MOTORCYCLE COURIERS
They breathe rarified hard-city air, lanesplit
with the precision of laser beams, and
smell like rotting dishcloths made from
cheese. These are some of the very few
motorcyclists capable of delivering a
bunch of flowers to an office chick that still
have blooms on them, and who can make
sense of the squawking noise emanating
from their radios, and make the rest of us
look lame in traffic.
THEY CAN BE FOUND
In front of you, behind you, beside you
and leaving you for dead in Peak Hour.
STUNTERS
The older ones are all broken and limp,
and the younger ones are busy breaking
themselves and re-growing skin. They are
crazed hooligans trying to monetise the
ability to wheelie and stoppie, and boast
huge collections of girls’ underpants. It’s
OK to hate them because they can do
things on a bike you will never be able to
do and because your girlfriend secretly
wants to pleasure them with her body
while you watch.
THEY CAN BE FOUND
In deserted car-parks late at night, or on
quiet streets in industrial zones. Or at your
girlfriend’s place.
60 KIWI RIDER