From the IUB annals of Lost Prose…
Saturday. This day had special significance to me. Apart from being a Saturday it also marked the day when my bike had it’s birthday. And to celebrate it I had a special day planned. I was going to go and visit one of my buddies, who’s a welder by trade, to see how his latest project is coming on - he’s making a set of forward controls for his Shadow. The real reason for my visit was more sinister however - I was set on talking him into making me a set too.
Seeing that he couldn’t ride with no footpegs I needed a backup plan as I also needed to test the new Bridgestone the ‘rauder got for it’s birthday. So Intruder Pete was given a quick phone call and a ride was organised. He would meet me in Durbanville with one of his cronies and we would take a cruise towards my house and have a pint and some munchies on our way back at the Dros in Stellenbosh to incorporate another favourite pastime, anatomy study, to the cruise – giving it all the ingredients a proper cruise needs.
With my mission acomplished, (Andre agreed to make me a set of forward controls too, without me having to resort to emotional blackmail or physical violence which would have been a rather one sided affair taking into account his physical condition and boxing history), I met Pete and Tommy, a Scotsman, and we took off. As we rode past Andre’s house he was standing in his garage looking really sad and forelorn. With a quick wave to get him back to work we set off on the highway towards Stellenbosch.
About 10 km’s out of Stellenbosh Intruder Pete suddenly stopped. He got off his bike and was talking to Tommy, who was riding pillion. Pete is a pommy and Tommy a Scotsman. So I couldn’t make out what was going on as although we shared a common language, we all had different accents and it was difficult to make out what any one meant at any given time. All of a sudden Tommy moved to the riders seat and took off on Petes’ bike. Pete walked to me and stopped in his tracks, blinked, then turned to look at Tommy and his bike disappearing over the horizon. It turned out he offered to let Tommy ride his bike into Stellenbosch and planned to ride with me. What he didn’t notice was that I had taken my pillion seat off, so there was no place for him to sit. We had to wait a while until Tommy came back. After much head shaking Pete got back into the pillion seat of his own bike, looking rather shaky. He probably hadn’t planned to ride with Tommy as a pillion!
So we were drinking beer and smoking sigarettes and talking nonsense for about 3 hours. Pausing regularly to accord the necessary attention to some appreciative females, when my telephone rang. It was my wife. I knew she had a fashion parade on that evening but she never asked me to come so I took it to be a hint she didn’t want me there. She’s an artist-type and I have learned the best way to live with her totally unpredictable nature is just to go with the flow and to shrug when things turns weird, as often happens. I learned to live with her eccentric friends, who come and go in our house as if it is their own often with their weird partners.
I was sommonced to the parade, seemed they needed a show stopper and it was not really me they were after but the ‘rauder. I was required to ride some of the models on to the catwalk. Resistance would be futile.
As I broke the news to my riding partners, I had a hard time convincing them it would not be necessary to provide backup transportation as the ‘rauder was in pretty good nick and I had full confidence in it. Needless to say they insisted, as brothers, to see that I arrive well and to stick with me during the show for moral support. So this was settled. We had some more beer and set off, stopping often to get rid of the excess beer.
Arriving at the hall I was met by a group of very excited models. I should have smelled a rat but my senses were not up to scratch from the beer drinking. I was dragged backstage and made to sit still in front of a mirror. All around me were women in various stages of undress walking around as if I didn’t exist. I was given a black tank top to put on and I were provided with some pretty cool tattoos using makup pencils. A huge golden earring were attached to my ear-lobe with some sort of glue and I was told to go and fetch the bike, which I did. Pete and Tommy has since taken it upon themselves to remove the baffles from the Cobra drags and was mingling with the crowd. Making a nuisance of themselves and sticking out like sore thumbs.
I was quickly briefed as to what I was supposed to do. I was required to act the mean mother of a biker and then I would drive on to the catwalk with one of the models on the back. I was provided with shades and told to get out of the way until the end of the show when they would call me. I spend my time quietly sitting in the corner pretending to be cleaning my bike. I had the shades on so no-one could see me watching the models as they came and went, throwing off dresses and putting other ones on. Before to long the one side of my bike was very shiny.
All to soon they said I should be getting ready. I got up and moved the bike into position. My co-rider appeared. She was wearing something that looked like was spun by a spider. I kept my pose and introduced myself. She was nice. She got onto the back of the bike and I fired her up - the bike that is. To the sound of Ricky Martin singing “livalavidaloca” or whatever, I rode onto the catwalk.
I was trying to negotiate the narrow catwalk and eying my pillion in the rear view mirror at the same time. I was revving that sucker and looking really mean. The crowd went balistic! They loved it. The combination of a shiny V-twin, an almost naked women (and me) was almost to much. Cameras flashed continiously - and I was glad I had the shades on.
Well, looking back I probably shouldn’t have had all that beer. I was revving the bike and having a ball. Looking cool and feeling very smug when things went all pear shaped. I was supposed to ride out onto the catwalk, and just sit there, at the end, while people cheered and took photographs. Simple. But for the beer.
While riding up, slowly off couse, the voices in my head told me, in a slightly slurring voice, that a nice rear wheel slide to get the bike sideways for those ideal photos that would win people prizes, were the way to go when I reached the end of the catwalk. So clearly some more speed were necessary, to get the rear of the bike to slide and turn nicely. The model on the back wasn’t used to riding on the back of bikes. She was waving at people and posing. So when I hit the gas, she lost her balance. Fortunately she didn’t fall off because her feet got stuck underneath my armpits. Then I was dragged backwards as she desperately grabbed the collar of my shirt and tried to drag herself back into a less undignified position - I’m certain people could see thing that should have remained unseen due to the nature of the show, but I wasn’t looking.
I didn’t know what was going on. All of a sudden I had feet under my arms, tickling me and I was being choked from behind. And I couldn’t close the throttle because of the pulling. The bike was accelerating towards the end of the catwalk, and things weren’t looking good. I had to make a plan and do it quickly. Somewhere through the beer numbed thought processes, alarm bells started ringing, like when you’re sitting at a robot and you can hear an ambulance wailing but you don’t know where it’s coming from. Finally a drunk electron made it all the way to my brain. “There might be a problem, sir”, it reported. But Sit wasn’t really paying attention, sir was to busy trying to look cool, even with a wayward bike and very distracting, panicking woman hanging on for dear life to sir’s shirt.
I decided timing and speed is probably right for a nice slide, and also noticec that the end of the catwalk is appoaching rather rapidly. Better brake and get the rear out. So that’s what I did. The poor girl on the back was suddenly thrown forwards, into me. Or rather where I was split seconds before. With nothing to break her momentum, and my shirt not being designed for such abuse, she made a swallow dive, complete with long, petrified scream, into the first row of seats, toppling them and their occupants.
When I got outside, having not waited for calls of encore, Pete and Tommy were sitting on their bike, engine running and bending over with laughter. We got out of there sharpish. I got a right bollocking when I got home that night and was never again invited to a fashion show. My 30 second career as catwalk model came to an abrupt end.
Tags: Billy BadAss, The Blog
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