SUPERMOTARDMOTO THINGS
Invariably feckless, feral youths whose
names exist both on their high school’s roll
of wastrels, and in the Bash On Sight
guidebook of every Highway Patrol cop.
They hear sirens in their sleep, wear hoodies,
motocross helmets and hunted expressions,
and spend most of their lives riding like
bastards around hopefully deserted city
streets after 2am, or being taken to jail in
the back of a paddy wagon, if they were
doing it right.
THEY CAN BE FOUND
In front of the local courthouse on Monday
mornings, and in the waiting rooms of
bone-graft surgeons.
ULYSSIANS
Largely peopled by old men who have chosen
to ride motorcycles as an alternative to pointless
onanism or suicide. They take pride in a motto
‘Grow Old Disgracefully’, even though not a
single thing they do can be classed as
disgraceful, apart from maybe the way they
hesitantly negotiate winding roads. They shake
their wrinkly grey-haired heads at every bike
with a racing can, and will tell you, if you could
ever be bothered to listen, they’re the only
people who care enough about the good name
of motorcycling to care enough... um, about...
erm, stuff and things (I really don’t know
because I always walk away at this point).
THEY CAN BE FOUND
On committees, in roadside rest areas,
and attending weekly meetings, monthly
meetings, quarterly meetings and the Annual
General Meeting.
KIWI RIDER 57