The Fast, the First and the Fear - II
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The Iron Hippy stands on his good leg and becomes one with the Italianality of his Ducati |
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I was of the view that chewing gum was the solution. Crew, the most greathearted and courageous of men, affected an air of sublime sangfroid.
I quickly realised I would be less than a man were I not to follow his celestial example. Que sera sera, motherfuckers.
At Gundagai, benzenite was applied, recreationalisation took place again, and we aimed our motorcyclical weapons at the target of the Snowy Mountains Raceway. The transport stage was over. The sun was up. And I was full of Mars bars, energy drinks and the base urge to ride the Antelope until my inner-hate liquefied and oozed out my pores like dark sweat. I got demons haunting me the like of which must never be allowed free rein. Flogging them into submission on deserted roads with high-powered motorcycles keeps me keepin’ on. But one cannot explain that to the revenuers when one is in handcuffs and covered in one’s own piss from an over-zealous tasing.
And I did not need to explain anything to Crew. He understood implicitly that this was a race. It had to be a race and it was always going to be a race. Our respective manhoods were at stake and we would have no peace unless we gave into the call of the testicles. If he was behind me, it drove me mad. The drugs made me think I was holding him up because I was riding like a man who has sex with sailors and farm animals. If he was in front, it also drove me mad, because it confirmed I was riding like a man who has sex with sailors and farm animals. And then there was Teh Door, who would appear in my mirrors astride his monolithic behemoth and was impossible to lose, unless the going got really tight, and brutal and bristling with destruction.
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A photo stop at the start line of the Snowy Mountains Raceway... |
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...cheered Boris up no end |
It is 93kms to Kiandra from Tumut. We did it in half an hour. I believe I placed on the top step of the podium in that regard. The Antelope does not have a great big top end, but it’s good for an honest 200-210. But since this is the road on which I saw an indicated 303km/h on an MV Agusta a few years back when I was young and strong and somewhat demonfrei, I did not panic when Crew lashed me on the inside of a big sweeper at what must have been 230. I had no top-end to respond, so I had to wait until he slowed to about 190 before I tried to leg check the swine into the shitty high-country shrubbery. And what is it with our alpine flora? It looks like crap. The European stuff is all pine-green and grassy and welcoming. Our mountain stuff looks like dung-covered fowls fuck on it, then roost in the dead grey trees. I decided it would be undignified to die among such floral anguish. So I was grateful when the Cabrumurra turn-off at Kiandra appeared and the race ended.
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The Snowy Mountains Raceway has big screens for your elucidation and enlightenment... |
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...and is a fitting place for man-cuddles. They're legal now, apparently. |
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There are scenic puddles in the hills... |
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...and many trees |
