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Good day for a punt
A family that gambles together is one which stays together, according to Guido…
It started gently enough. Melbourne Cup day, 2007. We have a family tradition of sorts, where the gals and I go to the local TAB and place our annual bets on the hay-burners. Yep, it would be quicker and easier to deliver our modest donations directly to Parliament House on Spring Street, Melb, but where’s the fun in that?
The formality of at least pretending to understand the form guides for the week leading up to the event, and then making a wild guess on which nag is going to win is important. It’s like throwing money into the wind, but more interesting. At least you think you have a chance of winning.
Which is how we came to a very important decision in Chateau Guido. We decided Ms A junior, after years of nagging, should be given a run on Hannibal. (This is the royal “we”, as Ms M senior, Ms A’s mother, is, as we speak, camping in Wuhan, China. I think she supported the decision, and was even a little jealous, as she has yet to ride it.)
Hannibal the Hayabusa is a product of the Phil Tainton Racing kitchen, running a cocktail of (mostly) hand-made bits and Over Racing plumbing which has a measured 208.9 horses at the back tyre – or over 220 at the crank. It’s in street trim, with GSX-R-like steering geometry (another mod), and is more or less civilized unless you get it up to the 8000rpm wot-the-hell-was-that zone.
Ms A was up and ready for a trip to the TAB, but had no clue of what she was in for. I announced we were taking bikes, and she naturally assumed she was on the R65. But jokingly said, “I could take Hannibal.”
“Careful what you wish for,” was the reply.
While she did whatever the hell it is that young women do in the painfully long (and faintly tribal) interval that they take before riding (there’s no just grabbing the helmet and running, here), I rolled Hannibal and Ted the Daytona 1200 on to the driveway.
She suspected I was up to something, and momentarily assumed she was taking Ted – until I pointed out that Hannibal was an easier mount for someone her size. (Which is true – lower and lighter.)
We were suiting up, when she asked, “Where’s the P-plate?”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” I enquired.
Nup. Though she has a pilot licence and has been on the road for several years, Ms A pointed out Hannibal had to be hit with the final indignity – we needed to gaffer-tape a badly-faded P-plate to it’s aero hump on the back.
She scored my patented basic big bike briefing, which was short and simple: “You’re in charge. It’s just a motorcycle.”
I’m not allowed to follow her, which she understandably sees as being too creepy and distracting. So I lead and spend a lot of time looking in the mirrors.
We make it to the TAB, and she can actually ride, though unused to bullying something three-and-a-half times her weight. We place the bets – she stands in the queue – and then we head to lunch, at Sandy’s noodle emporium.
Just before we hit the freeway on-ramp, I lose the father of the year award (again) by suggesting she gives it a bit of stick down the ramp and at least get some sense of speed. Ms A reports, a little breathlessly, she wound up Hannibal to 140. It’s the fastest she’s ever been on a motorcycle and is pretty damned pleased with herself.
I suspect Hannibal was sitting there asking, “What? Is that it?!” You have to start somewhere, and at least Ms A has got a bit of a handle on dealing with a big performance bike, which will do for the moment.
And she’s advertising the fact to her friends -- there’s some serious street cred in handling him.
It’s good to take a punt on Melbourne Cup day, and come away unscathed…
You’re always welcome to get in touch (and send counsellors) via the palatial MT offices at locked bag 12, Oakleigh 3166; Or on the wire at guy.allen@traderclassifieds.com.au.
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