Dabz
24-04-15, 08:19 AM
Shamelessly stolen from Superbike magazine website :) My pet hate is undoubtedly the "people that know people who have crashed".
Scooter riders.
Yes, of course across town a scooter is more than capable of keeping a 160-horse power sports bike honest. It’s nothing to do with rider skill, it’s also nothing to do with scooters being narrow and nimble and everything to do with traffic lights. Why does it matter if someone on a smaller bike can keep up when you’re trying to make your way across a congested city centre? When you can show me a scooter that can bash out easy 55 second laps at Brands Hatch Indy, honk third gear motorway wheelies and whisk you to the Ring at the drop of a hat, I’ll start giving a **** that I’ve just been handed my hat between two sets of traffic lights that are 80 metres apart. Pfft.
Gloves falling off the tank.
You’ve locked the house, your daysack straps are adjusted just how you like them and your helmet has done up without pinching your speakers out of your ears. You’re sat on the bike ready to go. All that’s left to do is pull two simple devices over your hands and you’re away, except one of them has just slid down the tank and onto the floor. No worries, you can just lean down there to pick it up. Feels funny doesn’t it, that feeling when you don’t know you’re leaning your bike over until you feel it pushing you towards the floor. You have to abandon the glove rescue in aid of sticking a leg out to save your bike from killing you at zero mph. Gloves are wankers.
People that know people that have crashed.
“Oh, that’s a nice bike. My uncles mate had one like that, he got knocked off and someone had to wipe his bum for him for three months!” I don’t care. I don’t care that you think motorbikes are deathtraps because they sneak up on you when you’re checking Facebook while you drive to work. I don’t care that one time, at band camp, you saw a man fall so far off his bike he had to sit in a decompression tank for a week before he was allowed to pick it up off the floor. Imagine if every biker you knew did nothing but tell people that they’d just had a really safe but exciting ride to work, where nobody got hurt or anything. Imagine if people that had never tried something for themselves had an opinion that was so twisted and wrong that every time you heard it you felt the need to gouge out their eyes with a paddock stand. That.
Bike meet bull****ters.
We’ve all met one. The guy that nods approvingly as you tell him why you went for a K5 GSX-R thousand over the equivalent Fireblade, only to cut you off mid flow so that they can tell you about that time they dropped Mick Doohan off on a track day round Donington. Yes, this man can wheelie any bike, in every gear, even round roundabouts. Yes, he once went so fast that the Police actually asked him for some riding tips when they finally caught up and yes, this chap could have easily been a racer if it wasn’t for the niggling injury that he has that will never heal, or actually exist. If these ballbags spent as much time riding as they do hanging about annoying normal people, we’d have had a MotoGP champion years ago. Dicks.
The unrequited nod.
You’re out and about, feeling good and enjoying your ride. You’ve just put in a couple of overtakes that are so clean that the drivers waved in appreciation of your obvious skill on a bike and you feel like you could make your bike dance like a Lipizzaner Stallion if you wanted to. You’re doing fifty in a fifty, resting one hand on your knee and soaking up the awesomeness of being a biker when you spot a likeminded free spirit heading your way. Is he on the same bike as you? Looks like it from here. Clearly the two of you have something in common, best you chuck him a knowing nod, the kind that car drivers are envious of. The kind of nod that says, “If we were in the pub, I’d be buying and you’d be smiling”. Said like-minded free spirit passes by within two metres of you, but blanks you like you’re not even there. Not even a twitch. What. The. ****.
The ride home.
What a brilliant day. You got sucked into the ride and ended up a hundred miles from home in jacket and jeans, stumbled into a bike meet you’d never heard of and have just spent the last hour gawping at a supercharged Honda Deauville. Oh well, you’ll remember this day with crystal clarity, probably for the rest of your life. It was definitely worth it. You jump on the bike and start heading for home. Within five miles, you’re so tired that you have to do 150 with the visor open just to stay awake. Within ten miles you’ve had to stop for fuel and within twenty miles you need a wee. If ever there was a time you could click your heels together three times and be back on your couch it’s right now. You only survive the rest of the journey because you sang the entire Adele album at the top of your voice to prevent you from nodding off. You get home after dark, there’s no food, everyone in your house hates you because you clearly love riding your bike more than you love them and as you slump into the couch in a huff, you realise you left your phone on the wall when you bent down for a better look at that Deauville. Riding home sucks ass.
The rain.
Just, the rain.
Ebay.
It’s a simple transaction. You have a motorcycle for sale, you write a simple advert stating all of the relevant facts. Your pictures are clear and the facts are there for all to see. So why then, have you just had a text from what appears to be an Orangutan at half eleven at night, asking if you’d be happy to swap him the back wheel for a handful of magic beans. Next day you get an offensive email from a man that lives in Lithuania, telling you that your bike is so overpriced that when he showed your ad to his mother, she got sick and now you have to pay for her medicine. Finally, someone polite calls you up and you secure a price that you’re happy with. You end the listing early and then never hear from him again. Four months later you still own the bike.
