POC united
Got a bike the other half doesn’t know about? Tired of explaining the most
recent loopy decision? Guido has a club for you…
Your mother/father
would say you’ve been spending far too much time drinking and farnarkling
about with the very people she/he warned you of. Bad people.
Your wife/husband doesn’t approve of spending mortgage money on something
that a life-time bus fare could cover.
Your kids rib you, and are a bit resentful about you blowing the inheritance
on what is, after all, another bloody motorbike.
What on earth were you thinking? More horsepower, sexier panels, something that
gets the glands on the rev-limiter when you stuff it hard into a corner and
survive.
Justifying the new bike is a difficult art form. At some stage, almost every
certifiable motorcyclist I’ve met has ducked out of the turgid “but
darling, it’s an investment/it’s safer/you know it makes sense”
debate and just bought the new toy anyway. And hidden it until they’ve
worked out a way of explaining it.
They never do. Even if they have, the rellos have long ago worked out the plot
and derive weeks of amusement out of making you squirm until you confess. “Yes,
I bought the damned thing,” you howl at the moon, late at night –
eventually.
Welcome to a new club. For people who hide bikes in sheds owned by friends (the
rich ones have private lock-ups), or who say the bike is just something they’re
looking after for a friend, or claim they got it in return for a bad debt, or
more unusually, are holding it as part of deceased estate until they work out
how to offload something that has far more sentimental than real value.
The most dangerous hurdle is usually the spouse, and how you deal with this
will depend on how much they know about bikes. There’s an urban myth out
there about the chap/chapette who swapped motorcycles annually but always bought
a red one. Apparently it worked.
Nice idea, but not a hope at Chateau Guido. Spouse Ms M is a sympathetic and
capable riding companion, but the penalty is she can pick the difference between
a Ducati and a Kawasaki at 100 metres, no matter how red they are.
I have the unusual excuse that “it’s a test bike, dear”. But
it only works, at best, over a month or two. That bought some breathing time
with Hannibal the Hayabusa, but eventually we had to attend to confession. “It’s
a long-termer that’s not going back,” was the pathetic line, which
scored points for originality but below zero on the justification meter.
That one will cost me a good trials bike, I suspect , which is what she hankers
for. Or a current Jag – so anyone out there with a recent model Gas Gas
in good nick has my full attention.
We hereby announce the formation of the Phantom Owners Club (POC). Motorcycle
writer John Rooth will be a little surprised to hear I’ve anointed him
Ambassador at Large (ticket-holder number 2), while Spannerman will not be at
all concerned that he’s been nominated as President and Road Captain (ticket
number 1). I’ll form the rest of the committee (with ticket number 3),
including social secretary and head of the justice wing.
Our mission is to provide a haven for the folk out there who are hiding motorcycles,
including shed-swapping services, obfuscation certificates, and rides disguised
as conferences that have (thanks to the unique skills of the road captain) the
potential to lose all participants. If my info is right, this could be bigger
than Ulysses MC.
Guy "Guido" Allen
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