BORIS
FEELING FLAT
In every single aspect , bar one , the motorcycle is a superior piece of transport to a car . It ’ s sexier , cooler , and way more fun . It ’ s heaps more dangerous , thrilling , and offers a powerto-weight ratio that wets panties and empties bowels . But it offers you nothing , but suffering and misery when a flat tyre occurs . For the purposes of this piece , let ’ s just deal with tyres that go flat and leave you kicking gravel by the side of the road . There ’ s a whole other piece I can do about tyres that deflate instantly and pitch you into a Kenworth radiator like so much screaming mansausage . I have had many of the former , and very few of the latter , but very happily there were no oncoming Kenworths and I did miss the trees I ended up amongst . Interestingly , most of the flat tyres I ’ ve had – the ones that caused me the most grief – were in the Good Old Days before decent tyre repair kits , and indeed , even before plugging tyres was an option . Which also makes it before mobile phones were ubiquitous . So , just after the dinosaurs and just before Neo-Liberal Economic Policy . Let us all agree that a flat tyre on a bike sucks all the balls . Where it happens is relevant only in terms of how much time you ’ re going to spend trying to get it sorted .
Pushing a flat-tyred bike more than a metre is physically damaging – and if you have a flat front , not really possible unless you ’ re some kind of steroid-filled orangutan . That means you ’ re kinda stuck where you are and you must , perforce , deal with the situation . No phone , no repair kit , no tools , and maybe a mate who will offer you advice and cigarettes , but sees no point in riding 100 kilometres to the nearest town only to find everything closed because it ’ s Sunday , so he ’ s gonna hang with you and your flat tyre . And that was me and my mate , Mark , some years ago . We were west of Ouyen , which put us somewhere near Hell and Buggery . It was Sunday . It was hot . And my rat-bastard Shovelhead had picked up a nail where no nail could possibly have ever been , and its rear-tyre was flatter than my first girlfriend ’ s chest . We looked at it . Many times . We discussed and dismissed various rescue scenarios , including the one where he doubled me to the nearest town while we left all of our gear and my bike on the side of the road for thieves to pick over . We ’ d been there for five hours by that stage . There was not a scenario we did not canvas . As the sun went down , I was starting to consider Extreme Measures . “ Tow me to Shitsville ,” I grated . “ I think it ’ s called Ouyen , and no . We ’ ll both die ,
92 KIWI RIDER