Published on December 7th, 2013 | by Boris
FAST CHRISTMAS PARTY
I’ve been to a lot of Christmas parties.
It’s one of the dubious benefits of being my age.
But the one I went to just the other day was, by any measure, unique.
And I’m still smiling about it.
Which is a pleasant change from wondering whether to plead guilty or not guilty at the committal hearing.
It began with an email from Glenn Scott, whom attentive motorcyclists will recall, won the privateer trophy in the 2013 Australian Superbike championship.
This means that Glenn was and is the fastest non-factory rider in Australia. And, on occasion, faster than a host of factory riders.
I first met him when the former editor of Australian Motorcycle News (AMCN), Sam Maclachlan, felt the magazine needed a yarn that was both a sight-gag and promised the possibility of funny copy.
To which he naturally turned to me.
Yeah, right. Who the fuck else was he going to ask?
Anyway, Sam arranged for me, a fat, tattooed, middle-aged bloke with average riding-skills, to have a go on a genuine race-spec Australian Superbike – Glenn Scott’s, in fact.
That Glenn and his Insure My Ride Team even agreed to this farce amazes me to this day. The season was not over, Glenn was leading the points table as the top privateer, just came off an outright third in a race, and was about to head to Hidden Valley for another hard round.
It was somewhat of a risk for the team to let me fist Glenn’s racebike around Sydney Motorsport Park for 10 laps.
But they did.
The resulting story duly appeared in AMCN and a short video of me screaming aboard it can be found here.
At the end of the day, I’d ticked something off my bucket list that I never actually thought I would tick off, thought myself fortunate to have met Glenn, a wonderful young bloke with a true steel racer’s glint in his eye, have a go on his crazy bike, and did not spend a month in hospital leaking frightful internal fluids into a plastic baggie.
And then I read that Glenn had covered himself in glory and brought home the privateer’s trophy at the end of the season.
Clearly, he had benefited greatly from my assistance with his set-up that day at the racetrack, and had taken my wise counsel to heart.
For the record, my set-up input was: “You’re not fucken seriously putting 20ps-fucken-I into those tyres, are you?”
And my counsel was: “Ride fucken faster and don’t crash.”
Eat your fucken heart out, Burgess.
Anyway, I was pleased to see Glenn at the recent Sydney Motorcycle Expo, and he very kindly invited me to his Christmas party.
But he did not tell me where this was to be held, and I had brief and welcome visions of strip-clubs filled with sparkle-dusted dancers fetching me cold beer and demanding I give them yet more money for ever darker sins.
Then the actual invite arrived.
It was a venue even better than a nudie bar.
And I’ve been to a lot of nudie bars. Trust me on this.
But I cannot tell you what it was or where it was because I have been asked not to.
Suffice to say that The Farmer hosted a select group of folks Glenn wanted to thank for their help during his successful season, and as an adjunct to this hosting, allowed that group of folks free access to his private 5.6km-long dual-carriageway “country road”.
On their stupid motorcycles.
Yeah. It was THAT kinda Christmas party.
Did I have fun?
Oh yes. And that was despite the fact that I was riding what some ignorant people felt was a somewhat unsuitable motorcycle for a dual-carriageway country road.
Obviously, these people had no idea what I have done with unsuitable bikes on dual-carriageway country roads, back when I was literally glowing with chemicals, booze and evil.
The Farmer knew better. He was a player.
“Go for run,” he said to me, after first questioning my sexuality when he saw the snakeskin on the seat of AMCN/Yamaha XV1900 project bike.
“Look,” I said to him. “Had I not personally killed that snake in a mighty swamp-battle, I would agree.”
“That’s different,” The Farmer agreed. “You gonna go out?”
“I wasn’t going to,” I said. “The bike is very loud. Any of them endangered bent-winged bats you were talking about before are sure to die. I would hate to have that on my conscience.”
“How loud can it be?” he asked.
“I shall show you,” I said, and went out.
I was waved in on my second lap.
“You did not lie,” The Farmer said.
“I only lie to pretty girls,” I replied.
The Farmer grinned in total understanding. He was certainly a player.
I spent the rest of the morning chatting to some of the other people who had also been invited, among them Ed and Irena from Gimoto leathers, with whom I had ridden to the venue.
All of us agreed that The Farmer had done the World of Man a great service by constructing a private dual-carriageway country road on his property, while simultaneously caring for the welfare of the bent-winged bat.
Just before lunch, I was treated to two fast laps in a rental car by a gentleman whom I will call “Luke” for that is his name.
I will not provide his surname in case the rental car company is searching for the bastard who did unspeakable things to their car.
Just so you know, Luke caught a Porsche GT3 in the rental, which was some kind of feral Toyota fitted with Prius wheels and tyres, and filled with me. And fear.
It just confirms that rental cars are the best cars on earth. Luke’s not a bad driver, either.
And Glenn Scott is one of the best motorcycle racers in Australia.
I would like to thank his team and him for their very kind invite, and I wish him every success next year.
And I salute The Farmer on behalf of men everywhere.
Well played to you all.