Published on December 15th, 2014 | by Al
The letter from Roads and Maritime Services arrived on the Friday, containing a notice under section 33 subsection (1) of the Road Transport Act 2013, and informing me that my motorcycle rider’s licence would be suspended for some three months early the following month due to a low-level speeding offence in each of 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014.
I cursed them roundly in English, German and Italian. The word “Hurenbock” was used more than once, as was “Schweinhunds”, and “Tu piezza di merda!” may have passed my lips. I finished by advising them in English that off was the direction in which they should fornicate.
It was particularly galling considering that I had not ridden a motorcycle for much more than my daily commute in some three weeks, and so I took Sunday off to Reconnect with the Road.
It was magnificent. I rode the Priest’s Deviation, named in honour of Cameron, who showed it to me some years ago, to the base of Macquarie Pass. It’s fast and scenic, if bumpy. I approached the Pass slowly to give any cars on it time to clear, and then proceeded to cut loose on the climb up the Illawarra Escarpment, tilting the world with speed on smooth hotmix. No-one got in my way.
I turned off and took the Kangaroo Valley Road to Nowra. I keep forgetting how good that road is, and again traffic was very light. I passed the Highway Patrol car parked outside Nowra at the speed limit with a muttered “Porca Miseria!”, grabbed some fuel and took the road out past the navy base to Nerriga.
I keep forgetting how good that road is, too. I passed a bunch of cars and a couple of motorcycles, stopped at the Nerriga Hotel, and ordered a Carlton Draught for lunch. It tasted pretty good, and it was a hot day, so I had another. Some guy in bike gear wanted to know if the VFR was mine. I said yes. He asked if it was this year’s model, and I said no, it was a 2001 model. He said I went past him pretty fast back there, and I said “You’re the guy on the FJR?”
“Yeah”, he said. “I was doing 160 or 170 trying to catch you, but I couldn’t.”
I wondered what he’d taken. I hadn’t been going anywhere near that fast. I didn’t ask him in case he got offended that I didn’t want to buy some off him.
I took the Oallen Ford Road north to Goulburn. I’d forgotten how good that road is in parts, too. Then I got on the highway and rode home.
I felt much better. Motorcycle therapy had once again proved efficacious, and I was full of sweetness and light to all.
Except the RMS of course. They’re still Hurenbocks.