Fashion
Watching the passing
parade at the recent Phillip island GP, you had to wonder what was going through
the minds of assorted folk when it came to dressing themselves for the event.
There were some who I immediately sympathised with. Looking decidedly second-hand
by Saturday morning, they had fur on the teeth, and were dressed in whatever
had the appropriate number of holes to accommodate however many limbs were left.
My style of dressing: if it fits, sort of, wear it. After all it's the rest
of the world which has to look at the end result, not you.
The folk who really had me tossed, though, were those who looked tidy and ready
for action, no matter the circumstances. Like mud, dust, and 50,000 other dingbats
to kick up same. Somehow they came up smiling in expensive leathers, or immaculate
goretex suits. They didn't even sweat. How do they do that?
Once upon a not so distant time, the Guido riding ensemble at least gave a credible
excuse for looking like something Max Biaggi regurgitated after an unfortunate
breakfast. You may know the 'look': genuine vinyl gloves lined with synthetic
cat fur from the local disposals store, bright yellow placky waterproof pants,
garbage bags for overboots in a dire emergency, a spectacularly ugly leather
jacket tailored for the Hunchback of Notre Dame (bought cheap from the Trading
Post), finished off by a used set of army boots and a weird storm coat from
the local tackle shop.
At a total cost of $7.95, you knew you'd been robbed. That is if you ever recovered
from the symptoms of exposure long enough to think about it. The only consoling
factor was that the outfit was in keeping with my mount at the time, a scruffy
Z400.
Things are better on the wardrobe front these days. There's the armoured, allegedly
waterproof, jacket and Italian leather slacks for touring, or the locally-made
race suit for track days. Topped off by boots NASA would be proud of and a set
of gloves that apparently use the same material found in the chassis of a stealth
bomber.
A collective value of around $2000 for either outfit, and I still look like
shite on Saturday mornings.
Motorcycle fashion has progressed over the years, at least to the extent where
there's good crash protection available in clothing that's a bit more imaginative
than ye olde waxed cotton potatoe sack. But it still leaks water. Which is reassuring
for the traditionalists.
No matter how much dough is spent on the outfit, it doesn't seem to be doing
me any good in the appearance stakes – perhaps some of us are destined
to look like the "before" illustration in those awful self-improvement
ads.
An inspirational aspect is the diversity shown by the people I mentioned at
the start of this piece. The throng at the island. A mix of Goth leather, wild
hair in red and purple, combined with body piercing and jewellery sounds like
a mix you could find at the arse end of any city night club.
But there were some examples at the GP which were stunning. Maybe Goth is in
danger of influencing the mainstream after all these years.
It could be about time. The retro kick, as typified by the handsome chap in
this week's illustration, is running stronger than ever but is unlikely to last
beyond the turn of the century. Which is just three years away.
By this stage there'll be at least a few folk who've taken a long swig at the
umbrage bottle and want to share it around. Fashion? Motorcycles? Is this magazine
produced by a bunch of geeks so far up themselves they can see the back of their
teeth on a clear day? Whatever happened to the good old times when bikers were...well...tough?
Take another look at the classic BSA ad shown here. Note the perfect teeth,
the absence of a fine patina of oil across the visage of the rider. The clean
yellow silk scarf. Did you ever look that good? Unlikely. Did you want to? Hell
yes.
Okay, I'm wrong. Looking that good is a myth (with exception to our Goths),
but feeling that good is what we really want. And that's achievable. On a Z400
in a $7.95 ensemble. You just have to squint a bit when encountering your reflection
in a shop window...
Guy "Guido" Allen
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