Greetings
from the fringe
A funny thing happened on the way to the grave, says Guido…
Okay, how would
you react if you received this question in your email? “When you rapidly-ageing
fringe dwellers go to your gods it’ll be over for bikes, won’t it?”
This came from MT’s new subeditor, Rob Blackbourn, who hastily used the
Nuremberg Defence (i.e. “I was just following orders”) by pointing
out he was playing devil’s advocate in an effort to put together a Trader
Advisor page on why people should consider a bike instead of a nice little Camry.
(A prize goes to the first reader who spots the oxymoron in that last sentence.)
Rapidly ageing fringe-dweller, eh? For a moment there I considered mounting
up on Hannibal the Hayabusa, riding across town, and doing the modern equivalent
of keel-hauling (sump-hauling?) the errant sub.
Give me a break! I’m already pilloried on a regular basis for being one
of those bastard-can’t-get-anything-right-troublemaker journos. That’s
when I come out of my ivory tower – I’m also an academic – to
report inaccurately on the real world. Now I’m copping it for being on
a motorcycle. Great. The only other things I could do to make myself less popular
in this society is be gay, black and mentally impaired. (My students would argue
I have at least one out of three.)
Fringe dweller. According to one definition it’s someone who lives on the
edge of a community, usually in poverty and squalor. Maybe Mr B has a point,
after all. The “squalor” suggests he may even have been inside my
house.
Actually I think it was the “rapidly-ageing” bit that really stuck
in the craw. This suggests that I’m somehow, along with the rest of the
Lemmings MC, stuck in a parallel time continuum which is moving just that little
bit quicker than the one experienced by the rest of society. Again, he may have
a point – I always feel measurably older after any Lemmings social engagement.
What he was really getting at is how on earth do you justify getting into motorcycling
to any potential new recruit. I tried much the same exercise with my parents
for decades, without success. Even used all the “it’s cheaper”
(it’s not) and “more convenient” (hogwash) arguments without
making so much as a dent in their implacable opposition. Which isn‘t such
a bad thing, as I suspect it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun if they’d
approved.
These days I simply have them worn down. They know I derive some peculiar joy
which they can barely glimpse and, nearly 30 years down the road, have resigned
themselves to the fact that I’m unlikely to give it up. In return I don’t
even try to explain it any more – we have other things with which we can
drive each other crazy.
Funnily enough, Mr B has raised an interesting point. When was the last time
anyone asked young people who are taking up riding why they are doing it? I
for one wouldn’t mind knowing, before I go to my god…
Guy "Guido" Allen
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