Scooter riders.
Yes, of course across town a scooter is more than capable of keeping a 160-horse power sports bike honest. It’s nothing to do with rider skill, it’s also nothing to do with scooters being narrow and nimble and everything to do with traffic lights. Why does it matter if someone on a smaller bike can keep up when you’re trying to make your way across a congested city centre? When you can show me a scooter that can bash out easy 55 second laps at Brands Hatch Indy, honk third gear motorway wheelies and whisk you to the Ring at the drop of a hat, I’ll start giving a **** that I’ve just been handed my hat between two sets of traffic lights that are 80 metres apart. Pfft.
Gloves falling off the tank.
You’ve locked the house, your daysack straps are adjusted just how you like them and your helmet has done up without pinching your speakers out of your ears. You’re sat on the bike ready to go. All that’s left to do is pull two simple devices over your hands and you’re away, except one of them has just slid down the tank and onto the floor. No worries, you can just lean down there to pick it up. Feels funny doesn’t it, that feeling when you don’t know you’re leaning your bike over until you feel it pushing you towards the floor. You have to abandon the glove rescue in aid of sticking a leg out to save your bike from killing you at zero mph. Gloves are wankers.
People that know people that have crashed.
“Oh, that’s a nice bike. My uncles mate had one like that, he got knocked off and someone had to wipe his bum for him for three months!” I don’t care. I don’t care that you think motorbikes are deathtraps because they sneak up on you when you’re checking Facebook while you drive to work. I don’t care that one time, at band camp, you saw a man fall so far off his bike he had to sit in a decompression tank for a week before he was allowed to pick it up off the floor. Imagine if every biker you knew did nothing but tell people that they’d just had a really safe but exciting ride to work, where nobody got hurt or anything. Imagine if people that had never tried something for themselves had an opinion that was so twisted and wrong that every time you heard it you felt the need to gouge out their eyes with a paddock stand. That.
Bike meet bull****ters.
We’ve all met one. The guy that nods approvingly as you tell him why you went for a K5 GSX-R thousand over the equivalent Fireblade, only to cut you off mid flow so that they can tell you about that time they dropped Mick Doohan off on a track day round Donington. Yes, this man can wheelie any bike, in every gear, even round roundabouts. Yes, he once went so fast that the Police actually asked him for some riding tips when they finally caught up and yes, this chap could have easily been a racer if it wasn’t for the niggling injury that he has that will never heal, or actually exist. If these ballbags spent as much time riding as they do hanging about annoying normal people, we’d have had a MotoGP champion years ago. Dicks.
The unrequited nod.
You’re out and about, feeling good and enjoying your ride. You’ve just put in a couple of overtakes that are so clean that the drivers waved in appreciation of your obvious skill on a bike and you feel like you could make your bike dance like a Lipizzaner Stallion if you wanted to. You’re doing fifty in a fifty, resting one hand on your knee and soaking up the awesomeness of being a biker when you spot a likeminded free spirit heading your way. Is he on the same bike as you? Looks like it from here. Clearly the two of you have something in common, best you chuck him a knowing nod, the kind that car drivers are envious of. The kind of nod that says, “If we were in the pub, I’d be buying and you’d be smiling”. Said like-minded free spirit passes by within two metres of you, but blanks you like you’re not even there. Not even a twitch. What. The. ****.
The ride home.
What a brilliant day. You got sucked into the ride and ended up a hundred miles from home in jacket and jeans, stumbled into a bike meet you’d never heard of and have just spent the last hour gawping at a supercharged Honda Deauville. Oh well, you’ll remember this day with crystal clarity, probably for the rest of your life. It was definitely worth it. You jump on the bike and start heading for home. Within five miles, you’re so tired that you have to do 150 with the visor open just to stay awake. Within ten miles you’ve had to stop for fuel and within twenty miles you need a wee. If ever there was a time you could click your heels together three times and be back on your couch it’s right now. You only survive the rest of the journey because you sang the entire Adele album at the top of your voice to prevent you from nodding off. You get home after dark, there’s no food, everyone in your house hates you because you clearly love riding your bike more than you love them and as you slump into the couch in a huff, you realise you left your phone on the wall when you bent down for a better look at that Deauville. Riding home sucks ass.
The rain.
Just, the rain.
Ebay.
It’s a simple transaction. You have a motorcycle for sale, you write a simple advert stating all of the relevant facts. Your pictures are clear and the facts are there for all to see. So why then, have you just had a text from what appears to be an Orangutan at half eleven at night, asking if you’d be happy to swap him the back wheel for a handful of magic beans. Next day you get an offensive email from a man that lives in Lithuania, telling you that your bike is so overpriced that when he showed your ad to his mother, she got sick and now you have to pay for her medicine. Finally, someone polite calls you up and you secure a price that you’re happy with. You end the listing early and then never hear from him again. Four months later you still own the bike.