Published on June 19th, 2014 | by Boris
HOW TO BE A GREAT PILLION PASSENGER
I hate pillions.
Seriously. Like the plague, I hate them.
I do not care how well your jeans fit, how pretty you smell, how nice your manicure is, how wickedly your eyes sparkle, or that your hair is a cascade of golden promise. When you get on the back of my bike, I hate your fucken guts.
That is not to say I will not do my very best to make sure you survive our journey intact.
After all, I have no interest in dinging my bike or spending any time feeding myself through a tube. And yes, I am responsible for your well-being, which is a part of the reason I hate you so much.
So relax. I may hate you, but I certainly do not wish any harm to come to you.
This is why you would do well to read and zealously comply with the ensuing advice.
But before class starts, I would just like to point out that I have carried (and will doubtlessly carry again) my mates as pillions many times. I have hated them while doing so as well. But the necessity of their cartage was crucial and could not be avoided.
The haulage of female pillions, on the other hand, can always be avoided, so understand that I am taking you on board under protest and with many caveats attached.
Are we ready, ladies?
Good. Then I shall begin…
Don’t be fat. I’m not happy with you being 50kgs and hanging a metre above my back axle, so I’m gonna be a lot less happy if you weigh 75kg. Don’t even bother levering your chunky old thigh up and preparing to mount if you’re any heavier than that. You’re in the cab, tubby. Way it is.
And it’s not because I don’t like fat chicks. I don’t, but that’s beside the point. The issue here is solidly grounded in the laws of physics and what a lump like you is doing to the bike’s centre of gravity, and thus its handling. And by extension my ability to ride like a god.
Do not speak to me. I am sure you have many exciting things to say, and I have no doubt you wish to bathe me in compliments about my masterful riding, and how hot my aftershave smells. Save it for when we stop and you take your helmet off. That way, I stand half a chance of hearing you and understanding what it is you have to say. On the back of my bike at 180km/h you can be screaming your silly head off and all I’m gonna hear is the wind and my own barking demons. At slower speeds, your muffled chattering will only cause me to think something is wrong with my bike, which will then make me accelerate to see if the noise stops.
No, I do not have an intercom and I will never fit an intercom. Do not even ask. Had I wanted to converse with anyone as I travelled I would have bought a car.
If you really have to speak to me, and I understand there will be times when you are so captivated by my riding skills you won’t be able to help yourself, save it for when we’re stopped at a set of lights. Keep it brief and make it sincere. I’ll know if you’re bullshitting.
Do not let your helmet hit mine when I brake to avoid certain death. Your primary job, back there, is not to get on my tits. And the best way to do this is not interfere with my motorcycling kung-fu. Your head, encased in fibreglass, repeatedly clunking into the back of my helmet is gonna see you walking home in those killer heels you love so much.
Do not get on until I tell you to get on. I understand that you’re thrilled and that you’re simply trembling with anticipation at gripping my mighty hips with your freshly waxed girl-thighs, but until I nod my head or verbally indicate that the time is now, just stand there and await further instructions.
Make sure your helmet is fastened, your jacket is zipped up and that your gloves are on before you get on my bike. You are not to be getting dressed or fiddling with fasteners when you are on the bike. We may, from time to time, have to get out of Dodge quickly, and I do not need you wriggling your boobs into your jacket while I am focused on evading police pursuit.
If I am on a sportsbike, do not lean on me. If I am on a cruiser, do not lean back against the sissy bar, or whatever politically correct name they call those stupid things these days.
When I am on a sportsbike, there is already enough weight on my arms without you adding to it because you’re too lazy to use your abdominal muscles to support your weight. Yes, you might think it’s all cuddly to be jamming your boobs into my back, and there will come a time when I shall deal with your boobs, but that time is not when my front-end is juddering under race-braking and I’m trying to find a gear that won’t kill us both.
I understand that on a cruiser there is sometimes a padded pad-thing that protrudes behind and above the pillion seat. You might think it is there for you to lazy-bitch out and lean back on it. You’d be wrong. You leaning backwards like some kind of hitch-hiking slut in a cheap biker film upsets the handling of a bike that is already challenged in that department.
Sit behind me so I can feel you’re there. But do not crowd me. If you feel me wriggle my arse back, it’s not some kind of anal foreplay. It’s because where and how you’re sitting has forced my balls into the petrol tank and by the time we get to where we’re going, they will be useless to both of us.
When I lean to the side, you lean to the same side. Do not lean more than me and do not lean less than me. I am leaning because we are going through a corner and that’s how these motorcycle things go around corners. And stop leaning when I stop leaning.
Those things your feet are resting on? The pegs? Your feet stay on them. All the time. Even when we stop. I am perfectly capable of supporting the bike upright without your help. If you have heels, and if we’re going out for a big night on the town, you’d best have them on or I’ll think you don’t care, then make sure those heels do not touch my exhaust system. If they do, your heels will melt, and you will spend the whole next day on your knees in my dank garage getting the melted leather/plastic/rubber off my exhaust system, and you will break a few nails doing it. And I will not care.
Pay attention. Constantly. I do and so must you. Riding motorcycles, even as a passenger, is a fluid dynamic. Things happen quickly. If you’re staring into space, or reading the sticker on the back of my helmet and wondering why there are so many curse words on it, you will not be prepared for shit happening. And shit happens all the time. Shit like impromptu drag-racing off a set of lights, avoiding a drunken pedestrian, or a car that’s being driven by a confused immigrant unfamiliar with our road rules.
Do not offer me any advice about riding or presume to give me directions. I know what I am doing and where I am going at all times. And I and I alone shall be the judge, jury and executioner in terms of how fast I feel we need to be travelling. This is a matter for me and possibly the courts of the land to decide upon when the time comes. It is none of your business.
Do not fondle me. I know I am asking a lot. I realise that sitting on the back of a motorcycle is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you and it’s possible that you will become highly aroused as a result. Control yourself. I am completely focused on not dying, and if you’re squirming and trying to get handfuls of me, you are compromising our health and well-being. If it becomes too much, tell me at the next set of lights. Just say: “Take me here. Do me now!” and I shall certainly accommodate you as soon as I can find a suitable park or laneway.
And always remember that while you are perched on the back of my motorcycle I hate your guts. I may, in moments of non-riding weakness or post-coital bliss, say all kinds of silly and unfounded things to you. That’s as may be. You may well be wearing those special under-garments at the time. Just as long as you understand that while you’re my pillion, I despise you. Totally and without reservation.