Just Me, The Bike And A Traffic K
Sydney Morning Herald
Monday March 2, 1992
THERE'S something about travelling to work every day on a motorbike that sets you apart from the normal commuter. We're a different breed: a special club that acknowledges membership with a discreet motorcyclist's nod as we zoom by each other.
Most of the time of course my nod gets ignored because, after all, I'm only on a Vespa motor scooter and not a "real" motorcycle like a Harley, Honda or Ducatti. But I'm still happy hurtling to work every morning and Monday is no exception, because today, unlike flexiFridays, the traffic will be as thick as an oil slick on a wet road.
Motorcylists, you may have noticed, adore traffic. We thrive on it as an opportunity to dodge and weave and show off our bike's superior manoeuvrability. For me a long queue at the traffic lights is a chance to overtake a few of the cars that have roared past me, even though most of the time I sit right on the speed limit.
Riding a Vespa I soon realised that egos are relative to the size of the vehicle one uses. I am amazed at the effort some people will take just to get around me, even when I am flying along at a reasonable speed. Often these motorists prove another old bike riders' adage that a road user's skill is inversely proportionate to the size of their vehicle.
I therefore relish their obvious frustration as I cruise right up the middle of the lanes at traffic lights, on the lookout for vindictive car door openers. My housemate has already collected five rear vision mirror trophies from car drivers who tried to cut him off or swerved to collect him as he sped by.
Usually I look for a nice little gap right at the front of the line where I can squeeze in and look less blatantly like I've just ridden up the "Honda Highway" - after all, the practice is illegal.
Besides, I can't bring myself to sit up the front with all the big bikes, trying to make small talk over the high pitched whining of my tiny two-stoke, 200cc machine, while the others look cooly back from the gleaming saddles of their huge 750s and 1100s.
At least I share a rapport with the bikers in our distrust of car drivers and our firm conviction that most of them have a built-in blind spot when it comes to motorcylists. Fortunately for me this isn't as much of a problem, because being a woman seems to irresistibly attract the eyes of male motorists at least.
In fact it becomes a bit of a hazard at times. One night when riding home late, a car pulled up at the traffic lights behind me and started tooting frantically, causing me to check out my bike to find out what was wrong with it. When I decided to pull over and find out what the guy was trying to tell me, he declared that what he really wanted was my phone number.
The more subtle approach occurred one day on the highway when a truck kept trying to travel beside me on the left, without overtaking or letting me move across. The driver was gaily waving a $50 note at me.
Actually trucks, and not usually their drivers, are my biggest bane on the road. I have given up trying to count the number of times I have almost been blown off my bike by the furious force of the afterdraft from a semitrailer swerving half on to my side of the road. And when the lights turn to orange with a Mack truck breathing hot air on my tail I always give the Vespa throttle for fear that he'll keep going - right over the top of me.
Since doing the Stay Upright course, which is now compulsory for many new riders, I have learnt what blissful ecstasy there is in taking a corner smoothly with the bike leaning in deep. Before the course I used to dread the Woodford Bends, where inevitably a long queue of traffic would grow behind me as I gingerly took each tight corner.
Now it's one of my favourite sections of road, where I can easily keep up with the traffic and not even have to touch the brakes once - except when I am stuck behind one of the greatest of all obstacles on the road, a Volvo.
People obviously buy Volvos because they are touted as the safest cars on the road, and their owners seem to take this as a guarantee that they don't have to be as careful as other drivers.
In fact, Volvo drivers are dangerously unpredictable, and many times I have done a quick mental calculation of how much damage I would cause to myself and my bike if I decided to plough into the easily crumpled side of a Volvo turning right in front of me. So far I have always opted for the less expensive and painful option of leaving some of my rubber behind on the road.
I have only ever had one minor accident when I forgot to put my lights on at dusk and a car didn't see me. One of the joys of riding a small motorbike is that they are blessed with charmingly inadequate headlights. Most of the time I only put mine on so that other drivers can see me - I negotiate the road by braille.
Yet, like all bike riders, I am completely devoted to my machine. She has character and I know intimately all her quaint little idiosyncratic rattles. Yes, only a sleek little Italian scooter could be female, and I call her Cha Cha after the sound she makes when changing gears. Well it's actually more like Clunk-Clunk.
Cha Cha has a typically headstrong Mediterranean nature, and at times I am forced to embellish her name with a lot of other words which would probably sound a lot less offensive if spoken in Italian.
While having some minor repairs the other day she refused to allow one of her rear vision mirrors to be screwed back in. "Who is the Vespa expert around here?" asked the hapless mechanic struggling with her. "You are now,"workmates replied.
So I rode around for a couple of days, minus a mirror and a target for police, while they figured out the problem. Motorcycle riders and the boys in blue have an unfortunate relationship. We have more restrictions placed on us than other road users and as a result we are always doing naughty things and flaunting the rules.
So far I have never been fined, although I was once pulled over by the police in Bathurst because my skirt was too long. They followed me all the way down William Street because they feared that my skirt, flapping in the breeze, would get caught in my wheel, thus causing an embarrassing accident for all concerned.
Despite the many hazards of sharing the road with car drivers, I have no regrets having chosen to brave the road every day on a machine which places me only a metre from death. There is no comparison with driving a car, which not only burns more fuel but robs you of that existential experience of being in total control of your vehicle.
HERALD SNAPSHOT - MOTORCYCLING IN NSW
WOMEN : 8% of riders; 2 of 84 killed * ; 40 of 815 seriously injured *
AVERAGE COSTS : Helmet $300-$500; Leather jacket $300, Leather pants $200; Boots $200; Registration & insurance $360
Motorcycling clubs in NSW : 50 (estimated)
* in 1990
Source: Motor Cycle Riders' Association of NSW; RTA
© 1992 Sydney Morning Herald
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