming matches and, ultimately, tears. Which
means resorting to traditional means of resolving a difficult situation - bribery.
This, I might add, has become increasingly expensive over the years. Once a
decent ice-cream would have done the trick, but now we're talking movie tickets
and enough for a meal etcetera etcetera. Which inevitably puts a dent in the
travel budget. Maybe if I just gave the kid the sodding bike and I stayed home...
Okay. Somewhat traumatised and noticeably poorer, we finally manage to sling
the tankbag onto the Daytona and we're just pulling the helmet on when Fred
rings. On the mobile. Now Fred likes a chat, during which he will describe the
minutiae of his astoundingly boring life and then go on, without taking a breath
- he must have lungs the size of a whale - to review the mesmerisingly ordinary
stuff he went over last time he rang. A phone conversation with Fred is rather
like meeting a very large and angry snake - you can't move, and simply stand
transfixed even though you know you should run screaming in the opposite direction.
And why on earth does he call on the mobile instead of the house phone? I wouldn't
mind so much, except this goes on for so long that you can feel the side of
your brain being broiled in its own juices by the radiation from the handset.
Finally you disengage by saying your leg has caught fire.
By this stage - when you're tired, poor and now brain-damaged - you've forgotten
where you were going and have to pull the map out. Which means repacking the
tankbag.
Of course it's far worse if you make the mistake of lining up a few mates to
go with you. One will turn up with no petrol, when everyone else has a full
tank. Another will be asking where your toolbox is because they just have a
little adjustment to make - which turns into an over-supervised top-end rebuild
liberally assisted by an exciting range of incorrect advice from the onlookers.
Oh, and another just needs to stop by the bank on the way through. It turns
out his account is with the Lower Yunta Credit Union, whose only branch is on
the other side of town and - thanks to the dodgy rebuild - it's now peak hour.
Which means you're stuck with a ragtag group of losers navigating gridlock on
overloaded bikes, dressed in all the riding clobber...oh what joy.
There are days when I reckon the perfect getaway is when you pay everyone else
to go somewhere, so you can kick back in the shed with a large bottle of claret
and a decent book.
Guy "Guido" Allen
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