THE FAST, THE FIRST & THE FEAR

STORY BY BORIS MIHAILOVIC

PICTURES BY BORIS MIHAILOVIC AND THE DOOR

This is an entirely fictional account of a completely fictitious journey undertaken by four totally fictional characters, astride four insanely fictitious bikes. It never happened and there is no evidence that it did. The images that accompany this adult fairytale have been extensively doctored and altered. None of the events or actions described herein took place in the way described and it is only right and proper to soundly condemn individuals who would do the things referred to in this fictional narrative. If these individuals existed, gaoling would be too good for them.

Four of us left Sydney in the darkness before the dawn. That is always the right time to leave anywhere. A man’s soul is most restless then. Unknown roads stretched before us, untold perils awaited us, and the cool pre-dawn air was fraught with unspoken promises.

Teh Door enjoys a tasty snack before fuelling his Rocket

Crew prods Teh Door's tankbag looking for food

Got it.

I, the Bard, rode astride The Antelope. Teh Door gripped the Tyrannosaur between his thighs. Crew clutched the bars of his Bulldog, and the Iron Hippy piloted his grumbling, death-grey Conglomeration of Italian Disdain. We rode in a tight, staggered formation. The kind of formation men who have ridden many thousands of kilometres together normally ride in.

Three of us were deeply and profoundly and gloriously stoned, for that is the only way to deal with the test-pattern madness of the road known as The Doom. It was once the most dangerous highway in all of Australia. It has now become the most boring, hollow and bone-marrow munching stretch of road in all of creation. The vampires who rule us have seen to it that it is so. So we would only stay on it for as long as we stayed stoned, and that would be for as long as it took us to get to Gundagai. Then we would turn left and see if we could ride ourselves into a proper Road-Pig Lather without dying or going to gaol. Certainly there are no certainties in this life or the next, or even the one after. But as long as there be crazy-fast motorcycles and wild-eyed men who have to ride them like their lives depended on the outcome, it might be worth hanging around to see what happens next.

The Antelope thrummed easily beneath me. It is, arguably, the best motorcycle in the world, so I would expect nothing other than self-assured thrumming from it. In front and to my right Teh Door’s Tyrannosaur hummed quietly as he stretched his not inconsiderable legs out on the highway pegs. No-one on this earth manages a 600kg motorcycle like The Door. He has wheelstood the beast to almost-death in the time he has owned it; so hard and so often that all of the important electrical connections came loose and caused much angst and suffering at his bike shop. Which can only be a good thing. Not enough bike shops undergo angst and suffering in today’s difficult times. Behind me and to my right, Crew, the man with the most aggressive riding posture ever seen, riding the angriest British motorcycle ever made, hurtled through the fading night. The back of his motorcycle sported a black hump of luggage the size of a small bison. Crew had informed me some days prior to departure that he was “going off”, and that this was to be viewed favourably by all. Immediately behind him, the Iron Hippy and his Conglomeration of Italian Disdain brought up the rear. The Iron Hippy’s entrancing and overwhelming crash a year ago had assured him a near future filled with profound pain and suffering in one of his legs. That he even had that leg was a miracle. That he could walk and ride and now planned to bang out 3000km in four days was akin to the return of the living Christ.

Behind us the eastern sky began to lighten, so we paused briefly to lighten our bladders. I breathed deeply as my piss steamed into the grass by the road. It was now dawn and the landscape looked like one of those spooky Impressionist paintings them French homosexuals were doing in the 1870s. I took a picture of it.

Boris's sunrise image. Makes Delacroix look like a faggot.

I also took a picture of the Iron Hippy urinating.

Boris's pissing hippy image. Makes Delacroix look like a faggot who couldn't find interesting things to paint.

For some reason, this was a recurring theme over the next few days. Tastefully, I took them all from the back.

The Antelope. Arguably the best motorcycle in the world.

Crew celebrating the Conglomeration celebrating its Italianity

Then we rode to the big petrol station on the hill at Yass for benzene, and for the Iron Hippy to repair his Conglomeration. Crew and I indulged swinishly in several recreationals and laughed at him, braying like hyenas, as he patiently disassembled his taillight. He put in a new bulb, re-assembled it all, then discovered it didn’t work anyway. This reduced Crew and I to hysterics and we were forced to recreationalise ourselves some more just to calm down enough to be able to ride on.

The 97km from Yass to Gundagai wafted by in a breeze of mild paranoia and deep introspection. There were no armed revenue raisers, but I had been reliably informed by an outraged Bloodbeard, who was already at the Island, that there was some feckless Victorangian shitheel in an unmarked grey Commode Door conducting random drug testings that were not very random at all.

The Iron Hippy felt it might be wiser to eat our drugs.